Free On Black Sisters Street by Chika Unigwe

look after Efe well. She wondered if she should voice her worry, ask for maybe a different doctor, say that this doctor needed a bed and hours of sleep. She looked at Efe and smiled, hoping her sister would not see the worry on her face. He sat at the foot of Efe’s bed and asked the nurse questions. She gave her answers in the confident tone of one who was competent and knew it.
“Four centimeters dilation. Water broken. Baby not distressed.”
None of what the nurse told the doctor made sense to either Rita or Efe.
    The pain in Efe’s stomach came and went in waves, peaking and dipping at irregular intervals. She said no to pain relief. She wanted to feel it all, as if in expiation of this pregnancy that had marred her life, marked her out as a loose girl. She wished she could insert her hand inside the womb and drag out this baby who was causing her to writhe so much in agony. Rita sat by her on the bed as soon as the doctor left and cried along with her sister when the pain became too much for Efe to bear. When Efe cussed the “evil child” who was the cause of all her pain, Rita told her to stop, for everyone knew it was taboo to cuss a baby who had its head half into the world. It was bad luck.
    “Just try and bear, Efe, you hear? Just try. It’ll soon be over. You’re doing great. It’ll soon be over. You hear?”
    Thirteen hours later, when Efe shrieked her son into the world, it was Rita who stood beside her, holding her hand and crying softly as the slimy baby with a headful of hair was laid on Efe’s chest. Exhausted beyond words, she left it up to Rita to name her son. Rita, uninspired and emotional, named him Lucky. Perhaps in light of the fact that her sister was lucky she was there for her. Or that the childwas lucky to be born. Or perhaps it was simply her wish for her new nephew that he be lucky in life. Afterward, when Efe had recovered and was in better spirits, she would rename him Ikponwosa, Titus’s middle name.
    The baby was shriveled and small, with scaly dry skin that made her think uncharitably of a reptile. He was about the ugliest thing she had ever set eyes on, and she could not believe she had birthed him. Still, he was her responsibility and needed looking after. Efe did not like the thought of it much, but she was ready to face up to her responsibilities with a maturity that she felt motherhood required. She would look after him, but she thought she would need help from Titus. Babies required things; they needed food and diapers and clothing and medicine. Her father’s housekeeping money could not stretch to cover those.
    The day she left the hospital, she resolved to get Titus involved in the upkeep of his son. After all, men wanted sons no matter how many they had. Sons were trophies they collected to carry on the family name. Efe knew that Titus had children—he had mentioned them a few times, complaining good-humoredly of how much sending them to a good school cost, how well they were doing in their good school where fees were not paid in the local currency. “Only dollars and pound sterling accepted!” He had money, so one more child should not make a difference.
    He could send their baby to a good school, give him everything Efe could never imagine giving him. And so it was that three weeks after she had Ikponwosa, she dressed him up in blue pajamas that covered his toes, wrapped a cream shawl around him, and went to Titus’s house on the other side of town. She planned her arrival for the time of day when Titus was likely to be home. She had not seen him since she told him she was pregnant. She wanted to talk to him, to present his son to him. A Titus in miniature, for even at three weeks there was no denying that father and son bore a resemblancethat would only get more striking with time. She did not want much: just enough to look after this baby, who ate a lot and was the spitting image of his father. She wanted him to grow, away from the slum she was raised in. Titus