Short Story: FORGIVE ME

By Nnachetam Calista Chinonye

I sat down on my daughter’s bed, staring into space with a pen and paper in hand, trying to find the right words for what I was about to write. Nothing felt good enough. It had been four days since I received the news, and my husband had been taking care of everything. He had spent all four days planning, tidying things and begging me to eat something. I just sat in bed numb, not a word and not a tear. The pain was lodged in my chest and refused to come out.

I married Dapo when I was only twenty-four, with him being five years older. We had agreed to wait a year before having children, but fate had other plans for us. After our honeymoon phase, we tried to conceive, but all our efforts were in vain. Despite visiting various hospitals and practitioners, we were always told that everything was fine. I could not bear to think that the love we shared would have no children to bask in it. I even went behind Dapo and sought help in churches and prayer houses, but nothing seemed to work.

After ten years of trying, we decided to let fate decide. Then, on the night of our seventeenth anniversary, I fell ill, and Dapo rushed me to the hospital. To our astonishment, we were told that I was pregnant. It was the first time I saw my husband cry since our wedding day. We were both overjoyed at this miracle. Months later, Araoluwa was born.

Araoluwa was a very beautiful and vibrant child. She loved and respected both her father and me and made us proud academically.  At 21, she graduated with Honours from Lagos State University (LASU). She was helpful in and out of the house and often spent her time at the 
Boutique helping me out with the business. From when she turned 15, she had started a ritual of surprising her father and I for our birthdays. My Araoluwa was a model child; my reward for the seventeen harrowing years of not being able to conceive.

On my 64th birthday, I woke up content. Dapo and I had weathered the storms of life together and it had been rewarding. I knew he had an intimate dinner planned but Araoluwa had given no clue what she had planned. It was a rainy day. I had a few errands to run before heading to the boutique. Araoluwa had called me already that morning and mentioned she would be there sometime around 1pm. I did not want to keep her waiting but the rain plus traffic were conniving to get me vexed. 

There was a crowd opposite Hubmart at the scene of an accident. A Toyota Camry had collided with a truck and there was blood everywhere. People stood around and did nothing, just taking pictures. I tried to look but the only thing I could see was a man on the floor in a pool of blood and the visible hand of a young lady. The man looked alive but the young lady, I couldn’t tell because only her hand was visible. I saw a lone floating balloon and immediately remembered Araoluwa was on her way to the boutique. Horns blasted behind me, and I kicked off my car, sending prayers to the victims. 

Finally, I reached the store, expecting to see my daughter, but my salesgirl told me she wasn't there. As time passed, my worry grew. I called her phone repeatedly, but it went straight to voicemail. An hour later, I received the call that shattered my world. The hand I had seen belonged to my daughter, and if someone had acted promptly, she might still be alive. If I had done something, she’d have been alive. I had failed my precious girl.

In that moment, guilt consumed me. How could I not have realized it was her? I felt responsible for her death, as if I had somehow failed as a mother.   It became clear why God didn’t bless me with a child. He knew I couldn’t do it. After years of badgering him, He finally gave me one and I still failed. Maybe I did not deserve to be a mother because what mother would pass her child in a pool of blood and not realize? What mother would not know something was amiss when her child was in danger? 

Her burial was scheduled for the next day, but I knew deep in my heart that I could not participate. I feel responsible for her death. I glanced at the picture of the both of us on the wall that she had framed last year. The pain was unbearable, and for the first time since her death, tears streamed down my cheeks. With shaky hands, I wrote on a piece of paper, "Forgive me," as a desperate plea to my daughter.

I took the pills and gently laid on the bed, waiting for death to take me and hoping Dapo would forgive me for ending my life.