Chapter 15: The Body Keeps Score

The days began to fold into one another, quiet and stretched thin.

Amaka woke earlier now, not because she wanted to, but because her body refused to let her rest. Sleep came in fragments—light, unsettled, interrupted by the dull ache in her back and the strange heaviness that settled deep within her bones.

That morning, she sat on the edge of the bed, waiting for the dizziness to pass. The room tilted slightly, then steadied. She pressed her fingers to her temple, breathing slowly.

Kunle was already dressed.

He stood before the mirror, adjusting his collar, his tall frame straight, his movements precise. He did not look at her. He had not looked at her much in the past few days, not directly. It was as though he had placed the news of her pregnancy somewhere in his mind where it could exist without interfering with his sense of order.

“You are still sitting there,” he said after a moment.

Amaka lifted her head. “I will get up.”

“You always say that,” he replied. “But the work does not wait for your readiness.”

She swallowed the response that rose to her lips and stood slowly, steadying herself with the edge of the bed. Her wrapper brushed softly against her legs as she moved past him.

In the kitchen, the air felt warmer than usual. The firewood crackled as she lit it, the flame catching slowly, then growing. She set the pot on the stove, pouring water into it with careful hands.

Her stomach turned at the smell.

She paused, gripping the edge of the counter. The nausea came quickly, sharply, forcing her to step outside. She bent near the small patch of earth by the garden, her body tightening as the wave passed through her.

The hibiscus leaves blurred before her eyes.

“Amaka?”

She turned slightly. It was Chioma again, standing near the fence, her arms folded loosely.

“You’re not well,” Chioma said, her voice more statement than question.

“I’m fine,” Amaka replied, straightening slowly.

Chioma shook her head. “You say that too easily.” She stepped closer, lowering her voice. “Is he helping you at all?”

Amaka let out a small breath that almost sounded like a laugh. “Kunle does not believe in… adjustments.”

Chioma’s lips pressed together. “Of course he doesn’t.”

They stood in silence for a moment, the air between them filled with things that did not need to be said aloud.

“He says I must not become careless,” Amaka added quietly. “That this is not an excuse.”

Chioma tilted her head slightly. “And what do you think?”

Amaka looked down at her hands. “I think my body is no longer mine alone. And yet… I am expected to behave as though nothing has changed.”

Chioma nodded slowly. “That is how it often is. The world expects women to carry everything and still appear unchanged. But your body will not lie for anyone. It will speak, whether they listen or not.”

Amaka exhaled softly. “I feel it. Every morning. Every movement. It is like my body is reminding me that something is happening, even when I try to ignore it.”

“And you should not ignore it,” Chioma said firmly. “You must listen to it. Because if you don’t, who will?”

Amaka glanced toward the house. “There is work.”

“There will always be work,” Chioma replied. “But there is only one of you.”

Amaka nodded, though she knew the truth was more complicated than that.

Inside, Kunle’s voice called out. “Amaka!”

She closed her eyes briefly, then opened them again. “I have to go.”

Chioma stepped back, her gaze lingering. “Take care of yourself,” she said. “Even if no one else insists on it.”

Amaka returned to the kitchen.

Kunle stood near the doorway, his expression already edged with impatience. “Where did you go?”

“I stepped outside,” she said.

“For how long?”

“Just a moment.”

He frowned. “You leave things unattended. This is how mistakes happen.”

Amaka glanced at the pot. The water had barely begun to heat. Nothing had been ruined. Still, she said nothing.

Kunle stepped further into the kitchen, his presence filling the space. “You must be more disciplined,” he continued. “This is not the time to become weak.”

Amaka’s hands tightened slightly around the spoon she held. “I am not weak.”

He looked at her then, properly, his eyes scanning her face as though assessing something. “Then act like it,” he said.

The words settled heavily.

Amaka turned back to the stove, stirring slowly. The rhythm steadied her, even as her body protested the heat, the smell, the constant motion.

The compound outside remained alive. A child cried briefly, then was hushed. Someone laughed loudly, the sound rising above the rest. A radio played a song she did not recognize. Life, unbothered, continued.

By midday, the exhaustion had deepened.

Amaka moved more slowly now, her steps measured, her breath slightly uneven. She finished washing the dishes and sat down briefly on the low stool, her hands resting in her lap.

For a moment, she allowed herself to do nothing.

No movement. No task. No expectation.

Just stillness.

Her hand moved again to her abdomen, almost unconsciously. The gesture had become familiar, instinctive.

“This is real,” she whispered, barely audible.

Not a condition.

Not a burden.

Something real.

From the living room, Kunle’s voice cut through the quiet. “Amaka!”

She closed her eyes briefly, then stood.

“I’m coming,” she replied.

As she walked toward him, her steps steady despite the fatigue, she felt it again—that quiet, stubborn awareness within her.

Her body was changing.

Her life was shifting.

And whether Kunle accepted it or not, whether the house adjusted or not, whether the world made space for it or not—

Something had already begun.