ESTHER
Esther drew circles on Dara’s back as she scrolled her Instagram feed. Cleo’s call had left her unsettled and she’d lost her appetite almost immediately. She’d ended up serving Kunle the potato porridge she’d made, drank some juice and then went off to get Dara ready for bed.
She called Tara’s phone while she nursed Dara after his night bath, but there was no response.
Since then, she hadn’t been able to move from where she sat in bed after nursing and burping Dara.
Kunle had come in some minutes ago, and had found her wide-eyed, her face glued to her phone screen while she held Dara across her shoulder.
“You’re still awake?” he asked in a stage-whisper.
“Tara is missing,” she said.
“Remind me who she is again,” he took off his shirt and threw it on the ‘laundry’ chair – the one designated for clothes that had been worn but weren’t yet ready to be washed because they might be worn again soon.
“The other Nigerian mum from our mum group? The one with twins?”
“Oh, the one you went to lunch with on Mother’s Day?” he slipped on his pyjama pants.
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
“We don’t know. Her husband said she’s been gone for hours. That she went for a run.”
“Oh well, maybe she’s not missing. Maybe she’s just taking a really long run.”
Esther eyed him, wary. “At this time of the night? Plus she’s a mum. We don’t just go for runs at night without communicating.”
“Everyone’s not you, baby. You’re a good mum so you always put Dara first.” Kunle climbed into bed and kissed her lips lightly.
His words were supposed to make her feel better, but they only made her gut twist even more. Tara was a good mum too.
Her mind conjured images of Tara and her girls at the mum group, the way Tara hovered over the twins, a move that Esther had taken for dedication and devotion. But could both things be true? Could Tara be anxious and devoted to her girls? There was that throwaway comment at Mother’s Day brunch, when she’d revealed how she really felt about being a mum of multiples. Had that been a cry for help? Should Esther have listened more deeply rather than judge her?
What if Tara had hurt herself? Esther had stumbled on to a Reddit thread where Mums shared their struggles with Postpartum depression, even though the stories depressed Esther the more she read them, she couldn’t stop herself from going back to the thread to see if there were any new experiences. There were women who talked about self-harm or harming their babies. One woman shared that everytime her baby cried and she couldn’t stop her cries, she filled the sink with warm water and dunked the baby’s face in, but that she always felt like a terrible mother after and cried with her baby, and was something wrong with her? Another had shared that she couldn’t seem to stop pinching her baby. It was an unhealthy compulsion but it somehow made her feel better when she did it, so should she stop?
Sometimes the posts made Esther feel better about herself. Yes, she might have been struggling especially not having her mother around, but she’d never hurt Dara or thought of hurting him. She was still a good mother.
Had Tara ever hurt any of the twins? Esther wondered. She felt her body jolt from the physicality of that thought. Tara might be many things, but unhinged, she was not.
If anything, she seemed the most level-headed of their group; with her nose in the air constantly judging, the mums who formula-fed, or the ones whose children showed up in last night’s jammies (to be fair, this was gross), or the ones whose children toddled around with a diaper full of shit. But perhaps that was a coping mechanism? Had it been a way to distract herself from her inner turmoil, to redirect the spotlight to someone else?
“You should stop thinking about it,” Kunle’s voice sounded in the darkness. “I’m sure she’s fine.”
“You can’t assume that. She doesn’t run. Why would she go for a run at night and not be back after so long?”
Esther heard his body move in the dark, his hairy leg brushing against hers, and she moved away. “Well, sitting in the dark worrying isn’t going to bring her back. Besides Dara needs to go in his crib.”
“At least I’m doing something,” Esther snapped. God, why didn’t he get it? “And Dara is fine, thank you very much. What if it were me who was missing? Would you be this blase about it?”
“Oh, you won’t leave Dara and go anywhere. You’re a good mum.”
“What? Tara is a good mum too.”
“A good mum doesn’t just up and leave her child. So, if she’s a good mum like you say, she’ll be back. Relax, okay?”
His logic didn’t make sense to her but she didn’t want to argue with him any further.
She let her mind drift to the voice note from earlier that evening. Esther was ashamed to admit that there was a part of her that felt…triumphant when she listened to Tara’s breakdown in the voice note.
Tara always acted pious and saintly, so to get a peek into what her life was like behind the scenes almost made Esther feel vindicated. It appeared that she had become like those relatives who came to visit after her mother passed, who always had a hint of smugness beneath some of their balderdash. She knew that many of her mother’s relatives were jealous of her, of what she’d become–a village woman who had moved to Lagos and became a successful fabric trader without a University degree.
They said sorry with one side of their mouth, while they divided her fabrics between themselves because Esther’s father was too torn by grief to secure his wife’s business. When Esther tried to protest, to save her mother’s legacy, they shut her down for being rude and disrespectful. Her older sister said nothing, neither did her dad.
Esther felt the urge to hold on to Dara tighter. The world suddenly seemed too scary to have him alone inhis crib beside their bed. What if Tara was…no, no. She wouldn’t do anything drastic like that. Tara was Nigerian. Nigerians were great at suffering. If they were going to give medals for people who suffered and came out making jokes about their suffering, Nigeira would win hands down. Nigerians didn’t give up and jump off bridges. They didn’t self-harm, they were sensible, optimistic and able to weather any storm. Most importantly, they were afraid. Afraid of hell fire. Even Esther whose faith was wonky and out of shape, still believed that suicide was not an ideal option. Suicide was a one-way ticket to hell fire because suicide was like murder except you were the victim. And why would she suffer on earth and want to fast-track her suffering in the after-life?
She hadn’t thought about the afterlife in a long time, not since her mother died. Back then, it was a comfort, imagining her alive somewhere else. Now, those thoughts lived on the backburner, quiet and mostly untouched. If her mother was right, then heaven was real and she was alive and breathing there, because Esther hadn’t known anyone else who was a thoroughly good person like her mum was.
Did she believe in God?
Esther didn’t know. She believed that He existed. She believed that it was good to believe in something or someone. Her parents had believed in God, and she had, too as a child. She’d attend Sunday School with her siblings, had read the Bible stories, had played sword drill at Bible camps, had joined the children’s choir and sang Silent Night at Christmas.
She’d done the right things, and what had that gotten her? A dead mother by the time she was a teenager. So, what was the point believing in anyone other than herself? At least she couldn’t disappoint herself without her consent.
As she held Dara, her back leaning against the headboard, Kunle snoring quietly beside her, Esther’s mind flashed back to how she’d seen her mother for a few seconds while she was in labour, almost as if she’d recharged Esther with the strength she needed to keep going.
There’s nothing more powerful than bringing life into this life. It was a random quote Esther had seen on Instagram when the algorithm brought all the motivational quotes she needed during early postpartum.
The second part of the quote Esther saw but chose to disregard; only God is capable of this brilliance.
She had brought forth life. She had, not God. God hadn’t been there when she screamed her throat raw in the labour and delivery ward.
She didn’t like God, she didn’t want Him.
So, why was it, that in the darkness of their bedroom, holding her baby and listening to his kitten-like breaths, she said God, please bring Tara back safe.?
Could two things be true? Could she believe that God existed, but also decide not to believe in Him?