Chapter 1
CHAPTER ONE
The woman kept staring at the pink dress, ruffles and lace sewn together with delicate care, a dress fit for a little girl. She smiled wistfully. Somewhere nearby, a baby cried, and she turned instinctively, her gaze landing on a small girl tugging at her mother’s skirt. Something in her chest tightened, aching with a quiet, familiar longing.
“Mommy!”
The call broke her reverie. She startled slightly and turned to see her son standing before her, a plastic bag clutched in his hand. Beside him was his father, phone pressed to his ear, voice low and distracted. Another, slightly older boy stood close, holding a second bag and watching the world with patient eyes.
“You guys came out so fast,” she said, smiling as she gathered herself.
“Yes na, oya, let’s go and see Aunty Idowu!” her eldest son replied, laughter bright and effortless.
She nodded, letting the moment pass, and turned toward her husband. He reached for her hand without looking, still mid-call, his fingers warm and familiar around hers. In the car, the boys chatted happily as they drove toward their aunt’s place, their voices overlapping in easy excitement.
“Ehn hen,” her husband said from the driver’s seat, eyes on the road, “I just got off the call with Tunji. He said our passports are ready, so I told him to bring them to the house tomorrow.”
“No wahala,” she replied absently, rummaging through her bag. “Uncle Bayo said we shouldn’t forget to come and pick up the car.”
Her voice was low, detached, as though the words were only passing through her.
He glanced at her briefly. “Are you okay?”
“Me? I’m fine, oh. Why?”
“You’ve been sounding down since yesterday. Hope nothing?”
“Mtchew. My dear, just leave it abeg.”
He frowned slightly. “Ahn ahn, Inyang, are you sure?”
“Mm,” she murmured with a small nod, still not looking up.
They drove on in silence, the hum of traffic filling the space between them. After a moment, he reached across the console and held her hand, gripping it a little tighter than usual as they navigated the busy streets of Lagos.
Dr Babatunde Korede David Afolabi read the paper again and again, a smile fixed firmly on his face.
As the son of a prominent Yoruba family, he had been raised from childhood to pursue excellence. In his teens, his father sent him to the United States, where he went on to earn his medical degree. It was there he met his wife, Inyang Grace Effiong, an Efik woman from Calabar.
He had fallen in love with her beauty, her intelligence, her quiet confidence, and married her almost immediately. Their wedding had been lavish, the kind people still spoke about years later. Her family, affluent politicians and lawyers had spared no expense, and the union had been celebrated as much for its prestige as for its romance.
They had been blessed with two sons: Adeyemi and Olamilekan. Babatunde thanked God often for a household full of laughter and noise. He was a successful medical doctor, married to a successful HR manager, and on the verge of closing a deal on a home in Greenwich, Connecticut, a future secured for his family. Now they were in Nigeria, home for the Christmas holidays, surrounded by relatives, tradition, and warmth.
By all measures, his life was complete.
And yet.
In recent years, his wife had seemed… distant. Not unhappy exactly, but quiet in a way that unsettled him. He had caught her more than once lingering over dresses meant for little girls, or toys she did not buy. Sometimes, when they were out, she would stare too long at young girls passing by, her expression soft and aching.
Whenever he asked what was wrong, she would smile and say nothing.
It was that nothing that troubled him most.
The worry had begun to settle heavily in his chest, and now, standing at the edge of everything he had worked so hard to build, Babatunde felt himself nearing his breaking point.
Inyang had come from a family of men.
In her immediate family, there were only two sisters among many sons. Even her extended family leaned heavily male: brothers, cousins, nephews. She herself had five brothers. Growing up, she learned early how to make space for herself among loud voices and broad shoulders, how to be patient, how to wait.
Still, she had always wanted daughters.
“My mini-mes,” she would say to her sisters with a smile that carried more hope than humour.
When she gave birth to her first son, Adeyemi, the disappointment came quietly. It stung, but she swallowed it. After all, in Nigeria, sons were still favoured, still celebrated more openly. She told herself she was lucky. She told herself it was enough.
With her second pregnancy, she prayed differently. More fervently. More specifically. She whispered promises to God late at night and pressed her palms to her stomach, imagining soft dresses and tiny hands.
When Olamilekan was born, she cried.
The family thought the tears were for joy. Only her sisters knew better. They recognised grief when they saw it, the mourning of a daughter who never arrived.
Now, eight years later, conceiving had become difficult. Her body resisted in ways it never had before. Babatunde was content with their sons. He loved her deeply, and his satisfaction was genuine, uncomplicated.
But what Inyang wanted, what she prayed for more than anything, was a little girl to call her own.
A daughter she could raise gently.
A child she could pour herself into.
A small reflection of all the love she still carried.
When they returned to the United States, Inyang resumed her usual days. Work, home, routine, she slipped back into the rhythm effortlessly. But Babatunde was not fooled. There was a restlessness about her, a quiet anticipation that sat just beneath her calm.
When he finally decided to ask her what was wrong, he heard her scream.
The sound tore through the house. Panic seized him, and he ran toward the bedroom, then the bathroom, his heart pounding. He found her on the tiled floor, her back against the cabinet, hands shaking as she stared at the pregnancy test clutched tightly in her fingers.
“Ife mi! What is the matter?” he cried, dropping to his knees beside her.
She stood on trembling legs, turning to face him, tears streaming freely down her cheeks.
“Tunde…” Her voice broke. “I’m pregnant.”
For a heartbeat, he simply stared. Then joy burst out of him in a shout as he pulled her into his arms, holding her as though she might disappear if he loosened his grip.
Pressed against his chest, Inyang closed her eyes and whispered a silent prayer to God.
Please… let this be the one.
Inyang stubbornly refused to find out the baby’s gender.
“I know God will not disappoint me,” she said simply, and that was the end of the conversation.
She took care of herself like never before. She rested when she needed to, ate carefully, and prayed constantly. Babatunde watched over everything else, making sure the house ran smoothly, that nothing was left to chance.
One afternoon, Lekan came home from school waving a sheet of paper excitedly.
“Mommy, look!”
“My baby, what is it?” she asked, smiling as she took it from him.
“It’s a rose! Miss Williams told us to draw our favourite flower. I drew a rose because I saw it in Beauty and the Beast!” he said chirpily, pride swelling in his voice.
“Is that so?” Inyang said softly. “It’s so beautiful.”
She studied the drawing for a moment longer than necessary, the clumsily drawn petals, the bold lines, the way the flower stood alone on the page.
“Rose,” she murmured to herself, almost unconsciously.
Her hand drifted to her stomach, rubbing her pregnant belly absentmindedly, her smile lingering as something unnamed settled gently in her chest. The delivery room dissolved into light and sound. Voices rose and fell around her, instructions blurring together, but Inyang remained calm, gripping the nurse’s hand as she pushed with everything she had.
It was short.
It was intense.
It was exhausting.
And then it was over.
When the baby was placed in her arms, the world stilled. Inyang stared down at the tiny face, soft and perfect, hardly daring to breathe. She looked up at the doctor, searching his expression.
He smiled.
“Congratulations,” he said gently. “You have a baby girl.”
The sound that tore from her chest was raw and unrestrained. Inyang sobbed openly, clutching her child closer as years of longing broke loose all at once. Tears soaked her face as she began to sing, softly at first, then louder, songs of worship she had learned as a girl, words she hadn’t known she was saving for this moment.
“God, you have heard my prayer,” she cried between verses, laughter and tears tangled together as she rocked her daughter in her arms.
Babatunde stood by the side of the bed, his hands resting on the metal rail as he watched the doctor finish up. The room smelled faintly of antiseptic, the beeping of a monitor steady and unremarkable. He had not moved much throughout the delivery, only shifting when someone told him to.
“Congratulations,” the doctor said, glancing up with a small smile. “It’s a baby girl.”
Babatunde blinked.
For a moment, he wasn’t sure he had heard correctly. Then he looked at Inyang, at the way her face crumpled as the baby was placed in her arms, and understanding settled in slowly, heavily.
A girl.
He let out a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding and nodded once, as if acknowledging information he needed to store carefully. His throat felt tight. He swallowed.
Inyang was crying openly now, singing under her breath, words tumbling over each other. Babatunde didn’t speak. He stepped closer, placing a hand on her shoulder, steady and warm.
When the nurse adjusted the baby’s blanket, he leaned in, studying the child’s face with a seriousness that surprised even him. So small. So quiet.
“She’s okay?” he asked, his voice low.
“Yes,” the nurse replied. “Very healthy.”
He nodded again.
Only then did he sit down, elbows resting on his knees, one hand pressed briefly to his face. He stayed like that for a few seconds before straightening, composed once more.
“Thank you,” he said quietly, to the nurse, to the doctor, to God, he wasn’t entirely sure.
He reached out, tentative, and touched his daughter’s hand.
