My brother in-law Emeka sat on the other end of the dinning table. His face had become reddened as he kept sniffing and blowing his nose into a checkered handkerchief, as if his nose had become a broken water pipe.

“Brother, easy o. Take Procold before you give all of us your catarrh,” I teased. A weak smile flashed across his red, bloated face.

From across the table where I sat directly opposite him, I noticed my brother in-law cast a furtive glance at me every now and then. It made me feel uncomfortable, so I moved the groceries from the dinning table to the kitchen.

I whistled joyfully in the kitchen while cutting each okra into halves and smaller pieces. I’d purchased them earlier in the day at the local market in Upper Iweka. Okra soup was a special delicacy loved by my husband, Nkem. This meal would probably be the ‘last’ I’d prepare for him before leaving for the hospital tomorrow, in preparation for the delivery of our baby – our first much awaited bundle of joy.

The doctor said I should be due for delivery by tomorrow or next. And because Nkem was a terrible cook, I couldn’t bear to leave him without any meal while I stayed in hospital.

The chime clock struck 10pm. Nkem wasn’t home yet. Maybe he was held up at the usual Onitsha, Niger bridge traffic. I dialed his...


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