Say you missed your period. You didn't even notice, either because your cycle is so irregular, or because you were too busy chasing paper, beating deadlines, being social and generally living life. So about two months into your last period, it hits you that something went missing from your life.
"Could I be pregnant!?" You gasp.
You grab the calendar, but you can't even remember when you last had your period. Damn! You should have downloaded one of those period-tracker apps, but it's rather late for that now.
It is a lazy, slow and idle Saturday, so you rush to the chemist and buy a home pregnancy kit, making sure that no one sees you doing it. You rush back to the house, banging all doors on your way. You lock yourself up in the loo, sigh heavily, grimace, then hold your breath as you pee on the test stick and cross your fingers and toes and every possible part of your body. You wait the longest three minutes of your life. Finally, two pink lines appear ...
"No! No! No! No! It can't be! I just can't deal with this... Lord, what will I do...?" You’re biting your nails furiously.
Yes, you are old enough for a baby. In fact, people have been telling you that if you won't settle down in marriage, at least have a baby. A legacy. Something to graduate you into full womanhood...
"But I just can't... a baby will turn my life upside down. I won't even be able to do the things I want freely, because there will be a baby to consider first. Where will I even get the money for a baby? Damn! What will I do? Damn! Why did I put myself in this situation? Why didn’t I take the E-pill? Oh, wait, I took it within the stipulated 72 hours after intercourse. Why didn’t it work? Could it be because I had already taken 10 of those this year, and it is only September? Why oh why?” You ask yourself over and over, but you have no answers. Nevertheless, there are decisions to be made.
"Should I have ... an ... a-bor-tion?" Who knew you would ever have to ask yourself this question? Damn! Why oh why? You wail.
"Should I tell the boyfriend?"
“Wait, he is not even a boyfriend; just a fuck-buddy I've been fooling around with. Oh Lord, are these the consequences of fornication? Oh Lord, please save me from this situation...”
You are going crazy. You don't know who to tell about this. You can't trust anyone, but you need a referral to a good abortionist. One of those clean decent ones; a trained and experienced gynaecologist. You'll even take a Sacco loan to foot the bill if need be.
"Oh, Lord, the consequences of fornication... I should have kept my legs closed... I just can't deal.. I wish I could run away from this problem. Jesus, please, forgive me... please, I'll be a good girl after this. No more fuck-buddies, no more casual sex; I'll wait till marriage, I promise, but you have to save me and forgive me this one time..."
You are sobbing uncontrollably now. You really need that abortionist's number. Should you ask in Kilimani Mums? No, people will stone you with Bible-verse-laden rocks. What about Marie Stopes?
“No, I don’t trust those people; they sound like the kind who will rush you to Kenyatta and dump you there when you develop abortion-related complications. I don’t think they can do the job right. I need a neat, clean job so that no one will ever know I had an abortion, except me and the gyna... But who?”
You’re pacing up and down your bedroom. You just can’t keep still. Your heart is racing, your thoughts are racing. You just can’t keep calm.
"Oh Lord, I need your help... oh, wait, does Dr N still exist? He was a well-known, loud and proud, abortionist back in the day. I haven't seen him in the news for years... did he die? Did he give up the fight to give women safe abortions? His clinic was at A Centre, right? I should just go there and ask the guards if he still runs the clinic.”
A little googling yields some positive results. Goodie!
You pick your phone and randomly dial the boyfriend's, nay, fuck-buddy's number.
"What am I doing?" You ask yourself well into the third ring.
You can't hang up now. If you do, he'll call. He knows you never call him unless it is important. You have to keep your affair discreet. As much as it’s 2015 in a liberalised country, your compatriots still frown upon unmarried women who get it on, freely and openly. You still have a reputation to protect. Your boyfriend, nay, fuck-buddy picks the phone on the fifth ring, interrupting your thoughts.
"Hello..."
"Hello, I'm ... I'm pregnant!" You blurt out. Where did that come from? You wonder.
(Long silence...)
"Erm, hello, did you hear what I just said?"
"Yeah, this is, erm, unexpected, but … uhm, we'll just have to deal with it as it is..."
"Yeah, I've already thought about it. Uhm, I'm going to have an abortion next week... I'll take a few days off, my sick-off and some leave days to recover..."
"What! You can't just abort...!!!"
"It's my body, dammit! I'm the one who will be tied down by a baby, please, you don't have a say..."
"No, please, hear me out... I have a…"
“No!” You hold down the power off button, inadvertently cutting off the call and putting off your phone.
“How dare he try to tell me what to do with my life? How dare he?”
You pick your quarter-full cup of tea from the table and smash it on the wall ahead, then you shuffle into the kitchen, rummage through the drawer where you put your meds. There are some sleeping pills left over from the last time you were having trouble sleeping. You gulp down one too many, with a glass of water, and then follow them up with four painkillers (another overdose) to dull the headache. Your forehead is throbbing and your temples are on fire. You need a blackout. It’s only midday, but you’ve had a long day already.
When you wake up, it’s dark everywhere. You acclimatise to the darkness and the noises of the night outside your bedroom window. You reach under your pillow for your phone, pressing down the power on button.
Ten missed calls: Mum, Elaine (your elder sister), Aunt Lucy, Mary CBA ( a long-lost acquaintance) – what does she want?, Betty Job (a work colleague) - hmph, what’s that that can’t wait till Monday...!?, Liz UoN (your college-mate from your MBA class), and four missed calls from Sauti…
“Nkt! Can’t he just leave me alone!”
“No, actually, can everybody just leave me alone! I don’t want to talk, nkt!”
Your WhatsApp is overflowing with mostly useless messages too, a few from the people whose calls you missed above, either telling you to call them back, urgently, or that they were just checking on you … and Sauti with a thread of five messages:
“Can we talk?”
“Can I at least come over?”
“Please hear me out…”
“I know you really don’t want to abort…”
“Okay, at least wait two weeks and think this through, before you go through with it, no?”
“To hell with Sauti! Isn’t he the one who got me into this mess in the first place by whispering sweet nothings in my ear and making me lose good judgment? And now he has the nerve to tell me what to do…” You feel a sharp pain sear through the core of your head from one temple to another.
“Let me just block his number. I need my peace…”
Monday comes. You are very scared, very nervous. You’ve heard people whispering before that abortion wastes a woman’s body: “Why do you think, Daisy has lost so much weight? It is because she aborted, silly!
Abortion sio mchezo…” a friend once told the blue-eyed you about a mutual friend.
Still, this is something you have decided to go through with, but God knows it frightens you to death.
“What if I die? What if there is nothing like a safe abortion? What if, what if, what if...?”
You’re now at A Centre. You’ll call the office just before you go in for the procedure and take a copy of the sick-off sheet to your boss and HR when you get back to work, two weeks after the procedure. (The doctor’s narration will read something like: Three-week bed-rest recommended for recuperation after continuous heavy bleeding from fibroids...)
“Sasa, soldier… madam! Nataka kwenda kwa Dr N…,” you start.
“Sawa, leta ID, andikisha hapa, halafu uende second floor.”
“Sawa.”
When you get to second floor, you peep inside the door marked “City Women’s Health Centre”.
There are women of all ages seated at the waiting bay: young women like yourself, younger women than yourself, middle-aged women, and even a girl who looks not-a-day-older than 12.
“I don’t know if I can go through with this…,” you mutter to yourself.
“Yes, madam, come in, please. How may I help you?” The receptionist calls out to you breaking your thoughts.
“Erm, let me first make a call…,” you say, stepping out promptly.
“Am I doing the right thing?”
You need to talk to someone, but who? You scroll through your 568 contacts. You can’t call any of them, not even the 12 counsellors/psychologists/psychiatrists in your phone book.
“Jesus, I need someone to talk to… argh! Not Sauti, no, please… okay, he’s the only one who knows what’s going on with me... he’ll just have to do.”
You unblock Sauti’s number.
“Hello Sauti, we need to talk…”
“Jeez, Nerea, did you have to block me? Can’t we just sort this out like adults… anyway where are you? I can step out for a few minutes…”
“Actually, I’m just here near your office …”
“Okay, you go ahead to Java Kimathi, at the balcony… at least there we can have some privacy. Let me finish up on something then I follow you there…”
“Okay, no problem.” You hang up.
At Java, you ask for a strawberry lemonade as you wait for company. There are so many thoughts swirling in your mind. You feel so confused. Oh, Sauti is here… You stand up to give him a hug.
“Thanks for making the time ... ”
“It’s nothing. I’ve been trying to reach you…”
“I know. I just … needed some time alone to think.”
“Nerea, please, did you do it…?”
“Not yet, I got cold feet…”
“Phew, listen, I’ve been thinking about it all weekend and this is what I have to say, please hear me out…”
“Okay.”
(Singing soulfully) “Nakuomba Nerea, usitoe mimba yangu we, Mungu akileta mtoto, analeta sahani yake, leta nitamlea, usitoe mimba yangu we, Mungu akileta mtoto, analeta sahani yake …”
You’re crying. The mid-morning brunch crowd around you is clapping in awe, but a few elements throw you disgusted looks. Sauti is hugging you, swaying, shushing you. You know what you need to do.
Inspired by the song Nerea by Sauti Sol featuring Amos and Josh:
