The Island

Her body trembled like leaves in the wind, her thoughts mangled and stiffened by the cold air in the room. A tingling sensation in her left ear made her tilt her head in an attempt to alleviate it, but she soon felt a dull ache in her neck and ignored it. Clutching her light gown tightly, she hurriedly smoothed out every fold until her feet touched together. She felt a sense of relief; they were still there. She hadn’t seen them in a while, hidden by the mountainous swell of her belly. She gazed at it blankly, almost in awe of its constant transformation. Then, a wave of resentment washed over her. This belly, which seemed to want to be its own island, yet relied on her for sustenance she didn’t know how to provide. She pictured a sports car hurtling around a sharp bend, its speed matching that of lightning, tires gripping the road with precision, trees bending in deference to its power. Without slowing down, it careened onto her belly, spinning through the air before crashing into a tree. Smoke billowed from the crumpled hood, obscuring the driver’s face, blood streaking his head as he struggled to open the door. His mouth moved in a silent scream through the cracked window just before it shattered into shards.

“Are you ready?” she asked, causing her to jump in fright. She turned to see a middle-aged woman standing beside her. The woman’s puffy cheeks stretched her face mask, and sweat droplets glistened on her nostrils. Her blouse buttons strained to contain her ample chest as she breathed heavily. Her comforting presence reminded her of her mother, and when she held her hand, it felt warm and secure.

“Don’t worry, it will be over before you know it. We’ve done this many times, so nothing can go wrong.”

She smiled gently as she unwrapped the instruments from a faded brown towel. Among them was a long tool with a hook at the end, new blades with sharp edges, stacks of bandages, and neatly folded sheets on a tray. As she worked, she hummed a familiar tune, “When the Waters Run Deep,” a classic melody by a rock band. The song had been around long before she was born, but she knew it by heart. She remembered singing along with her friends, nodding their heads in rhythm as they boarded the bus in the evening. One line from the song stuck in her head.

Nobody knows what tomorrow holds, so live for today. She doubted the certainty of the present and the uncertainty of her future.

Her eyes squeezed shut as the needle pricked her forearm. By the third attempt, she focused on the large needle puncturing her dry skin, which had flattened over her weak bones. The nurse shook her head, instructing her not to tense her muscles. She allowed her to win the battle. On the fifth try, the fluid began flowing through her veins, and she lost herself once more. She envisioned water gushing out of holes in a bottle, cascading into a pool of blood that flooded the room. Her chest heaved, her mouth gasped for air, and her belly clenched. The bed seemed to float, and just as she was about to scream…

“Are you sure you’re alright, dear?”

The nurse once more came to her aid, gently wiping her forehead with a piece of cotton, her concerned eyes showing her worry. She didn’t want the woman to notice her anxiety and halt the procedure. Taking a deep breath and forcing a smile, she reassured the nurse.

She was grateful for the opportunity she stumbled upon to correct the error. The nurse had been kind to her, organizing all of it for her savings. She would not be a coward. She would take the blame for trusting the words of another who had much more than a last one for the road. A better life would not be earned by opening her legs. Even her own mother would have begged the higher spirits to come down one last time to give her a beating to chase away her stupidity. Big Baba would never allow her to serve in the bar either. He said the customers did not want her to start pointing fingers. The sore image she had made for her uncle, the leader of the Christian men movement in their church, cost her a place to stay. Mrs. Sarri, who accommodated her because she knew how to pound the cassava that her husband wanted for dinner, was always looking at her with cutting eyes as her belly bulged out, almost blaming it for her bareness. She would break free. She would start a new page. She would write her story again on clearer pages with dark strokes of a pen that would not be erased.

She jerked as a plump, short man stumbled into the room. His tie hung loosely over his flipped collar shirt, and his coat was buttoned incorrectly, giving him a disheveled appearance. He leaned on the door, staring at her with haggard eyes that made her cringe. A brief dialogue with the nurse revealed his identity. As he approached her, he left a trail of mud with his oxford shoes. She struggled to focus on his words, which were interrupted by hiccups and belching sounds, while she choked on the fetid smell emanating from him.

It all happened so quickly that she couldn’t keep track of the moments. The sharp object pierced her deeply, causing her to clench her jaw before expelling the contents from her belly. She needed to be brave. Blood coated the tiled floor, spreading rapidly to the corners of the room. She had to remain courageous. The nurse stood up, her head shaking in distress, hands trembling as she reached for more cotton sponges, while the plump man yelled for additional supplies. The two figures in the room seemed to multiply, her heart pounding in her ears. The image of the racing car flashed before her eyes, the bottle pouring endlessly, and the room spinning in circles. The island seemed to be absorbing everything in the room, including her. She didn’t resist, perhaps it was leading her to a better place.