I am with child: a beating art that makes my heart skip a beat whenever I think of him. Him. It must be a male.
I already ate every vegetable the Umuada offered me; already carried a calabash down the Odu river, countless nights, to cleanse the evils in me responsible for my barrenness.
I cannot give Eghosa, son to the village chief, a useless girl.
I see Eghosa eyeing Ngozi, who had her coming of age ceremony one moon ago, with a look that wipes the taste of impending motherhood off my mouth.
I will birth him. I must.