asked to come fasting. No food, no water and, as the escort had informed me when he met me at the foot of the hill, if I stopped to rest as we climbed up the hill, I would be sent back home with no prayers and no meeting with the Highest Priest.
Mrs Adeolu had assured me that the Prophet Josiah, the leader of this group, was indeed a miracle worker. Her protruding belly was convincing evidence. I needed a miracle fast. The only way I could save myself from polygamy was to get pregnant before Funmi; that way Akin might let the girl go. But as I pulled a small goat up the mountain, the only miracle I really wanted was that of water gushing from a rock so that I could quench my thirst. The way my escort stared at my chest was alarming. I was trembling not just from exhaustion but with foreboding. Each time my eyes met his blatantly roving ones, I wanted to run down the hills back to my car; yet I pressed on towards the crest. Funmi was still living in her flat in town, but I did not need a prophet to tell me that she would move into my home once she got pregnant.
‘Can you help me with the goat?’ I asked the escort, wishing the prophet had sent a woman to fetch me.
‘No,’ he replied and moved a palm across my face. Just when I wanted to slap it away, he curved his palm and dragged rolls of sweat down my cheek.
He held my waist, presumably to steady me. I tried to quicken my trembling pace, but the goat had stopped. I pulled and pulled until the rope was chafing my hands. I would have dragged it on its side, but the instruction had been to bring a white goat without wound, blemish or a speck of another colour.
‘It is the goat; I’m not stopping to rest.’ I was scared he might send me back.
‘I can see that.’
After a while, the goat started moving. We soon arrived at the crest of the mountain. The faithful sat in a wide circle with their eyes closed.
‘Enter the circle,’ my escort said. Then he sat down with the others and closed his eyes.
A man stood at the centre of the circle. His beard was even longer than the escort’s and covered most of his face. His chef cap was bigger than that of the others and instead of dragging down his back, something had been stuffed in it to make it stand upright.
‘Make way for our sister,’ he said.
The two faithful in front of me stood up and stepped further into the circle without opening their eyes. I dragged the goat with me into the circle and went to stand by the man with the big cap. I looked around at all the faces and realised that they were all bearded, all men. I recalled the escort’s lewd stares and felt faint. As if on cue, the men began to moan and tremble as though from some unseen stimulation. I thought of Akin and how beautiful our children would have been.
‘You will have a child,’ the man beside me shouted and the moaning stopped. He opened his eyes. ‘Behold your child,’ he said pointing at the goat. I glanced from the goat to the man’s dancing eyes. I thought of running away from this crazy man, but I could see all of them chasing after me, deranged and drooling like rabid dogs, green robes flapping in the wind. I could imagine myself rolling down the steep hill to my death.
‘You think I’m mad? The Prophet Josiah is mad?’ He grabbed the back of my head and laughed in short cackles. ‘You cannot run from us until we are done. By then you will be with child.’
I nodded until he let go of my head.
The moaning resumed. The man stooped beside the goat and removed the rope from its neck. Then he swaddled it in a piece of green cloth until only its face was showing. He thrust it towards me. ‘Your child.’
I took the bundle.
‘Hold it close and dance,’ he commanded.
The moaning stopped and the men began to sing. I shuffled along, holding the bundle to my chest, labouring under its weight. The singing switched to a quick chant and my pace quickened. I sang with them.
We danced until my throat was so parched that I could hardly swallow. And each time I blinked, I saw flashes of light and colour, like shards of a broken rainbow. We kept dancing until I felt I was on the edge of some divine experience. Then, beneath the brilliant sun, the goat appeared to be a newborn and I believed. We sang and danced until my ankles ached and I longed to fall on my knees. Hours must have passed before Prophet Josiah spoke.
‘Feed the child,’ he said. His voice was like a remote control that switched the activity of the surrounding men. This time when he spoke, the singing stopped. I looked to his hand, expecting him to hand me some grass.
He tugged at the front of my blouse. ‘Breastfeed the child.’
After he whispered those words, it was natural for me to reach behind my back and unhook the ivory lace bra I wore. To lift up my blouse and push up my bra cups. To sit on the ground with my legs stretched out, squeeze my breast and push the nipple to the open mouth in my arms.
I did not think of Akin and how he would have said I was going mad. I did not think of Moomi, who would have reminded me that my feet were shaky in her son’s house without a child. I did not even think of Funmi, who might be pregnant already. I looked down at the bundle in my arms and saw the little face of my child, smelled the fresh scent of baby powder and believed.
When Prophet Josiah removed the bundle from my arms, they felt empty.
‘Go,’ he said. ‘Even if no man comes near you this month, you will be pregnant.’
I hugged his words close to me. They filled my arms and comforted me. I smiled as I walked down the mountain alone. I could still feel the wetness on my breast and my heart thudded with desperate faith.
7
Yejide told me she was pregnant on a Sunday. Woke me up around 7 in the morning to say a miracle had taken place the previous day. On a mountain of all places. A miracle on a mountain.
I asked her to please switch off her bedside lamp. Light hurt my eyes in the morning.
She still had a sense of humour back then. Wasn’t above a practical joke once in a while. I thought she was building up to something hilarious. Maybe it was a stretch, me thinking she could joke about being pregnant.
I sat up when she switched off the lamp. Waited for her to deliver the punch line so I could slide back beneath the covers. But she just stood beside the bed, grinning. I wasn’t amused. She was violating my Sunday policy. I practised strict observance of the day of rest, never voluntarily opening my eyes before noon. She knew that.
‘I’ll get you a cup of coffee.’ She pulled back the curtains a bit, let in a slice of sunlight.
I got up when she left the room. Went to the bathroom, turned on the cold water and put my head beneath the shower head for a couple of minutes. I went back into the room without a towel. Let the water trickle down my chest and back. Let it soak the waistband of my shorts a little.
She was back in the room when I got there. Sitting in bed with her legs crossed at the ankles. I noticed then that she was not in her nightgown. She was dressed in shorts and a blue T-shirt. Looked like she’d been awake for some time.
There was a tray beside her. Laden with plates of fried yam, a bowl of fish stew and two cups of coffee. The woman who could spend weeks complaining if I had a sandwich in bed had brought a bowl of stew into the room. I should have realised then that something
