Devastating News

“Here, take some water,” Halima said, holding out a glass.

I took it with trembling hands and sipped slowly. My throat burned, and the metallic taste of nausea still clung stubbornly to my tongue. I leaned on the counter, my palms cold against the porcelain sink.

“You’re not well, Madam,” she said quietly. “We should go to the hospital.”

Her concern was genuine. I could see it in her eyes — that quiet fear of watching someone unravel. Then it struck me that I hadn’t treated her well lately — not since all this turmoil began. Yet here she was, patient and kind, offering care I hadn’t earned.

By mid-morning, we were already at the hospital. I left the young ladies in the car and walked straight to the registry counter. A woman in a navy-blue uniform looked up briefly from her computer. She greeted me and asked my name, which I supplied.

“Do you have insurance?” she asked.

My heart skipped a beat. What if Tom had already removed my name?

“Yes,” I said quietly.

“Which company?”

“Britam.” I handed her my ID.

She punched a few keys on the keyboard, her long nails clacking softly. For a moment, she frowned at the screen, and I held my breath. Then she looked up.

“It is working,” she said.

I exhaled slowly, unsure whether to feel relieved or foolish for caring. Still listed. Still his wife—at least on paper. The irony stung.

She gestured toward the waiting area. “You can have a seat. The doctor will call you shortly.”

The waiting room smelled faintly of antiseptic.

I sat there, lost in thought, my hands clasped tightly on my lap. When the nurse finally called my name, my legs felt weak.

I nodded and walked away.

Inside the examination room, the doctor asked the usual questions — how long I’d felt sick, when I’d last had my period, whether I’d eaten something unusual. I answered mechanically, barely listening to my own voice.

He ran a few tests and told me to wait. Minutes dragged by, stretching into what felt like hours. I stared at the white walls and tried to silence the rising panic in my chest.

When he finally returned, his expression was calm.

“Congratulations,” he said. “You’re pregnant.”

For a moment, the words didn’t register. Pregnant? That wasn’t possible. I blinked at him, half-expecting he’d made a mistake.

“I… I was on family planning,” I said weakly. “The injection — three months.”

He nodded. “Sometimes, if the next dose is delayed, its effectiveness drops quickly. When was your last one?”

I did a quick mental calculation — and my heart sank. I was three weeks late.

Three weeks.

My mind spun. I couldn’t even hold the doctor’s gaze anymore. I felt betrayed by my own body — by time, by fate, by everything.

When I stepped out of the hospital, the sun was bright and merciless. I shielded my eyes, wishing the world would stop spinning long enough for me to breathe.

I had to tell Tom. He had to know.

I called once. No answer.

I tried again — and again. Still nothing. Each ring felt like a door slamming shut.

By the fourth attempt, I gave up. My throat burned with unshed tears.

Halima walked silently beside me as we made our way to the car. She didn’t ask, and I didn’t speak. The envelope containing the hospital results felt heavy in my handbag, as though it carried the weight of a secret I wasn’t ready to face.

Inside the car, she buckled herself in and folded her hands on her lap. The road stretched endlessly ahead, lined with jacaranda trees shedding their purple flowers on the tarmac. I drove slowly, the engine humming beneath the muted tension.

At one point, I caught Halima glancing at me, her brow furrowed slightly. “It’s nothing serious, I hope?”

I swallowed hard. “Just fatigue,” I lied.

She nodded and turned to the window. The silence that followed was thick, filled with thoughts neither of us dared to voice.

When we reached the gate, Kirui came out to open it. He waved cheerfully, unaware of the storm brewing inside me. I parked the car, cut the engine, and sat there for a long moment before getting out.

Halima reached for the shopping bag in the back seat, but I stopped her. “Leave it,” I said softly. “I’ll carry it later.”

She nodded and walked ahead toward the house. I lingered by the car, gripping the steering wheel with both hands until my knuckles whitened.

Then, quietly, I pulled the hospital envelope from my handbag and slid it into the glove compartment, hiding it under a stack of papers. Out of sight. For now.

I sat on the edge of the bed and pressed my hand against my belly. It was absurd — nothing had even begun to show — and yet the weight of what grew inside me was already crushing.

Was it a punishment? A gift? Or the universe’s cruel joke.

As the evening light faded across the walls, I took a slow breath. I didn’t want my child to grow up without a father. I didn’t want to be a single mother. Tom had ruined my life, and I was furious at him. I called him again, but the response was the same.

Only three days remained before I had to relocate to Nyali. I wasn’t going to move until he showed up and hear that he was about to be a father.