Having to stay in a college hostel had never been a fancy for me, mostly because I loved my freedom and I could easily account for my hygiene compared to having to share conveniences with other students. In 2013, I moved out of the campus hostel to a private hostel, which was about fifteen minutes’ drive from school. There were inconveniences, such as the stress of reaching school via public transportation, impromptu lectures and tests, etc., that I was willing to risk and endure.
The private hostel was a room that was self-contained, one of twenty-four rooms in the compound; hence, there were many neighbors with different personalities and upbringings. This was how and where I met Esther, who was in her early twenties, a bit chubby, of moderate height, chocolate-skinned, had that beautiful set of white teeth whenever she smiled, and was very sociable. She had moved into the same hostel in 2013, though after me. I can remember one occasion when I came home hungry from school, and she was kind enough to dish me a yam flour (amala) meal with spinach stew (efo riro). That was the moment I accepted that the Yoruba tribe here in Nigeria can wound someone with peppery food, as my sweats were hot and thick despite enjoying the sumptuous meal.
The whole hostel's occupants knew Esther and I were quite close, and some even rumored to our hearings that we were in a relationship. It was always a pride I looked forward to when my fellow hostel mates called me "doctor" even though I was an undergraduate in medicine. My friendship with Esther continued even after we both graduated (though from different institutions); however, communication declined, though not enough to cause a strain in how much value we placed on each other.
"James, my period has been delayed. I am scared!" Esther’s voice trembled over the phone much later, in February 2017.
"You need to calm down. I want you to have a serum pregnancy test done at any laboratory close to you". I said, trying to calm her down. I knew she was unmarried, but that moment was not right for scolding or interrogations. Her pregnancy was confirmed by the evening after her visit to the laboratory, and her mood dampened as we spoke over the phone.
"I can’t keep it, James; this will stall my career pursuit." She sobbed.
"You should keep the pregnancy; discuss it with the man responsible; he may have a contrary opinion." I replied in an attempt to pacify her.
"What will people say about bringing a big tummy to school? And the inconvenience of nursing a newborn baby while in school?" she asked after a minute of silence.
"Esther, I do not have the perfect answer to that, but I am certain that when we get to the bridge, we’ll cross it. You have my support any day," I assured further.
"Alright, thank you." She replied in a very low and unconvinced tone before dropping the call.
I kept a tab on her to encourage her. Three weeks later, I had the occasion to travel to Minna, about six hours drive from my place of residence. I ensured to make a stopover at Bida, where she resided with her parents. I was much welcomed by the family, and I got a spare moment to encourage her further. After spending a week at Minna, I returned to Ilorin, where I reside, and during that period, she traveled to Ekiti, where she worked, and met the man responsible for the pregnancy. All these while, I encouraged her like a pillar.
"James, I am coming to Ilorin on Wednesday, and I need you to help me remove this ‘nonsense’ once and for all!" Esther said, over the phone angrily.
This was the moment I practically begged her not to tread that path. The same weekend I arrived in Ilorin, on a Sunday night, about an hour before midnight, my phone rang. It was unusual for me to receive a call from a strange number at that hour.
"Dr. James?" a male voice said from the other end of the phone.
"Yes? Who is this, and how may I help you?" I replied, curious to know who the caller was.
"So, you are the one asking my wife to abort her pregnancy?" The stranger continued.
Immediately I heard this, my infuriation heightened as shock hit me for a moment. I wanted to say a thousand and one things at the same time, but I felt the need to respond calmly.
"Mr. Man, never call me at this hour ever, and if you have any issues with Esther, do not drag me into them." I said this in a calm but firm tone and ended the call.
That was the moment I withdrew from involving myself in the matter. I had just graduated from medical school; however, I had yet to commence my internship training, and I was having first-hand encounters with some of the ethical issues that awaited me in the profession. Esther did not communicate with me either in the following weeks, and I sure resisted the urge to make any calls.
About two months after the phone call incident, I saw Esther’s wedding pictures on Facebook. I was civil enough to send a congratulatory message via the same social media platform without making any fuss or feeling the need for explanations, which she also did not offer. Some weeks after the wedding saga, we got talking, though it was as though we barely knew each other beyond formality. However, she disclosed to me that she was quitting the marriage, and as usual, I did not ask for reasons or details.
Eventually, in November, she gave birth to a baby boy and named him Samuel, which she flaunted on WhatsApp. I sent my congratulatory message to her. I was glad she did not abort the pregnancy. She reminded me the following year of my promise to support her child, which I obliged financially whenever I had the means. Over the years, Esther has proudly shown and boasted of her son as the best thing that happened to her.
