CHAPTER TWO:A NAME WITHOUT JOY
954 Words
The morning sun filtered weakly through the torn curtain, casting dull light across the small room. It was quiet too quiet for a home with a newborn.
Adaeze lay on a thin wrapper spread over the mattress, her tiny chest rising and falling gently. Her cries from the night before had finally given way to sleep, but the peace felt temporary, like everything else in that house.
Chioma sat at the edge of the bed, staring at the child.
Her child.
The words still felt unfamiliar in her mind, like a title she had not earned and did not want.
Outside, life continued as though nothing had changed. Women laughed on their way to the market. A radio played somewhere in the compound. A child called out to another in carefree excitement.
Inside, there was only tension.
Her mother entered quietly, tying her wrapper tighter around her waist.
“You need to start thinking about a name,” she said, her voice calm but firm. “People will begin to ask questions.”
Chioma didn’t respond immediately. Her eyes remained fixed on the baby, but there was no warmth in them only distance.
“A name?” she finally said, almost bitterly. “For what?”
Her mother sighed. “For your child, Chioma.”
The word hung in the air.
Child.
It sounded heavier than it should.
“They’re already talking,” her mother continued, lowering her voice. “At the well. In the market. Even in church. You cannot hide forever.”
Chioma let out a dry laugh, one without humor.
“As if naming her will stop their mouths.”
“No,” her mother replied gently, “but it will show that you have accepted what has happened.”
That word again.
Accepted.
Chioma stood up abruptly and walked to the window. The wood creaked under her touch as she pushed it open slightly, letting in more lightand more noise.
“I didn’t plan this,” she said quietly, her back still turned. “I didn’t plan any of this.”
Her mother said nothing.
Because there was nothing to say.
After a long silence, the baby stirred. A soft whimper escaped her lips, growing into a small cry.
Chioma’s shoulders tensed.
That sound again.
Demanding.
Unavoidable.
Her mother moved quickly, picking up the baby with practiced ease. She rocked her gently, whispering soothing words.
“It’s okay… it’s okay…”
The baby’s cries softened almost immediately.
Chioma watched, something unreadable passing through her expression.
“You see?” her mother said softly. “She just needs love.”
Chioma looked away.
Later that afternoon, a few neighbors stopped by.
They came with forced smiles and curious eyes, pretending their visit was out of goodwill rather than gossip.
“Ah, Chioma, congratulations,” one woman said, leaning over to look at the baby. “She is beautiful.”
Chioma forced a nod.
“What is her name?”
The question came too quickly.
Too directly.
Chioma hesitated.
Her mother stepped in.
“Adaeze,” she said proudly. “Her name is Adaeze.”
The women exchanged glances.
“Adaeze?” one repeated. “First daughter of a king?”
There was something in her tone something between surprise and mockery.
Chioma felt it.
Her jaw tightened.
“Yes,” her mother said firmly. “That is her name.”
The women nodded, but their eyes said more than their words.
Chioma didn’t miss it.
That look.
That silent judgment.
When they finally left, the room felt heavier than before.
“Adaeze,” Chioma muttered under her breath, as if testing the name.
It didn’t feel right.
It felt… ironic.
Cruel, even.
“There is no king,” she said quietly.
Her mother looked at her. “There doesn’t have to be. Sometimes, we name children for what we hope they become not where they come from.”
But Chioma shook her head.
“All I see…”she paused, her voice tightening, “…is everything I lost.”
The baby stirred again, her tiny hand stretching into the air as though reaching for something unseen.
Chioma noticed.
For a brief second, something flickered in her eyes something softer, almost human.
But it disappeared just as quickly.
The baby began to cry.
And just like that, the moment was gone.
“Why does she cry so much?” Chioma snapped, frustration rising instantly.
“She’s a baby,” her mother replied gently. “That’s how they communicate.”
“Well, I don’t understand it,” Chioma said sharply.
Her mother handed the baby to her.
“Then learn.”
Chioma hesitated before taking her.
The baby felt warm.
Fragile.
Too real.
Adaeze’s cries softened slightly as she was held, her tiny fingers curling weakly against Chioma’s wrapper.
For a moment, there was silence.
A strange, unfamiliar silence.
Chioma looked down at her.
Their eyes met.
And for the first time, Adaeze stopped crying completely.
The room held its breath.
But instead of comfort, Chioma felt something else.
Pressure.
Fear.
Responsibility.
She quickly handed the baby back.
“I can’t,” she said, stepping away.
Her mother didn’t argue this time.
She simply held the child closer.
That evening, as darkness settled over the compound, the whispers returned faint but persistent, carried through thin walls and open windows.
Chioma lay on her bed, staring into the darkness.
Adaeze slept nearby, unaware of the world she had entered.
“Adaeze,” Chioma whispered again.
The name still didn’t sit right.
It felt like a story that didn’t belong to them.
A title too grand for a life already marked by struggle.
She turned to face the wall.
And once again, she chose distance.
- Writer
