The Prayer for a Child
721 Words
After Kelvin called me barren, everything between us changed.
He was respected in church — a worker, a “brother,” a man people trusted without question. In the eyes of others, Kelvin could do no wrong. If he spoke, people listened as though heaven itself had approved his words.
Soon, our mornings became filled with prayers.
He opened his Bible daily and read passages about women waiting for children. He spoke about patience, faith, and “fruitful wombs.” Before leaving for work, he would place his hand on my stomach and pray loudly over me.
And afterward, I would cry.
Sometimes I sat alone on the bathroom floor after he left the house, asking myself the same painful question:
What had I done to deserve this?
We had been married for only two months.
Two months.
I was nineteen years old, yet somehow I was already being treated like a woman who had failed at marriage.
Then came Christmas.
We traveled to the village to celebrate with his extended family. I never got the chance to meet Kelvin’s parents because they had both passed away before our marriage, but all his brothers and sisters gathered in the family house during the holidays.
As the newest and youngest wife, tradition expected me to handle most of the cooking and household chores.
So I worked.
Every morning, I woke before dawn to fetch water from the stream. I pounded yam until my arms ached, washed piles of clothes until my palms burned, swept the compound, served food, and cleared plates long after everyone else had finished eating.
I smiled whenever his sisters called me “our wife.”
No one asked whether I was exhausted.
A new wife was not supposed to complain.
Eventually, my body began to give in.
I became feverish and weak. My hands trembled constantly, and standing for too long made the world spin around me.
One afternoon, I quietly approached Kelvin.
“I’m not feeling well,” I whispered.
He barely looked at me before replying.
“You’re pretending.”
Later that evening, I overheard him speaking to my mother on the phone.
“Your daughter is not behaving well,” he complained. “She’s lazy. Please talk to her.”
When my mother called me afterward, she did not ask if I was truly sick.
Instead, she said softly, “Lilian, please do what your husband says. Don’t disgrace me.”
That night, I felt more alone than I ever had before.
Then something unexpected happened.
Kelvin’s elder brother arrived from the United States for the Christmas celebration. Unlike everyone else, he observed quietly before speaking. He noticed my condition immediately.
He walked over, placed the back of his hand gently against my forehead, and frowned.
“You’re burning up,” he said.
Without making a scene, he went to his bag, brought out some medication, mixed it with water, and handed it to me carefully.
“Drink this,” he told me quietly. “And rest. Don’t mention it to anyone.”
I obeyed.
That night, I slept peacefully for the first time in days.
Slowly, my strength began returning.
But after Christmas ended and we returned to the city, the sickness returned too.
This time, it was worse.
My chest ached constantly. My vision blurred without warning. One morning, while sweeping the sitting room, the broom slipped from my hand.
Then everything went black.
When I opened my eyes again, I was staring at white hospital walls. The sharp smell of antiseptic filled the room, and an IV drip rested in my arm.
Kelvin stood beside the bed with folded arms and a tense expression.
A doctor entered holding a file.
He glanced at me, then at Kelvin, before smiling warmly.
“Congratulations, Mrs. Kelvin,” he said. “You’re pregnant.”
The room fell silent.
Pregnant.
The word crashed through the air like thunder.
Kelvin stared at me in shock.
The same man who had called me barren.
The same man who had prayed over me like I was broken.
The same man who accused me of pretending to be sick.
He was going to become a father.
Slowly, I placed my hand against my stomach.
And for the first time since my marriage began, I felt something stronger than fear.
Hope.
- Writer
