WHAT A WOMAN COSTS

BEFORE SHE DIED

CHAPTER 2

Before my mother started dying, I used to believe our house was the safest place in the world.

Not because it was beautiful.

It wasn’t.

The zinc roof leaked whenever rain fell too hard, and the walls carried long cracks that frightened me at night because they looked like they might suddenly split open while we slept. Our kitchen was small, our mattresses were thin, and sometimes we stretched soup for two extra days because there was no money for another pot.

But my mother was there.

And somehow, that made everything feel enough.

I think people underestimate what a loving woman can do to a home. My mother had a way of making poverty feel temporary, like something that could never truly embarrass us because love lived in the same rooms with it.

When she laughed, the whole house changed.

Even silence felt softer around her.

I used to follow her everywhere like a shadow. If she went to the stream, I went with her. If she cooked, I sat beside the fire fanning smoke away from my face while she told me stories. If she washed clothes outside, I sat on the overturned bucket beside her and talked until she laughed and called me her “small radio.”

“You talk too much,” she would say affectionately.

Then she would still listen to every word.

Sometimes at night, after my father slept, she would pull me closer on the mat and rub my scalp gently while telling me about the kind of woman she wanted me to become.

“Never let anybody make you feel small because you are a girl,” she once whispered.

I remember smiling sleepily against her wrapper. “Not even Papa?”

Her hand paused slightly.

Just slightly.

Then she kissed my forehead.

“Not even your father.”

But my mother said many things she could not protect me from.

Back then, I did not fully understand the tension inside our family. I only knew my father’s relatives visited too often and always left my mother looking exhausted.

Especially his mother.

That woman hated disappointment the way religious people hate sin, and to her, I was disappointment wrapped in skin.

A girl.

Only a girl.

I cannot count how many times I heard that sentence growing up.

“She has to try again.”

“A man needs a son.”

“What kind of home has only one daughter?”

Sometimes they spoke as if I could not hear them.

Other times, they wanted me to hear.

I learned very early that some people look at girls like unfinished children.

Even at eight years old, I noticed how differently boys were treated in our village. Boys were investments. Boys were legacy. Boys carried names into the future.

Girls carried shame if they failed to marry well.

My mother tried to shield me from those things, but pain has a way of leaking through walls no matter how tightly you close the doors.

Especially at night.

That was when I heard the arguments.

Low voices at first.

Then louder.

Then silence.

The dangerous kind.

My father was not always cruel. I think that is what made everything harder to understand later. There were moments he almost felt gentle before life hardened him into somebody I no longer recognized.

He used to carry me on his shoulders when I was younger.

Used to buy roasted groundnuts for me after market days.

Used to smile more.

Then the years kept passing without another child.

And slowly, the softness disappeared from him.

I watched my mother blame herself for it.

That was the saddest part.

Not the insults from relatives.

Not even my father’s distance.

It was watching a woman slowly convince herself she was failing simply because she had given birth to me instead of a boy.

She started drinking strange herbal mixtures brought by different women from church and the village. Some smelled rotten enough to make me gag when she swallowed them.

“Drink water after it,” I would tell her worriedly.

She would smile weakly. “It’s fine.”

It was never fine.

The herbs made her vomit sometimes.

Other times, she stayed in bed holding her stomach quietly while pretending nothing hurt.

I think she was scared.

Scared my father would eventually marry another woman if she could not give him a son.

In the end, she was right.

One afternoon, I came back from school and found an elderly woman praying loudly over my mother’s stomach while pouring olive oil on her head.

“God will open your womb for sons,” she shouted dramatically.

I stood near the door watching my mother cry silently through the prayers.

That image stayed with me for years.

Not because of the prayer itself.

But because I realized something terrible that day:

Adults could be humiliated too.

Until then, I thought shame belonged mostly to children.

I did not know grown women could also shrink themselves just to remain loved.

Months later, my mother became pregnant.

Everybody celebrated.

Everybody except me.

The house suddenly filled with joy so loud it almost felt suspicious. My father’s relatives began visiting with gifts and prayers. My grandmother slaughtered a chicken the day they confirmed the pregnancy.

“A son is coming,” she announced proudly.

Like she had spoken directly to God.

For the first few weeks, my mother smiled more too. She looked relieved. Hopeful.

I tried to feel happy for her.

I truly did.

But something inside me remained uneasy.

Maybe because her happiness looked fragile.

Like glass.

Then the sickness started.

At first, it seemed normal.

Vomiting.

Dizziness.

Weakness.

Women in the village said pregnancy was difficult sometimes.

But this was different.

I could see it even as a child.

My mother started becoming smaller.

Not physically at first.

Spiritually.

The woman who once moved around the house singing while she cooked now sat quietly for long periods staring into nothing. Some mornings she could barely stand without holding the wall for support.

I started doing more chores because she became too weak.

Fetching water.

Cooking.

Sweeping.

Washing clothes.

I did not mind.

I only wanted her to get better.

But she never did.

Around the fifth month, I woke one night to the sound of her crying softly.

Not loud crying.

Not dramatic.

Just exhausted crying.

The kind people do when they no longer have energy to pretend they are strong.

I sat up immediately.

“Mama?”

She quickly wiped her face. “Go back to sleep.”

I crawled beside her instead.

Her skin felt hot.

Too hot.

“You should go to hospital,” I whispered.

“We don’t have hospital money.”

The way she said it terrified me because it sounded so final.

I pressed myself against her side carefully. “You’ll be okay.”

She looked at me for a very long time after that.

Sometimes I wonder if she already knew she was dying.

Maybe mothers feel those things.

Maybe her body had already started saying goodbye before anybody else realized it.

“You’re a good girl, Hadiza,” she whispered suddenly.

I frowned. “Why are you talking like that?”

She smiled faintly.

“I just want you to remember.”

I hated conversations like that.

They made fear move around inside my chest in ways I could not explain.

As the months passed, my father became strangely impatient with her illness. He still provided what little money he could, but emotionally, he was already drifting away from us.

Especially from me.

Sometimes I caught him staring at my mother’s stomach with frustration instead of concern.

As if he blamed her for suffering incorrectly.

People visited constantly during that pregnancy.

Church women.

Relatives.

Neighbors.

Everybody came with advice.

Drink this.

Pray harder.

Eat this herb.

Sleep like this.

Push faith into your womb.

Nobody seemed to notice she was disappearing in front of them.

Or maybe they noticed and simply decided the baby mattered more.

One evening, I helped her bathe because she was too weak to stand alone properly.

That was the first time I truly became afraid.

Her ribs were showing.

Her shoulders looked sharp beneath her skin.

And her eyes…

God.

Her eyes looked tired in a way I had never seen before.

Not sleepy.

Not weak.

Tired of fighting.

“Mama…” My voice shook.

She touched my cheek gently before I could continue.

“You must always protect your heart,” she murmured.

I did not understand what she meant then.

I thought she was talking about men.

Or love.

I did not know she was warning me about survival itself.

Toward the final months, even breathing seemed difficult for her. Some nights she sat outside because lying down made her uncomfortable.

I started staying awake listening to her breathe.

Just breathe.

As if my attention alone could somehow keep her alive.

The strange thing about watching someone slowly die is that your mind refuses to call it death while it’s happening.

You keep believing tomorrow will improve things.

Tomorrow becomes next week.

Next week becomes another month.

Until one day you realize hope has quietly turned into waiting.

And waiting has turned into fear.

The night before she went into labor, rain fell heavily against the roof.

I remember because she called me closer while thunder shook the house.

I laid beside her carefully while she stroked my hair.

“If anything happens—”

“Nothing will happen,” I interrupted immediately.

She went silent.

Then she smiled sadly.

“You’re still my brave girl.”

I buried my face against her chest because I suddenly wanted to cry for reasons I could not explain.

Her heartbeat sounded weak.

Like something struggling.

I held her tighter that night.

As if some part of me already knew I was trying to hold onto her for the last time.