Beneath the Gowns

Episode 6: I still remembered the moment the Ghanaian house help left. From that day on, I was all alone, left to care for myself and do all the cleaning. Aunty, as always went to her workplace, and her husband followed his daily routine too. A few weeks later, I gave birth at home to a baby girl. It was a quiet Saturday morning, around 8:20am. Aunty had already left for work, but her husband was around, and he had called their doctor. When the baby arrived, he rushed to a boutique and returned with beautiful gowns for me, his way of showing care in the middle of my pain and vulnerability. But that tiny moment of kindness turned into a storm. When Aunty returned that evening, fury lit her face. She raged at her husband, accusing him bitterly, "Why would you buy her anything?" That same evening, around 6pm, visitors began arriving at their home to welcome the new baby. But no one really acknowledged me, the girl who had just given birth. The very next day, they moved me to an hotel. I was told I’d stay there for a month. My heart ached as they took the baby away. I wasn’t even allowed to hold her. Not once. Not on the day she was named. Not when she cried. Not when my arms ached to cradle her. They left me with an old woman who do not understand English Language. I was silenced again emotionally, mentally and now, even linguistically. I couldn't share my thoughts, my fears, or my pain. They named the baby Miracle without me. A day after the naming ceremony, they visited me at the hotel and brought fruits. That was when I mustered the courage to ask for the baby's name. When they said Miracle, I gently suggested she would be called Pamilerin “Laughter.” That single word exploded Aunty’s rage. "How dare you give her a name!" she shouted. From that moment, I was banned from moving close the child, "my own child". I wasn’t even allowed to breastfeed her. By the second week now, Aunty began suggesting that I return to the village for schooling. She promised to pay the fees, but her husband disagreed. While I spent a month in that cold, quiet hotel, Aunty visited once. No one else not even my own mother checked on me. Except for her husband that came after promising that I’d return to school. And eventually, I did go back to their home. But things didn’t change. I still wasn’t allowed to touch my daughter. Not even once. Yet I was the one doing all the chores, washing her clothes, cleaning, cooking, taking care of her from a distance like some invisible maid. They called her Miracle, but I lived with a broken heart. When she turned one, they enrolled me in a center to take the WAEC and JAMB exams. I passed, but not well enough to get into a university so I was accepted into a polytechnic instead. They paid for my hostel and school fees. On the outside, I looked like a regular student. People would never have guessed I was a mother… who hadn’t even held her child. Then, one afternoon, as I returned from school and stepped into my room, Aunty’s husband walked in and asked a question that froze my blood, "Would you be willing to become a surrogate mother?" To be continued…