WALKING ON WATERS CHAPTER 14

                        CHAPTER 14.

It's goo... Is it really? Is it really good to be back here?The question pulsed through my mind as I crossed the threshold, my feet feeling heavier with each step into this room—the very room where my world had shaken, split apart.

Each step made my heart beat faster ,thrumming, like it was counting down to something I couldn't quite name. I tried to steady myself, but even the air felt too thick, pressing down with the weight of everything this room had held. The courage it takes to stand here overwhelms me.The room stretched out before me—familiar, yet strangely altered.

Trying to steady the turmoil rising within, I glanced around the room, my gaze settling on our bed—it felt foreign, almost staged. The sheets were different now—a rich, silky terracotta, too vibrant for the hollowed feeling in my chest. Its sheen almost mocked me, clean and bright, as though unaware of everything it now covered.

The color felt like a betrayal—a warm tone in a room now chilled by absence. It was nothing like the sky-blue dandelion-printed sheet I had carefully laid down the last time I was here.

I felt a small, sad smile tug at the corner of my lips, the contrast cutting deep. The last time I’d stood here, I had a quiet life growing inside me—a heartbeat that somehow softened even Yele's dark, distant moods, adding warmth where there had only been shadows. But now…now that fragile spark was gone, leaving only the cold edges of absence pressing in on every side.

The longer I looked at that bedsheet, the more irritation bubbled up—it was so wrong for this moment, for this phase of life. It felt out of place, almost disorderly, like it should be something else... maybe something like the dark, navy-patterned adire bubu I wore.

My gaze fell to the adire bubu I’d slipped on without a second thought—the only fitting choice Yele had managed to bring among his rushed, mismatched options. I glanced over at him, busy unpacking the others from the duffel bag. The bubu, in dark navy patterns, wrapped around me like a quiet comfort, as if it understood. If only the rest of this room could match—could somehow fully reflect all that had been lost .

“Babe,” Yele’s voice broke through the stillness, hesitant yet firm. I turned my head slightly, just enough to let him know I heard.

“You’ve been standing since we came in. Why don’t you sit down?” he asked, his steps measured, closing the gap between us.

Before he reached me, my feet moved on their own, carrying me toward the armchair. The cushion sank under my weight as I sat, my gaze fixed on a spot far away. His halted footsteps lingered in the air behind me, but I didn’t look back. The space between us stretched, silent and heavy, as if the room itself conspired to keep it that way.

This moment feels like standing in the middle of a storm, unsure which way the wind will blow. My thoughts spin like leaves caught in a whirlwind, scattering every time I try to grasp them. One thing anchors me, though—the sharp, unyielding truth that I no longer carry a child within me.

And Yele... his behavior feels like rain falling after the storm has already passed. He didn’t want the baby—didn’t want us. He was ready to flee, leaving me and our unborn child behind. But now that the baby is gone, as if it left just to make “Daddy” stay, he’s acting like he cares. Hypocritical, isn’t it? Like a cracked mask hastily patched together.

I watched him fumble with the clothes we’d brought back from the clinic, his hands fussing over the clothes we’d brought back from the clinic. His hands trembled slightly as he folded and refolded a blouse, then smoothed it out on the couch closed to the wardrobe, avoiding words like they were landmines. Each movement he made seemed exaggerated, a pantomime of care, yet his shoulders sagged under an invisible weight. The silence between us stretched longer than it ever had before—a chasm too wide to cross, too heavy to fill. Was this guilt? Or had he somehow caught wind that I knew about his hideous plan to abandon me for America?

The air between us crackled with unspoken words, yet neither of us dared to speak. The longer the silence stretched, the clearer it became that we were no longer standing on the same ground.

A sudden ring sliced through the suffocating silence, sharp and intrusive, like a knife tearing through fabric. Yele’s head jerked toward me, his brows furrowing for a moment as if expecting me to react. I didn’t. Why would I? It wasn’t my phone.

The sound persisted, louder now, insistent. I watched him as he shifted, reaching into his back pocket and pulling out his phone with a practiced motion. His fingers fumbled slightly as he stared at the screen, his expression unreadable, leaving me to wonder what—or who—had broken through this moment.

Yele's voice broke through the quiet as he answered his phone, his tone subdued. “Hello, Ma,” he said, shifting slightly as his gaze flickered toward me.

There was a pause, then, “Yes, we’ve gotten home.” A dry smile tugged at the corner of his lips, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. That must be my mother calling, I mused, my insides tightening with a familiar frustration.

“She’s fine, ma," he added, his gaze landing on me again, as though for confirmation.

Of course, it’s her, I concluded, my irritation bubbling beneath the surface. The woman too dey do sometimes. This whole unfortunate incident has given her the perfect stage to showcase her overprotective nature.

And then, as if fate had a sense of humor, Big Mummy—of all people—chose now to visit Lagos. Not only that, she decided to stay with Bodisere just as everything crumbled. No thanks to her untimely appearance, chaos had a new conductor. If it weren’t for her presence, there was no way my mum would have caught wind of what had happened.

Yele’s brows furrowed as he glanced at his phone. “Oops, I missed his calls. I’ll go get it right away,” he murmured.

Ending the call with a brief “Yes, ma,” he turned toward the center of the room, his movements hesitant, almost unsure.

“That was your mum,” he said, his voice careful.

“Figures,” I replied, the word brittle, like the silence that had pressed between us all day.

“She sent over some soup through a dispatch rider,” he continued, his tone lighter, as if trying to dissolve the tension. “I missed his calls, so I need to go downstairs and grab it.” He lingered by the door, glancing back at me, perhaps looking for some acknowledgment, maybe even permission.

I gave him a short, mechanical nod, enough to hasten his exit. The moment he stepped out, the weight of the silence between us left with him. It wasn’t relief—not really. The grip on my chest remained, tethered to the life I’d carried and lost. But his absence brought a faint reprieve, the suffocating quiet replaced by a solitude I could bear.

Seeing the door click shut behind him, something inside me stirred—restless and desperate. I rushed to the door, my steps frantic, and slid the bolt into place with trembling fingers. The metallic clink echoed, sharp and final. He wasn’t coming back in—not now. I needed this space, this moment, all to myself. I pressed my forehead against the cool wood, letting the stillness settle over me.

I turned and paused in the center of the room, my chest rising and falling. My eyes landed on the bed, and there it was again—that bedsheet. Its bold terracotta tone taunted me, its vibrant sheen too loud for the silence that hung in the air. My brows knit together, and before I knew it, I was lunging at the bed, fists clawing at the fabric.

The first tug sent pillows crashing to the floor. A vase wobbled, then toppled, its sharp shatter slicing through the quiet. I didn’t stop. My hands gripped the edges of the sheet, yanking, pulling, stripping until the bed was bare. A photo frame fell from the bedside table, its glass splintering across the floor. I pulled, tugged, ripped until the bed was stripped bare, the sheets lying crumpled and defeated at my feet

I stood there, chest heaving, staring at the naked mattress. Its emptiness reflected my own. My knees buckled, and I crumpled onto it, the coarse surface scratching against my skin. I closed my eyes, shutting out the broken pieces around me and listening only to the sound of my ragged breathing.

My eyelids twitched and fluttered, opening against my will. I shut them tightly, forcing the darkness to stay, but they betrayed me again, parting stubbornly as if drawn to the void around me.A tired sigh escaped my lips. Testing if this was some cruel trick my body had decided to play, I gave up and pushed myself upright, the motion sluggish and unsteady.

Frustrated, I shifted on the bed. One leg folded beneath me while the other bent to the side, the pressure grounding me. My hand pressed into the bared mattress as I settled into the stillness, the emptiness of the room weighing heavy.

“What? What do you want?” The words slipped out, low and strained, breaking the silence as I stared into the void. No one answered, of course. The quietness hung around me, heavy and unmoving. It felt like the question wasn’t for anyone but my own restless eyelids, fluttering defiantly open despite my will.

The silence that followed was deafening—no reply, no sound, just the weight of my own voice lingering in the emptiness.

Looking around the bed, the chaos I had unleashed stared back at me—the shattered vase, the splintered photo frame, and the terracotta bed sheet crumpled in a heap of defeat. My chest tightened as my gaze lingered on the sheet, its once-silky sheen now dulled by my wrath. A strange tingle of shame curled through me, seeping into every corner of my being. The fabric didn’t deserve my fury; it was innocent—too bold for my grief, perhaps, but innocent nonetheless. 

My fingers twitched at the thought of reaching for the sheet, of smoothing its creases, of dusting away the evidence of my anger. But my hands stayed at my sides, heavy, unmoving. I just kept staring at it,as if we were bound by the same fate: the sheet and I, both crouching under the weight of shame.

It had shone too brightly in my darkness, defying my pain, and I had dared to get pregnant, defying my husband’s careful plans. Maybe this was punishment. Maybe God had taken the child as a lesson in submission. The thought pressed on my chest, heavy and relentless. A sinner punished had no right to stand tall. Shame, I thought, was meant to fold us, to bend us low.

My head dropped, the weight of it all pulling me down.

A sharp beep pierced the stillness. My head tilted, eyes darting briefly across the room as my hand brushed the fabric of my bubu. There it was—warm, square, and slightly heavy against my thigh. My fingers slipped into the pocket, drawing it out. Its faint glow lit the space between my hands, pulsing softly like a restless heartbeat. With a swipe, the screen awakened, numbers glaring back at me, precise and unyielding, as if counting down to something I couldn’t name.

4:00 P.M. glared back at me, the numbers bold and unrelenting on the screen. I blinked, trying to process it—had I really slept that long? A heavy sigh escaped me. My body must have forced its own retreat, shutting down from the weight of this space, this moment, this chaos I hadn’t been ready to face.

My phone buzzed again, and the notifications piled up like a mountain I didn’t want to climb. Missed calls, messages from days ago, all ignored since the day everything turned black. I scrolled through them, the names familiar yet distant

Missed calls from Yele, hours ago, their timestamps staring at me. He must have called after finding the door locked.He must have stood at that door, knocking, calling, but I’d left it locked, and my phone had been silenced. 

The screen flickered again, and I noticed my mother’s name, over and over, each missed call a silent plea.

For the first time, my chest tightened—not with anger, but with something raw, something painful. I reached for the phone, my fingers lingering over the screen before I swiped through the notifications. The truth hit me like a wave: I had pushed her away. My mother, always there, always worried, had just wanted to care. And I had rejected her.

I’d seen her care as smothering before, her protective nature too much to handle.She had just been there, trying to ease my pain.  

Memories clawed at my chest, unrelenting. I saw her rushing into the ward, arms outstretched, pulling me close even as I squirmed, muttering a weak, “I’m fine,” that didn’t fool her. She clung to me anyway, her warmth defying my protests. Her voice, soft but firm, echoed in my mind—pleading to stay overnight, to sit by my side as though her presence could mend the pieces I couldn’t even touch.

I remembered how her eyes dimmed when I rejected her offer to come home with me, the weight of her silence louder than any argument she could have made. The way her shoulders sagged before she turned away, leaving me to my solitude. It all replayed, vivid and sharp, the sting of it burrowing deep, dragging my breath with it.

The truth hit me again like a wave: I had pushed her away. My mother, ever-present and endlessly concerned, had only wanted to care for me, but I had pushed her away.

My heart tightened with a weight I hadn’t expected. I’m jealous of my mother. The thought twisted inside me, sour and sharp. She had the chance to care for me, to comfort me, to show me love in a way I could never return. And the baby—the one I’d lost—would never know that care. 

The privilege my mother had to pour her love and care into me was a gift I would never share with my own baby. A sob slipped through before I could stop it, and I pressed my hand tightly over my mouth, as if that could silence the ache tearing through me.

I couldn’t even give it the love it needed, not truly. My stomach churned. If only I had taken better care of myself—if I had eaten, kept up with the appointments, if I hadn’t let Yele’s indifference cloud everything... If only whispered through my mind, a suffocating loop of guilt. The 'if onlys' cut deeper than the loss itself. This time, I didn’t hold back. The tears came, unbidden and unstoppable, carving warm, silent trails down my cheeks. For the first time, I let them flow.

                     YELE POV

I had paced this floor more times than I could count today—fear, frustration, and even a strange sense of relief all tangled together. 

Each time I crossed the room, my gaze flicked toward the door, still shut. My hand hovered over the handle, the cold metal feeling like a barrier to my thoughts. I hadn’t expected this—Yadah locking me out, leaving me on the other side. All I had done was go downstairs to fetch the soup from the delivery guy, the simple task now tainted by the silence that followed.

And I had knocked and knocked again, the sound sharp against the quiet air. My knuckles burned, the force of the blows making them throb. "Yadah?" I had called, my voice sounding weak in the emptiness. Nothing.

My chest had gone into a tightened mode, the air thick with a fear I couldn’t shake. I leaned against the door, eyes closed, imagining the worst. What if something had happened? What if she was hurt?

I couldn’t stay still. My feet moved on their own, restless, anxious. I turned, pacing once more, back and forth. The minutes stretched into hours, the silence a weight pressing on my mind. I sank down in front of the door, my back against the wood, hands clasped tightly in my lap. My eyes never left the door, waiting, hoping for any sign that she was still on the other side. But it never came.

Not till around 4pm ,did I hear a faint, broken sound slip through the door, so soft at first I thought I imagined it. Then it came again, sharper this time—a sob. My breath hitched, and I froze, listening as the muffled cries grew heavier, cutting through the silence like a blade. Relief coursed through me—she was alive, here. But the sound of her tears stirred something deeper: worry, helplessness.

I knocked gently, my knuckles brushing the wood. “Yadah?” My voice trembled. No response. Just the sound of her sobbing.

“Please, open the door,” I said, my fist tapping again, a little harder this time. Silence. My phone buzzed in my pocket, and I fumbled it out, hope fluttering briefly. The screen lit up: “I’m okay.”

My brow furrowed, and I stared at the message. Okay? That word wasn’t enough—it couldn’t be. Pressing my palm flat against the door, I leaned closer. “If you’re okay,” I called, my voice louder now, “then let me in. Please. Just let me in so I know.”

The sobs stopped abruptly. I stood there, the silence ringing in my ears, my hand hovering near the door. My phone buzzed again, and I glanced down at the screen: “Yele, just leave me. I want to sleep.”

Her words struck like a cold wind. My hand fell to my side, heavy, as I stared at the door. She needed space, her own world beyond the barrier. I stood there a moment longer, my chest tight, before finally taking a step back, leaving the door between us.

Once again, I found myself standing before the closed door, a tray of food balanced in my hands. The aroma of the steaming soup rose faintly, mingling with the heavy air around me. She hadn’t eaten all day—not even a bite—and her medication was untouched.

I shifted my weight, the tray tilting slightly. My knuckles brushed against the wood, hesitant at first. Then, with a deep breath, I knocked—soft, deliberate, each tap carrying an unspoken plea.

Please, Yadah. Just this once.

The silence behind the door pressed against me, thick and unyielding. My hand lingered against the door, my other gripping the tray tighter, as if holding onto it could anchor my spiraling thoughts. My lips moved in a quiet prayer, the words spilling out silently.

Lord, let her open. Let her hear me.

I knocked again, this time firmer, the sound echoing in the stillness. My chest tightened as I waited, straining to catch any sign of movement from the other side.

"Yadah, please, open the door," I called out, my voice trembling with a mix of urgency and frustration. The silence behind the door clawed at my resolve, and I found myself pushing further, the words tumbling out before I could catch them. "If you don’t open, I’ll call your mum... I’ll—" I paused, swallowing the lump in my throat, my grip tightening on the tray. "I’ll break this door down," I finished, my tone harsher than intended.

As the threat hung in the air, shame crept over me like a suffocating fog. I shifted on my feet, the weight of my own words pressing down on me. What are you doing, Yele?

I exhaled sharply, leaning my forehead against the door, the cool surface grounding me for a moment. The bitterness of my actions gnawed at the edges of my resolve, but beneath it all was the aching desperation to reach her, to see her, to know she was okay.

I was met with silence—thick, unyielding, and maddening.

I raised my hand again, this time softer, the knock more of a plea than a demand. My voice followed, low and earnest. "I’m sorry, Yadah. I won’t call anyone, I won’t break the door... just please, open up."

My words lingered in the stillness, swallowed whole by the quiet that stretched on, mocking my desperation. I pressed my palm against the door, leaning into it, as if the closeness might bridge the chasm her silence had created. But nothing came. No movement. No sound. Just the deafening weight of her refusal.

Almost giving up, I let out a weary sigh and lowered myself to the floor again, my back resting against the cold, unyielding door. As I sank down, the soft, deliberate click of the lock startled me. My head snapped up just as the door creaked open, revealing her.

There she stood, her frame frail, her eyes puffy and rimmed with redness, evidence of the storm she’d weathered inside. But she wouldn’t meet my gaze. Her eyes flitted everywhere else—behind my shoulder, at the floor, anywhere but at me.

Her voice, quiet but sharp, broke the silence. “What? What do you want?”

Lost for words, I stood, pushing the tray toward her as I rose to my feet.

"Food," I said softly, my voice almost breaking. "I brought you food."

"I’m not hungry," she replied, her tone firm, her eyes still skirting mine.

"You have to eat, babe. Please, you just have to eat," I pleaded, my words trembling in the air.

"And I said I’m not hungry," she shot back, her voice climbing into a sharpness I’d never heard before—a tone that sliced through me and left me momentarily frozen.

"Okay... if you say so," I murmured, stepping back, cowed by the weight of her frustration. "Just... let me leave it in the room. When you feel hungry, you’ll have something to eat."

I nudged the tray closer, my hands unsteady, hoping against hope she wouldn’t push me away again.

The smirk she let out stopped me cold, confusion twisting through me like a sudden gust. She bit her lower lips as she folded her arms, leaning slightly on the doorframe.

"Yele," she said, her voice even but sharp, "you're not stepping a foot into that room."

I froze, her words catching me off guard. My gaze flicked from her face to the door behind her. "What are you talking about?" I asked, keeping my tone steady.

She tilted her head slightly, her stare unwavering. "I don’t think you should be in there alone," I added, my voice faltering under the weight of the tension.

A bitter laugh escaped her lips, quick and cutting. "You really have the guts to say that, don’t you?"

Her words struck, but before I could respond, she stepped closer, her eyes glinting with a mixture of pain and anger. "You disappeared from that room for weeks, Yele. Weeks." Her voice cracked but stayed steady. "And now, now that the baby is gone, you want to come back? Just like that?"

I blinked, the weight of her words sinking in, but she wasn’t done.

"If you want to stay in this room, it means I’ll move to the guest room. The same way you did."

She paused, her face hardening with pain. "But I won’t even be that generous, because I need this space. In this room, my child was formed. And in this same room, my child’s life ended.

She paused, her throat bobbing as she swallowed hard. "You didn’t want this baby from the start. And now? Now you think you get to share in its loss?"

Her hands came together, almost trembling as she pressed them to her chest. "Please, Yele. Just let me mourn in peace. Let me have this."

She turned away, but not before glancing back over her shoulder, her voice quieter but colder. "And one more thing. You’re still free to leave for America. Don’t stay because of this. Go if you want."

The door clicked shut with a finality that sent me reeling.

I stared at the closed door, my legs heavy as I sank to the floor. The tray wobbled in my trembling hands before I placed it beside me. The heat of her words lingered in the air, stinging like open wounds.

Sweat prickled at my forehead, but I barely noticed as I pressed my back against the door. My heart thudded dully in my chest, the weight of her final words sinking in like stones in water. My hands went limp, resting on my knees as my breath came in shallow gasps. Silence enveloped me, save for the echo of her voice ricocheting through my mind.