Editor’s Note: In partnership with The 2023 Abebi Award in Afro-Nonfiction, Isele Magazine publishes the winner, the runner-up, and the notable essays selected by the curators of the award. Janobest Isaac’s “I Bind and Cast” is a notable entry. 

Award Founder’s Note: “I Bind and Cast” is a strikingly authentic portrayal of a young woman navigating the throes of reproductive responsibility, alongside deeply seated motherwounds that threaten to define her. In this essay, we see a woman grapple with the reality of bodily autonomy and ultimately choose herself and her right to do as she sees with herself, aided by the divinity of sisterhood. I Bind and Cast was chosen for its realness, for all the ways it never tries to be anything other than itself. 

I tried to remember how many lines meant pregnancy. 

I wracked my brain watching in horror as the two, thick red lines boldly emerged onto the white and green strip. As my heart rate struggled to resume normalcy, laughter escaped from my lips. It wasn’t the laughter I was familiar with; the one that rose from my chest when it sniffed out joy, filling my entire body with a lightness that made breathing easier. This strange sound my mouth made was its caricature, an amusement brought on by the ordinariness my life had become. I had heard about other people, other girls who it happened to, and while I never judged, there was a type of confidence that insulated me from ever even imagining myself in a similar situation. A confidence in my ability to never end up with a story that could be told in less than five sentences.

Janobest don go carry belle 

I witnessed my worst nightmare quickly dramatize in the same place I had habitually sat still for release, fondling my joint and waiting for inspiration which never came. Because what on earth was inspiring about the sight of dull green paint peeling from the bathroom walls, unveiling mold which climbed higher and higher each month? It was one of the reasons I was laughing, albeit joylessly.

Mother was the best at joyless laughter – laughter that stood alone, not caring to contaminate others. Her laughter was as tall as the heavens, and it would look down at you from where it stood, derisively pointing out all the flaws you didn’t scrub away in the bath (Never minding that you tried). The laughter took the shape of a whip most times, but I was fine with it, mother never beat me otherwise.

I was surprised at my accurate imitation of Mother’s laughter, and I made a mental note to find out when and where I had practiced it. For the time being, I battled with the unseen force trying to push me further down memory lane and as it overpowered me, I negotiated with it: Let me handle this news first and then later tonight, I’ll leave space for you on my pillow. I’m not sure what that accomplished because as I held the test strip with a hand that shivered like its motor was on overdrive, I could hear Mother’s words loudly and clearly:

You think you’re doing me? You’re doing yourself

*

I frantically surveyed E’s bathroom, hoping to find something so out of place that will confirm this to be nothing more than an unpleasant dream. The broken toilet lid standing haphazardly on the toilet bowl grinned at my confused expression. What are you looking for? Everything is out of place, nothing is out of place.

I aimed for the mirror hanging above the sink and hopped away from the uncovered water closet, my legs still loosely bundled by my black jeans and grey panties, somehow I had forgotten there was an option to pull it up. I was more interested in the reflection staring back at me in the mirror. My chocolate-brown complexion looked darker, it always did in here – there was only natural light in the bathroom, crawling in from the window where our panties and sponges hung. I canceled out the poor lighting from my mind, erasing the dust and dried out soap suds on the mirror alongside it.  

For some reason, I wanted to study this stranger in front of me.

My braids sat upright in a neat bun. I always arranged them at the center of my head so my features could take the limelight. I had a beautiful face, they all told me that. They, excluding Mother. Mother did not think me beautiful. Actually, Mother called me ugly once, that one time I came home late because of the rain. Mother didn’t care for any of my reasons; she checked for the time on the wall clock which tick-tocked loudly, and then returned her gaze to me. Her verdict was simple: 

I had a boyfriend. 

There is no boy, I told her, my cheeks flushed, tears trickling down my face and mixing with snot.

“You think you’re fine? (Joyless laughter) Have you looked at yourself in the mirror? You are ugly, so if you like, let any boy deceive you.”

Kpo kpo kpo!

“Do you want to sleep there?”

E’s knock returned me back to earth and I remembered the strip I was holding, the test I just took, the two red lines which quickly resurfaced. I was still pregnant. No. God forbid. God forbid it all. Maybe I could pray it away like Mother did. Her methods were always the same: a flowery scarf, a worn out T-shirt and a wrapper that held onto her wide waist. She would don these items and begin moving from one end to another in our small self contained room. She would ring a large gold bell at intervals calling on fire to consume her enemies as she moved from the doorway leading to the kitchen and then back to the TV, near the window. The minute I heard the loud bell, I would sit upright on our bed and begin nodding more eagerly than an Agama lizard, saying my amens loudly enough so she knew I was on her side. Still, I always worried about fire engulfing Mama Amaka’s shop. She was one of the people Mother didn’t like in our compound.

School children would find their way to Mama Amaka’s shop like ants to sugar, come rain or sun. She would stand outside her small wooden shop every afternoon, directing the excited students so they made their way safely across the gutter without falling off the wooden slab. She wasn’t the only vendor on the street who sold all the sweets and snacks  – kunu, zobo, puff puff, popcorn, kulikuli, soft drinks with biscuits. But she was the only one who didn’t seem to mind when we dropped our school bags on the only plastic chair in her shop, nor did she yell at us when we fought over the last pancake in the plastic container, infact when our mothers came looking for us with long wooden canes splitting at the edge, she took the blame for not looking at the time, but she never sent us out of her shop. Ever.

The closest she had gotten to cautioning me was when she pointed to me one afternoon and told me:

“See your uniform you this girl, you too like play…” I remember the panic that gripped my chest as I checked her face to fish out an accusatory look. But she was smiling at me, like she was proud I had expended all my energy on the swing that day. As I left her shop, she handed me a purple wrapped stick sweet and asked me not to pay.

I always reserved my pocket money so I could purchase Mama Amaka’s sweets every school day; it was a small sacrifice to make in exchange for being gently cradled by her wide, gap toothed smile. I didn’t understand why Mother disliked her. All I knew was Mother did these prayers every other day, and I loyally followed along when I could. 

Still, no fire came.

Kpo kpo kpo!

The door gave way and E’s head peeked in. I did not flinch, so she pushed the door farther aside and stepped inside. Light from the living room flooded the bathroom, illuminating the messages we began sharing with our eyes – mine, terrified and confused, while hers were dimmed with a piercing curiosity and the influence of our dearest friend: Mary Jane, that gorgeous green herb in the brown dress.

E was more than my closest friend, she was the reason I believed in family being more than shared DNA. We met in school, studying a course we both hated: Economics. I dropped out six months ago: picked up my school bag, slung it across my left shoulder and just walked out the school gate. I didn’t even look back for a last glance. I was done. But E, she was going to get her degree. I admired her perseverance at something that made her groan like she was in pain, especially during exam period. All my rights to regret had expired as they had already concluded the first semester exam. I still had not told Mother about my decision because I was on the lookout for a map, a map that showed me the way, because I had no idea what was next. So everyday, as I bided my time in the apartment we shared, smoking weed and drowning out my worries with music, I waited for something, anything to happen.

E’s eyes moved from mine and had now settled on the strip I held. 

Her eyes widened and her hands flew to her mouth. Her expression reminded me of those YouTube Thumbnails whose titles did not match the overly dramatic look on their faces. I wanted to tell her to calm down, that she looked crazy with her eyes popping out, her untidy cornrows, and the T-shirt she wore which barely covered her bushy mound.

“You’re… pregnant?”

I did not like that word. Pregnant. Pregnant. Ugh. But I said nothing. Instead, I allowed her her faux piety as she stared at me, like she had not seen me before, like we did not giggle at the gist of her friends who had gotten pregnant too, like she was a virgin herself. E, who had asked me to accompany her to an orgy, and when I turned down the invitation, she tipped her head back and laughed. What was funny? Nothing, she said, it’s ladies alone, so why was I afraid? Anyways, I don’t blame her; na who dem catch be thief.

She took the strip from my hand and closely examined it. I wondered if she knew how this worked, how you had to pee on it to test yourself. Because if she did, I’m most certain she wouldn’t be fondling it in this manner, bringing it closer and closer to her eyes. I got tired of her foolish inspection and snatched it. She stared back at me.

“Guy, your village people are following you o,” she said immediately.

My heart dropped to the bottom of my belly and I felt a familiar hopelessness. My expectations from her were high, but here she was, banging the gavel and hastily passing her judgment. I masked my despair and asked to be excused, marching her out when she refused (which was quite a task given my jeans situation). Afterward, I stood in front of the mirror to pray, I think.

“God. Please. Please,” I muttered, unsure.

There was something to be said about this situation – kneeling before God and asking Him to salvage you from a sin He had already condemned. But I wasn’t going to think defeating thoughts. Instead, I would appeal to Him the best way I knew.

“God please na. Please, cut me some slack. Please! I’ll take another test and I swear if you show me negative, I swear, I swear God, I will never ever ever fuck anybody again.” 

*

I wanted to numb myself enough for my next line of action seeing as that prayer didn’t pass E’s white (?) ceiling; unfortunately for me, the mean parasite had already moved in and was making a point of ensuring its presence was felt. Smoking only seemed to expand and ache my stomach, making me want to throw myself down a flight of stairs. But I had already decided that that was a move reserved for worse comes to worst outcome, for now, I sat still – partly sober, still silently praying for a reversal – and let the unrhythmic movement of my right leg convey the message to the man who got me pregnant.

My pregnancy would not faze Mother, she would even tell you she was the first to prophesy it. That she had seen it when I squealed excitedly and grabbed the skinny, denim jeans Dad’s new wife brought with him. That her suspicions were aroused all the times I lit up our dreary apartment with my sonorous voice.

I would open with Asa’s jailer as I cleaned the items in our house that quickly collected dust – the low, wooden stool, the Panasonic TV sitting on the shelf in the company of my school books and all the other colorful magazines littered with pictures of Nigerian pop stars. They held a valuable treasure for a young teenage girl who loved practicing the song lyrics with all seriousness in preparation to sing along after the radio presenter with the American accent had rolled out the Beat FM’s Top 10 hit songs for the week.  When the landlord was starstruck by my voice that time and said I could sing at his child’s birthday party, Mother was tired of just seeing it, she had to say something.

“Prostitute. Continue showing your body na. I’ll be here when it happens”

That was the first time her acerbic remarks had moved me to tears. It was painful, like she was branding me – forcing her coat of shame on me and discarding my favorite jeans. Dare I take it off?

“It’s fine,” Mide was saying as I struggled with Mother’s coat. I inspected his eyes closely, wondering why it twinkled happily.

He moved closer to me and was doing an examination with his hands, but  I moved away from him, like there was a possibility of me contacting more mean parasites by being in the same circumference as he was.

“What? We could get married now, go and see your parents.” He said it so casually, like it was the next obvious step.

I fought against the initial desire to refute it as I thought about Mother again. What if…? What if I told her? I wouldn’t mention the pregnancy, just that I had met someone I cared about and was going to do the right thing – get married in Church and have her call her friends to witness it.

*

“What did he say?” E was still half dressed, laying on the red sheets which barely covered the expanse of the bed and idly scrolling through her phone when I walked in. She stood up and moved towards me with an interesting expression that translated into worry. But what was there to be worried about? I had already sorted it out.

“He said we can get married.”

“Ehn?” E squinted at me, like she didn’t hear me and wanted me to repeat myself. “Marriage?!” She asked again so I knew she heard me, but it aided her dramatics – falling down to the floor and laughing like I had just told a big joke.

“You?” She looked at me, tears in her eyes. “You want to get married?”

“Mide is a nice guy,” I began, defensive. “We get along fine.”

“Before. He is 34, he will get along with the mad woman on this street if she was carrying his baby.”

I moved to the mattress we kept on the floor and began arranging the sheets so it covered all the dark, sweat stained spots on the bed. After I had hidden the stains, I sat down and let out a sigh. E plopped down on the bed beside me, undoing the work I had just done. Before I could say anything, she embraced me, squeezing my shoulders tightly but I didn’t complain, because it felt like all the weight rolled off my back.

“My own now is that you left school to sing, shebi? Not to carry belle and enter man house,” she stood up before I could fish out whether it was disappointment ripe in her tone. She moved to the dresser and picked up the joint that was almost finished, then started looking around frantically for a lighter. 

“Toilet,” I said, watching her. 

She immediately disappeared into the toilet. I heard the spark followed by her inhaling sharply. I still wanted to talk with her, I needed her to say more of what she was already saying so I stood up and followed her into the toilet. She was standing in front of the mirror, blowing smoke rings. She passed me the joint but I declined, and she blew a smoke ring at my face. I turned my face away and she tapped me and wordlessly pointed at the mirror, like she was telling me to come look at something.

“It’s like pregnancy hormones are already helping you, see your face. Fine girl.”

She didn’t look like she was teasing, so I moved to the front of the mirror and examined my own face. It looked very different from what I had seen earlier. I wasn’t high – I always felt prettier then – so I wondered why. Why did my lips look full with a pillowy pout, when I wasn’t even trying? And my eyes… who turned on the light inside it? My face surprised me the most. I mean, sure, I had heard a million ‘sweet angel’ from the agberos at the bus park who flirted at you with a blatant boldness I sometimes envied; but maybe… maybe God truly was going for  a resemblance to that of His angels. Studying my outline made me smile, which somehow unified my face and added layers to my beauty. I was… beautiful?

But Mother…  Was she lying or could she really not see… me, my beauty? Could I trust her judgment about all the other things?

“E”

 “Mmn?”

“That your friend that got pregnant,  do you know the doctor she went to…” E tapped me on the back, not letting me complete my request.

“Eh hen! Now you’re talking! I will personally call her for you.” E had already rushed back into the room to presumably get her phone. “We are here waiting for you to become Tiwa Savage, you are talking about marriage…

About the Author:

Janobest Isaac is a law graduate turned storyteller resident in Lagos, Nigeria. Having written stories the entirety of her life, she prefers the term storyteller to writer, as she employs various methods to tell her stories – sometimes videos, sometimes words, most times both. Her words can be found on her Medium and her videos on her YouTube, which both can be accessed by typing in her name.

*Feature image by Bianca Van Dijk from Pixabay