Ulumma put down her basket of cassava for the umpteenth time and gasped in pain, her steps slow down as the contractions grow more painful and closer with each passing second.
The sound of critters amplifies and in the stillness of the air, the buzzing crickets, croaking frogs, mosquitoes and staccato beat of a talking drum that floated in the night air from the village increase her anxiety, reminding her how far she is from home.
She tries to dampen her ripe imagination from straying to folklores and ghoulish tales of the dead who come to do their farming after hours, but the tree limbs look ominous, gnarly and ghostly in appearance as dusk quickly falls in ‘Ubi.’
‘It wouldn’t do to have this child in this Godforsaken place’ she mutters as she trudges along, her thoughts diverting in anger toward her husband who was probably enjoying a drink of palm wine while waiting for his pregnant wife to return from the farm and make him a fresh pot of soup and fufu.
Hissing and cursing in pain, she vows not to allow him to touch her for the longest time ever.
© Jacqueline Oby-Ikocha
Thank you Yarnspinner for the interesting photo prompt and my lady PJ, I appreciate this platform that you host.
Ubi – An Igbo word for farm.