Growing up, I didn't know how it felt to be loved by my mother.
She barely showed any form of affection or care for me.
She would either be locked up in her room or screaming profanities at me to "leave her alone" when I tried to be with her.
When I was younger, it confused me a lot.
Why doesn’t Mama let me hug her? Why doesn’t she carry me the same way Yemisi’s mother carries her? Why does she not let me call her "Mummy"?
As I got older, my confusion morphed into resentment, and then into hate.
I swore to myself that if I ever became a mother, I would not be anything like her.
I swore to take care of my children to death and to do whatever they wanted for them.
I swore to value their life over my own, so they'd never have to feel the pain I felt as a child.
So the night I gave birth to my twin daughters at the General Hospital on Victoria Island, a fierce determination arose in me.
A determination to be a better mother than my own was, by all means.
I remember that a lot of tears were shed that night.
I cried.
My husband, Dele, cried.
Our family members that came to the hospital also cried.
Even some of the staff in the hospital cried.
It was a deeply emotional night all around, but nobody was as emotional as I was.
I stared at the two tiny creatures in my hand, with tears pouring down my face.
Me? Modupe, you're a mother? You have two beautiful girls?
It was the most surreal moment.
God had blessed me.
He had given me a chance to raise these girls better than I was raised.
And I would do everything in my power to do so.
No matter what it takes.
No matter the cost.
From the first time I held Tolani and Bisi in my arms, I knew that I would dedicate the rest of my life to them.
This might sound crazy, but I dreamt of my girls long before I had them.
It was seven years before they were born, two years before Dele and I got married.
I dreamt that I was a child again, alone in my room on one of those nights that Mama got into her moods.
I was crying when two small girls came to sit beside me, pulling my arms and saying, "Mummy, stop crying; let's go and play."
I couldn't see their faces in the dream, but I remember feeling my heart swell with love.
When I woke up, I wrote the dream in my journal and prayed to God about it.
That was when I knew I was destined to be a mother, and I swore to myself to be the best one.
In the past few months since their birth, that's what I've strived to do.
To always be present for my daughters.
However, it has come at a great cost.
My family doesn’t visit me anymore.
They tried to visit me and my girls in the days and weeks after I was discharged from the hospital, but I wouldn't see anybody.
I didn’t want anybody to have access to us because I was so scared.
What if they have evil intentions towards my children? What if they try to carry my girls, and one of them falls down? What if they transfer diseases or generational curses to them?
Especially that Aunty Bukky and her big nose, always sneezing here and there.
No o, I couldn't risk it.
So, I shunned all of them away from coming to my house, both the relatives from my side and my husband's side.
He said they all had "good intentions for coming," but I wouldn't hear it.
Dele was patient with me for the longest time.
I think he understood exactly how I was feeling, my fears and my distress, so he pleaded with his family members to give us some space.
To allow me some time to get used to my "new reality".
For the first few weeks, he was very supportive, offering me all the help I needed with a smile.
He was the most loving he had been since I met him, but eventually, he too got frustrated with "my behaviour."
The day he left us was the day Pastor Chuks was to come and pray with us at home.
Dele said that even if he didn't pray for the girls, I too needed the prayers.
I agreed with him.
I definitely needed God to watch over my daughters and protect them in this evil world.
I was fine with a man of God coming to pray for them.
At least I thought so, until he came that morning with three other "prayer warriors" from church, and they said they wanted to "lay their hands" on us.
Lay hands on who? Me? Or my daughters? Lay which dirty hands?
Immediately, I started to scream and shout for them to leave my compound.
I didn't even wait for them to get into the house.
My husband, looking dejected and embarrassed, begged me to calm down and let them pray for us.
"We need prayers in these hard times, Modupe. More than anything else," he had said, trying to drag me back inside, but I didn't stop screaming at them to "stay away from my babies."
When they didn't listen, I went into the house and ran back out with a cutlass, cursing and swinging.
You should see the way Pastor Chuks and his "warriors" ran for their lives.
One of them even forgot his sandals in my compound till today.
In hindsight, maybe I overreacted, but I was still very new to motherhood then.
I didn't know how else to keep Bisi and Tolani safe.
However, that was the last straw for Dele.
That same night, he packed some of his belongings and left me alone with my girls.
I haven’t seen or heard from him since then, and that was six months ago.
He won't admit it, but his problem was that he was jealous.
He just couldn't handle the love and attention that I poured into our daughters.
I used to tease him while we dated that I'd never love anybody as much as I loved him.
For the longest time, this was true.
Until my girls came into my life.
I'll admit that I became negligent in my duties as his wife.
I stopped spending time with him; we barely had serious conversations again, and even when I was fully healed up, I refused to let him touch me.
"Modupe, you need to put these girls out of your mind for once," he said to me one night while trying to pull me closer to him.
"Dele, stop being selfish," I had replied to him. "Our girls are light sleepers, especially Bisi. What if she starts crying all of a sudden? If I don't attend to her, won't I be a bad mother?"
The look on his face that night was one of utter disbelief.
I could tell that he wanted to say something.
He looked like he was about to explode, but he held his tongue.
He murmured something I didn't hear, turned away from me, and then he went to sleep.
Dele's patience was his most redeeming feature.
It was what I loved about him the most.
He used to boast that nothing I did could ever get him angry and that he'd always love me no matter my offence.
For the longest time, this was true. Till the day it wasn't, and then he left me.
Just like my friends. Just like my family.
I didn't understand them, but I didn't care because they didn't understand me either.
They didn't understand that I'd waited all my life for this. For them. For my girls.
Everything I ever wanted is here with me right now.
They both are fussing and purring in my arms as I feed them from my breasts.
In this moment, I am complete, and I do not need anybody else.
Today, I'm taking my girls out of the house for the first time.
It's been almost eight months since they were born, and they keep getting bigger every day.
At first, the idea of taking them outside was terrifying, but I read an article online about how babies needed to be in different environments to stimulate their brains, so I gave in.
Their well-being is greater than all my fears.
Plus, the honest truth is that I'm also tired of being cooped up in this house.
Two months after Dele left, Miriam, my househelp, also resigned and left back to her village.
She cited that she wanted to see her sick father and spend more time with him, but she had that same look in her eyes.
The one my husband also had.
She also thought that I was too obsessed with my children.
I am just being a good mother, but even if I was, why is that an issue?
Were they the ones who carried them for nine months? Or were they the ones who laboured for over seventeen hours to bring them to the world?
No, they weren't. I was.
So they don't get to tell me how to love my daughters.
Anyways, I don't even miss her around the house.
I am strong enough to do my duties, and since I am living all alone, there's not even much that needs to be done.
Afeez, my gateman, was the one who ran errands to the market for me every few weeks, but he also quit a few weeks ago.
"Madam, you know I say I love you, but walai madam, everywhere too quiet. Everywhere too quiet madam, I no go lie you. I no like am."
His reason was more valid to me.
He was right.
Apart from me always taking care of my daughters, nothing was really happening around the house.
Considering that this same compound used to host big parties and always had visitors, the change in mood in the past year might seem depressing to some.
Without hesitation, I let Afeez go and promised to pay him his salary for the rest of the year.
On the day he was to leave, I carried Tolani with me to the gate to see him off.
I don't know why, but I wanted someone else other than me to see her face for once.
He was confused for a second as he stared at her small body in my arms, then he immediately broke into a huge grin.
"Ei, Madam, walai, she get your eyes, Madam. Beautiful pikin, Madam."
I smiled back at him, happy that someone else in the world had finally witnessed the beauty that I saw every day.
At least someone will now understand me. I thought to myself as I locked the gate that day.
So, today, I dress my girls in matching pastel dresses with little white bows that I tied by myself as I prepare to take them to a park near our estate.
It's not too far from the house, but far enough to be deemed a change in scenery.
I drive slowly and carefully, constantly keeping my eye on the backseat to ensure that their baby seats remain strapped in.
When we get to the park, I put the both of them in their convertible strollers, and I push them around for a while.
Soon enough, my arms start to ache, so I stop to sit on a bench, and I just look around.
Kids playing, running around with their parents. Couples sitting together, having picnics.
For a brief moment, my heart aches for Dele’s presence.
Then one of my girls starts to cry, hungry, no doubt, and I know that it's Bisi.
I pull out the bottle and I give it to her, whispering soothing words and stroking her hair.
Tolani jealously starts to fuss, so I stroke her hair too, and she giggles back at me.
My heart swells with emotion, and I feel tears prick the back of my eyes.
This must be happiness.
I wonder if Mama ever felt this way with me.
I'm still reeling from the euphoria of that small moment when I see it.
I thank God that I do, because if I had looked towards that direction any later, I would have missed it.
My car is about to be towed away by a truck.
I had parked it in front of the bank across the road, just opposite the park, and I had bribed the security man with two thousand Naira to let me have the space.
He promised me with a greedy smile that nothing would happen, but now a brown, ugly Mazda tow truck is about to wheel my car away.
I start to panic.
I have to stop my car from getting towed. That's our only ride home.
Maybe it's a misunderstanding, and once I talk to them and show them some identification, they'll leave my car alone.
But my daughters. A pang rips across my heart.
I stare at them—Bisi greedily sucking away at her bottle and Tolani staring at her hands in awe.
I can't just leave them here, but I can't take them with me. It's too dangerous, and they'll slow me down.
My heart starts to beat rapidly.
Modupe, you don’t have a choice.
I sigh in frustration and look around. I see a woman lying on the grass nearby.
"Excuse me," I say to her, "can you please watch my daughters for just a minute? I’ll be right back. My car is about to get towed."
The woman stares at me in confusion, then I gesture to the bench.
"They're in those two strollers beside that bench. Please, I'll be back immediately."
"Sorry ma, I don't know you o. This one you're telling me to watch strollers from here."
I resist the urge to hiss.
"It shouldn't take too long. Please ma, just keep an eye on them from here. I'll be back now."
She doesn’t respond, but she adjusts her sitting position to face the direction of the bench.
I guess that'll have to be enough.
I mumble a thanks, and I rush away, my heart already heavy with guilt.
God, please watch my babies.
I get to my car just before it's moved out of the lot, and I start to argue with the men there.
They tell me that the parking space I used was reserved for the bank manager only.
I try to reason with them and look for the security guard that I paid earlier, but the idiot is nowhere to be found.
Every second I spend here, my anxiety worsens.
I just want to be back with my daughters.
After more than ten minutes of back and forth, they agree to leave my car if I drive it away myself immediately.
I almost sob in relief as I thank them.
I ask for a few extra minutes, so I'll grab my daughters and be on my way, and I practically run back into the park.
I feel a slight dread rise in me as I get closer to the bench, and once I do, my fear is confirmed.
The two strollers are gone.
My daughters are gone.
Hysteria almost sweeps me off my feet.
I'm immediately hyperventilating, and my hands tremble as I search around the park for the woman or the strollers, but I don’t see them.
I start to wander frantically around the park, tears bawling down from my eyes.
How can you be so stupid, Modupe!? I scream internally. You're a useless mother, just like Mama!
The heaviness in my chest threatens to tear it apart.
"Have you seen my daughters?" I ask a group of mothers that I pass by. "They are in two small black strollers."
They shake their heads, staring at me and each other in confusion.
Tears blur my vision as I ask another group of people the same question.
They all have the same responses: pitiful looks in their eyes while saying, "No, sorry, we haven't."
I can feel them judging me in their hearts.
They probably think I'm a terrible mother.
I start to scream out their names, my voice cracking.
"Bisi! Tolani!"
They are babies, Modupe, they can’t answer you.
I am hysterical and I attract a lot of stares, but my action doesn't match the delirious ache of madness that's currently rising in me.
The crowd around me speaks in hushed tones as I desperately walk around the park, searching and searching.
"I heard she's looking for her two children."
"Eyah, how did this one happen now?"
"They've probably been kidnapped."
"Poor woman. I'm sorry you lost your daughters, ma."
I stop abruptly.
Something claws at the back of my head. Something heavy. Something familiar.
No, that can't be right.
I don't have time to make sense of the thought because I see two strollers being pushed away by one of the park cleaners.
Relief immediately swims through my heart as I run toward the middle-aged woman in uniform, desperate and frantic.
My babies are safe!
"Thank you, ma," I say, unable to contain my excitement. "Those are my daughters. I just left them for a quick minute."
She looks at me, hesitant.
"Madam, I don't understand you."
"My daughters," I say, walking to the front of the strollers. "These are my—"
The strollers are empty.
All my relief vanishes.
"Please ma, where are my two girls? I left both of them inside the stroller."
I keep my voice calm because I can feel myself starting to unravel.
The look of confusion on her face perfectly mirrors mine.
"Madam, there were no children in these strollers."
"That's not possible."
"The strollers were empty when I started moving them. I assumed that the owner forgot them. Nothing was inside, except for the two dolls that I threw away sha."
"Which dolls!?" I snap at her, no longer able to hide my irritation. "I said I'm looking for my daughters. Their names are Bisi and Tolani; you're here telling me about dolls."
"Madam—"
Her calm tone sends me over the edge.
"Please, where are my daughters!" I scream. "They are wearing white bows and this is their stroller. Where did you put them? Are you a kidnapper!? Somebody, help me! She has kidnapped my daughters!"
Her confusion morphs into surprise.
"Madam. Two white bows in small pink dresses?"
"Yes, yes!" I cry in exasperation. "Have you seen them?"
"Madam, I'm telling you that I threw those dolls into the dumpster some minutes ago, egbami. Please, why are you calling them your daughters?"
Her words hit me like a slap.
"You... threw... away?"
She frowns at me, annoyance forming on her face.
"Madam, I've told you, the only thing that I saw matching that description was two tattered and ugly-looking dolls. I threw them into the dustbin. I was taking the strollers to the front office, in case the owner came back for them."
The words coming out of her mouth don't register in my mind.
What does she mean? Where are Bisi and Tolani? Where are my daughters?
"Madam, you can have the strollers, but me I have to get back to work."
I don't know when I lunge at her.
We both fall to the ground, and I'm standing over her, clawing and scratching her face with my nails.
"Bring out my daughters, you kidnapper!" I scream in hysteria. "Bring out my girls!"
I can hear the commotion around us, but I can't focus on it.
There's only one image in my head: my daughters in my arms.
I just want my daughters in my arms again.
I continue to attack the woman, and she struggles back, shouting for help.
The look in her bloodied eyes is one of pure fear.
Suddenly, something stings me in my back; I don't know what it is, but I'm immediately light-headed.
I'm dizzy, and the world tilts around me as I fall to the ground.
There's only one thought in my mind as the darkness envelops me.
I'm sorry you lost your daughters.
When I open my eyes, I'm in a sterile room, hooked to some machines that fill the silence with their soft hum.
The walls are white. The floor is white. I'm in a white robe.
I see a woman standing beside my hospital bed, and I'm startled.
She looks familiar as she studies me, her expression unreadable.
The way she's staring at me and her presence unnerves me.
"Who are you?" I ask, my voice firm.
Immediately, I remember.
"Tolani? Bisi? Where are my daughters!?" I shout. "That woman in the park, she took them. She's a kidnapper. Please, stop her."
The woman doesn't answer me immediately. She doesn't even seem surprised at my outburst. She just pulls out the chair and sits beside me.
"Mrs. Modupe Abraham?"
I don't reply her.
"You don't remember me. I'm Dr. Steve-Collins, I spoke with you and your husband about eight months ago. After the incident."
Incident? What incident?
“What are you saying, please? Where are my children!?”
She responds with silence.
I'm about to open my mouth to shout again, but she cuts me off.
"I don't know how to put this, Mrs. Modupe. This will be very tough to hear, but your daughters died during childbirth; you never got to take them home."
My whole world shatters into a million pieces.
"What?" My voice is barely audible.
The woman stares at me with compassion, and she slowly reaches to take one of my hands.
"Your daughters didn't make it, Modupe. You were only allowed to hold their dead bodies for a moment before they were taken from you to be buried. I'm so sorry."
Every word she says feels like a knife.
Stabbing at the edges of my reality.
I can feel it.
I can feel it slowly tearing apart.
A slow, mental discomfort.
"I was the psychologist recommended to you and your husband by the hospital. The both of you were meant to enroll in therapy, but you never showed up."
"No, no, no," I murmur to myself. "That can't be right. I saw my daughters this morning. Tolani and Bisi, I saw them. I fed them. I did. I saw them. I did..."
I'm talking silently to myself, but the words feel hollow, and I don't believe them.
Not anymore.
"Mrs. Modupe, I'm sorry, but you lost your daughters."
Those are the words it takes to rip the remainder of the veil off, and suddenly, everything starts rushing back.
The hospital room. The tears. The pain. The quiet that followed. Dele’s grief-stricken face. My screams and shouts.
I remember myself. Broken and empty. Clutching my stomach in the bathroom, asking God why he took my girls away from me.
Begging him to take the pain away.
I remember them. Two perfect dolls, wrapped in pink blankets. We had bought them in anticipation of our daughters.
At first, I convinced myself that it was just for a moment. Just to make myself feel better. But eventually, I started to believe my own lie.
I called one Bisi. Then I called the other Tolani. My daughters were with me.
I remember feeding them. Taking care of them. Finding solace in my illusion.
I remember the stares, the laughter, the judgement.
The tears start to pour from my eyes as the grief strangles my heart again, as fresh as it was on that night.
I fall into the doctor’s arms as I sob, my body shaking violently.
There's no Tolani. There's no Bisi. They never existed.
I am not a mother. My daughters are gone. They’ve always been gone.
And I... I don’t know how to let them go.
The premise of this story was based on a real life event, by the way.
Hope you enjoyed the first fiction story of 2025, many more to come.
Currently working on compiling two other fiction books, apart from my major novel that I really should start working on.
Anyway, I’ll let you guys know when they are available for sale and I’ll also be giving out some free copies in a referral contest.
ANTICIPATE…
In other news, I launched my other Newsletter, “On Writing & Storytelling”, last week. 🎉
If you want techniques, tips and other content on writing and storytelling, then I encourage you to subscribe.
Got a lot of fun topics planned.
Also, when you subscribe, you get my new book, “The Art of Storytelling”, for FREE.
It’s a 56-page PDF Guide that provides simple insights into the basics of telling/writing a good story.
It also contains practical advice that you can immediately implement and simple exercises you can use to hone your skills
To get it, just subscribe by clicking HERE and it’ll be sent to your Email.
I’ll see you inside. Till next time!
-Ebun.
(P.s - This is me putting action to my plans for the year. Hope you’re doing the same. If you’re not yet, then read this article below.)
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I'm in awe🥺is there any genre you can't pull off?? Because wow. It's always the plot twist for me. The pacing, context and how you just bring your wordings to life, it feels like I'm watching a movie because I can visualise everything in my head, it feels so real!!! A writer's joy is making the readers feel the emotions raw as they come and you successfully deliver that to us everytime!! Thank you and well doneee🥺❤❤
At first, I was like,"Why would the gateman leave because everywhere was too quiet?" It didn't make any sense. Then, everything started to add up. They must have thought Modupe was deranged. I can only imagine the look on their faces each time, and the way the gate man indulged her by saying the baby was beautiful was a bit funny.