You could hear Chioma's wails wherever you were on this earth loud enough to wake the dead but not loud enough to wake her own dead. 
Very soon, the women with their blouses and wrappers tied across their chests will start flooding the compound that houses Chioma, her husband, her dead children, and the sweetest mango tree in the village. 
The women will start with the mourning song they have now become accustomed to, whispers, and gossip flying around because the new ladies who just joined the group will have to be prepared for the situation. 
One would think that with the number of tears Chioma has shed, she would stop trying to have children, but Chioma still took in; she was the type that a little touch on the lap could get her pregnant. What then is the only solution? Tell her not to meet her husband at night when everybody else was warming themselves up and skins were being melted into one? You can't say that to a couple below fifty years of age.
“Someone does not need a seer to understand that something is wrong in this house.” Mama Ikenna said to the women, who have now gathered under the mango tree.
“What are you insinuating?” Amaka, who everybody knew as Chioma's closest friend, asked Mama Ikenna.
“Amaka, why do you want to pretend that you don't hear the rumours that your friend is exchanging her children for her unfading beauty?" Chisom the gossipmonger and the starter of the rumours faced Amaka.
“Nobody told the gods to give you a face that resembles a masquerade, Chisom; if you don't have anything better to say, go home and cook for your husband.” Amaka fired back.

“It is better to tell the truth than to hide it. Go ahead and cover your friend's witchcraft. Who knows? You might also be a witch .” Chisom replied as she walked out of the compound.   Her slippers making “tatata” behind her and her buttocks rolling along. The gods did not give her a beautiful face, but at least they made up for it with her backside.
Chioma was and still is the beauty queen of the village, the growing girls still couldn't measure up to her. But all of these seemed useless if she couldn't mother a child who lived more than two years. 
This is the fourth child, this one died at one year and six months, Chidinma stayed up to a year, Chidi a year and two months, and Ezinne died a day before her second-year birthday. 
What they all had in common was the sickness that never went away, last month it was a cold, last week it was a cough that caused chest pain, today it might be fever, who knows, tomorrow might be intense body pain, and when they stared at you, it was like blood wasn't flowing through their eyes, and there's their lean stature. 
Amaka will say they lack nutrients, they are kids, and kids need special food to help them grow, feed them eggs, fish, meat, milk, and lots of vegetables, Chioma did all that. 
Different herbalists will be called to treat them, smelling concoctions will be made for them to drink and bathe in, and for a while, you will think they are recuperating, but they all end up dying, leaving Chioma in the pool of her tears, sadness, loneliness, and thoughts.
It didn't come as a shock when the people of the village saw Chioma's protruding stomach, it had now become a familiar sight, she's always pregnant.  
However, this time, Chioma was determined to keep this new child alive. Come what may, he will grow up handsome and strong like his father and even attend the white man's school. Missionary activities were spreading throughout the small villages, and Chioma's community was not left out.
Chioma named her new baby Chimsimndu, which means 'God says I shall live'. He will live long, and she will make sure he lives long—these were her thoughts as she strolled the bush path that led to the dibia,Okonkwo's hut. Okonkwo was a dreaded witch doctor; he was never seen mingling with the villagers. They say he comes out only at night when he communes with the dead.

Chioma had never been to Okonkwo's hut, in fact nobody has. As she stepped into the bush path that led directly to his hut, she heard a shrilling sound and could feel eyes staring at her. She looked around but saw nothing.
Chioma hurried her step in a bid to get it over with, that she didn't know when she stepped on something. Chioma looked down and saw the empty eye socket of a human skull staring at her, she let out a loud scream and her eyes caught the old man with dirty long hair staring at her with yellow teeth. 
“Your child and the ones before him are not yours, they belong to a spirit woman, they are Ogabanjes, sent to frustrate the mother, if the necessary rites are not performed, this one too will die.”
“Ah! No, ooo, what will the world think of me? I will do anything, anything!”
"Good, after we perform the rites, when he is of age and has common sense, another one will be performed to seal all we have done,he will have to give us his Iyi Uwa.”
“What is that?” Chioma asked, her brows raised.
“Don't worry yourself woman.” Okonkwo turned round 
Chioma was given a list of items to bring, and the rites were performed. 
Chimsimndu grew up tall but lean. She treated him like an egg that was going to crack if left unwatched, he was not allowed to play with his mates or lift heavy objects. He still fell ill frequently, but whenever it happened, the native doctor was called, and a herb or two did the trick. 
They were all waiting for him to turn ten.
The D-Day came.
“Now this is what you will do for me and your parents, take us to where you kept your Iyi Uwa.” said Okonkwo.
 Chimsimndu stared at his parents with a confused look on his face.
“Listen, when you were coming to meet your parents, you were given something to hide. You know where it is, show it to me.” Okonkwo urged.
 The boy responded with a nod of his head to show that he fully understood what was going on. He led the way to the backyard where their fowls were kept. He stood in front of the wooden cages, not uttering a word.
“Is this where you kept it?” 
Chioma asked with a voice laced with incoming tears, no reply came. 
He started walking again, towards the graves where Chioma's dead children had all been laid to rest. He stood before the last one's grave, bent down as if to pick up something, but immediately broke into a run. His father and Okonkwo ran after him. After running around the compound twice, Chimsimndu stopped close to the mango tree and pointed
“There. It is there.”
“Oya, bring a shovel, let us dig it out.” 
Okonkwo beckoned to the boy's father. What they brought out were bits of bones, a small rock, and a small piece of human hair, all tied up together.
After the Iyi uwa was brought out, Okonkwo instructed them to give a mark on any part of his body, the reason for this was that when he dies and comes back, he will be identified.
“But you said after this, he will live.” Chioma cried
“We have done our part, if he is willing, he will live.” Okonkwo replied
“That is not what you said, oh! That is not what you said, oh!”
Chioma continued shouting, her voice followed Okonkwo as he walked down the road leading to his hut.
The land the missionary school was built on was given to them by the chiefs of the village as a gift, In exchange for the unending knowledge and wisdom the missionaries will pass on to their children. So when other villages are raising their shoulders, they too will raise their shoulders. 
The teachers at the school were mixed: a few Europeans and some Nigerians who had been trained by the missionaries. Mrs. Chukwuma belonged to this category, she taught social studies in all the primary classes.
“Now, as I was saying, a family is made up of a father, a mother, and the children, and this type of family is called the nuclear family, it is the only type of family accepted by God.”
Someone's hand was struggling to get the teacher's attention.
“Yes, Emeka"
“But my father has three wives, and he always says the gods blessed him with all his wives. So why did he bless him with three wives that he does not find acceptable?”
“That god is different.”
“How are they different?” Inquisitive Awele asked

“Children, listen, there is the Christian God and there is the traditional god, and before you ask Emeka, your father worships the traditional god.” Mrs Chukwuma answered, already irritated
“Oya, show me the other God so that I can check if it's different from the one in my father's shrine.”
Emeka’s seatmate gave him a handshake in recognition of a question well asked.
“I cannot show you because you cannot see him; nobody can see him.” 
Mrs. Chukwuma answered with no idea that her answer had just increased the flame.
“Ahhhhh!!!!!!” The whole class exclaimed, everybody started talking.
“If you cannot see him, that means he is not real.”
“If you cannot see him, how then do you ask for a huge harvest and then give him yams and big, big fowls?”
As the debate and arguments were going on and spiralling out of control, Mrs. Chukwuma noticed someone's head laying on a desk. Someone was oblivious to what was going on in the class, trying to shift the attention from herself.

“Chimsimndu wake up! How can you sleep in my class?”
There was no response.
 “Chimsimndu!” There was still no response. 
She walked to his desk and touched him, his body temperature was hot enough to boil beans. She called one of the big boys in the class to carry him to the clinic. 
The clinic barely had any patients because even though the villagers allowed the white man to pass book knowledge to their children, they still rated their herbal ways of treatment over whatever the white man thought he was doing in that small house painted white. 
The clinic had just one doctor and four nurses to assist, treatment and drugs were free as a way of encouraging the villagers to embrace the white man's way of medicine. The clinic was not far from the school compound; a clearing between bushes connected the school to the clinic. 
Initially, the clinic was set to be built in the same compound as the school, but the school compound was too small, so the clinic was built in the compound of Father Paul, the head missionary, a 10-minute walk. 
Osita, the boy carrying Chimsimndu, ran as fast as he could.
“I think he is not breathing again. I think he is not breathing again.”
Osita cried out as he approached the clinic. He dropped him on one of the beds and was told to wait outside.
“He is running temperature, sir; I think it's pneumonia.” The nurse told the doctor as he approached the room.
“Give him an antibiotic.”
“We have done so, but he is seriously burning up.” The nurse answered frantically.
“Let me see him.” The doctor found his way to the bed. 
Doctor Richard stared at the young boy,observing him.
“Who brought him here?”
“The school teacher and some boys,” the nurse answered.
“Mrs. Chukwuma, is the boy a sickle cell patient?” 
Mrs. Chukwuma rushed to Dr. Richard, as she saw him marching towards her.
“Sir, I don't understand, sickie what?”
“Does he fall sick often? How often?”
“Ehn yes, he falls sick a lot, he hasn't been in school for two weeks now because he was sick.”
Dr. Richard already had an idea of what was going on.
“Get his blood sample and run a genotype and blood group test,meanwhile, let's try to steady his condition.”
The August rain that refused to fall for weeks visited the village that evening and made the roads muddy. 
Nobody heard the chirping of the birds, children who were supposed to be running around and chasing the chickens back into their cages could not. The night was fast approaching, and everybody was prepared to call it a day. 

The rain hastened the arrival of nightfall, its relentless drumming on the roof seeming to echo the heaviness in Chioma's heart. Seated on the verandah of her house, she waited anxiously for his return. Perhaps the downpour had delayed him, she mused, trying to quell the rising unease within her.
Suddenly, a somber procession entered her compound, dimly visible through the curtain of rain. Among them, she recognized his classmates, their faces etched with sorrow, tears mingling with raindrops on their cheeks. Some sniffled, wiping away tears, while others had catarrh streaming down their noses. Dread gnawed at Chioma's insides as she braced herself for the news she feared most.
“He died of sickle cell anaemia, a disease in which the red blood cells are not shaped the way they should. Both you and your husband carry the AS genotype, which is not a good combination. Your son did not have a normal body system like his mates.” Dr. Richard tried his best to explain to Chioma what the disease was.   
The test result came exactly when Chimsimndu took his last breath. Chioma kept staring at the entrance of the compound as if she was waiting for him to come back home, as if she had the assurance that he was definitely going to come back home and that the man with the glasses that looked too big for his face was just blabbering. 
 Ignoring the pleas of her husband, Chioma sat on the stool until the next day, the day after, at the end of the third day after seeing no sign of her son, she went inside.
She didn't cry, everyone wondered why she didn't cry but nobody was brave enough to ask her, not even her husband.
It's been three years since the death of Chimsimndu. 
Chioma turned the new baby's back as she cleaned her with the small cloth that serves as her towel. When she got to her right leg, she touched the rough area after her knees and felt the mark, then spoke to the baby.
“What nonsense was that doctor saying again?”“Welcome back, my son.”