OH BABY!(by Chiekwe Onyinye)

The baby was sick. She was blinking faster than normal. I panicked; I loved her with her big eyes and red, rosy cheeks. I was only ten, but I carried her so frequently, mother used to ask me where I got my energy from. Now lifting her from her cot, I carried her to mother in the kitchen.

"Mommy, Bernie is sick, she’s blinking too fast". Mother said nothing, just kept chopping. I repeated it, tapping her hard.
"He", she said, finally turning to me, not looking at Bernie. "He has been blinking rapidly. Bernie is male"
I was angry; Bernie was a girl! I wanted a sister, not a brother. This was a frequent argument between my parents and me. But right now, what did it matter what sex Bernie was? She...he was sick! I was only ten but I knew about death. About a year ago, my grandmother had died in my presence.
My panic mounted. Mother was always like this with Bernie. It was obvious she did not love her…him, she never hid it. But it wasn't enough reason not to care; correcting me about his sex instead of finding a solution. The baby kept blinking, more rapidly even.

I was hysterical, I tapped mother harder. Not turning this time, she said. “Obinna, when I’m done with dinner, I'll see to Bernie”.
Now, I was furious. I hurried to my room and took out the parcel I always kept hidden in Bernie’s cot.

Mother had recently begun to complain to my father about me and my unusual strength, warning him that I needed to be watched closely. This was after the incident with her mother.
I hoped the strength she spoke so much about wouldn’t fail me now.

Back to the kitchen, mother was still chopping. I stood directly behind her. “Mommy...” She ignored me. I kept calling her, tugging at her cloth until finally dropping her chopping knife, she sighed and started turning to me.
As she turned, I plunged the knife in my hand into her side.
I watched as her eyes widened in shock, then narrowed with pain. She tried to speak but only blood spurted out.  She finally fell…on the same side I had plunged the knife into, driving it deeper in.

My father returned home. I heard the routine car honk, heard the front door open, heard him call out for mother, then me. His voice drew closer. Then he came into the kitchen. His eyes flew to his wife lying on the floor in a pool of her own blood and me standing there, now holding the dripping knife.
The horror on his face reminded me of the look on my mother's face when she came home one day to find her mother with her head severely bashed in, and me sitting beside the body crying softly and holding a big stick covered with blood.
A terrible fight had ensued between my parents afterwards; my mother had insisted on what she saw while my father had stood up for me; I was simply too young to have carried out what vicious act mother was accusing me of. Besides, his only son could do no wrong.
That was about a year ago.

Tears streaming down my face, I pointed to the baby now laying in the corner "Bernie was sick, but mommy kept chopping. Now she's dead; Bernie’s dead"
The horror on his face was replaced with realization. For the first time ever, he didn’t playfully correct me about the sex of the baby; neither did he remind me that Bernie was actually a doll.
I was devastated too; I had lost my favourite doll, Bernie.