At first, they believed time would solve the problem.
Then came medical consultations.
Blood tests.
Scans.
Hormone treatments.
Injections that left bruises beneath Naomi’s clothing and hope that rose each month only to collapse again.
Doctors spoke carefully.
Her body was capable, they said.
James’s tests were normal.
Sometimes conception took longer for no clear reason.
Sometimes medicine could not explain why one home filled quickly with children while another remained silent.
Naomi prayed.
She fasted.
She attended services recommended by relatives.
She drank bitter herbal mixtures prepared by a woman her mother-in-law trusted.
She slept with a rosary under her pillow, though she was not Catholic.
She allowed a visiting preacher to place both palms over her abdomen and shout prayers so loudly that the ceiling seemed to vibrate.
She did everything hopeful people do when they are frightened of becoming hopeless.
Nothing changed.
The nursery she and James had prepared during their second year of marriage slowly became a storage room.
The pale yellow curtains remained.
So did the small wooden wardrobe.
But boxes accumulated where a crib had once been planned.
James never suggested removing the room.
Naomi never asked him why.
Their pain was polite.
It did not destroy their marriage with shouting or blame.
It appeared in subtler ways.
The pause when someone announced a pregnancy.
The way Naomi left baby celebrations early, claiming headaches.
The quiet that settled over dinner after another disappointing appointment.
The extra seconds James sometimes stood outside the former nursery before walking away.
They still loved each other.
But there was a hairline fracture between them, invisible to everyone else and felt by both.
That morning, Naomi had asked Kolade to drive her to a specialist’s office.
The appointment was routine.
Another discussion.
Another possibility presented in careful language.
The physician suggested a new treatment cycle.
More medication.
More monitoring.
Another attempt.
Naomi nodded, accepted the printed information, and left carrying the same exhausted hope she had carried through every previous appointment.
Afterward, she was supposed to visit a tailor preparing a gown for a gala she would attend with James on Friday.
The gala mattered to other people.
A hospital fundraiser.
Photographs.
Speeches.
Tables decorated with flowers imported at extraordinary cost.
Naomi had chosen dark green silk.
She had not chosen it with enthusiasm.
As the car moved through the city, children in school uniforms hurried along the roadside. Women balanced baskets on their heads. Motorcycles moved through narrow gaps in traffic with the confidence of people who believed rules were merely suggestions.
Street vendors offered fruit, bottled water, phone accessories, pastries, and newspapers.
Lagos lived loudly.
It sweated.
Argued.
Laughed.
Demanded attention.
Naomi watched it all from behind the glass.
Then she saw the girls.
At first, they were only two shapes near the edge of a crowded commercial street.
The older one sat upright on the ground with her back close to a wall. She was perhaps nine years old, thin enough that the bones at her wrists appeared too large for her arms.
Her blue dress was several sizes too big.
