She timed them carefully, breathing through the pain the way she had read in the books. When they were five minutes apart, she called Aisha, who helped her into the waiting taxi. The drive to the hospital felt eternal. Margaret gripped her niece’s hand and whispered encouragement to the baby the entire way.
The maternity ward was brightly lit and bustling. They took her straight to an examination room. Margaret changed into a hospital gown with Aisha’s help and lay back on the bed, smiling despite the pain.
When the young doctor on duty, Dr. Karim Bensouda, entered the room, he was all professional energy—until he saw her.
“Mrs. Ekwensi?” he asked, glancing at the chart. His eyebrows shot up. “Sixty-five?”
“Yes,” she said proudly. “And ready to meet my child.”
Dr. Bensouda performed a quick external exam, then asked her to lie back. He lifted the gown. The belly that emerged was enormous—tight, shiny, veined, and far larger than even the most overdue pregnancies he had ever seen. He placed his hands on it, palpating gently, and his expression changed from professional concern to outright confusion.
He called for the attending obstetrician, Dr. Nadia Farouk.
Dr. Farouk, a no-nonsense woman with twenty years of experience, entered briskly. She examined Margaret, then stepped back. The two doctors conferred in low, urgent voices near the door. More staff were called. Whispers turned into a small crowd.
Finally, Dr. Farouk turned to Margaret, her face pale.
“Ma’am… forgive us, but… what was your doctor thinking?”
Margaret’s smile faltered. “What do you mean?”
Dr. Bensouda rubbed his face. “Mrs. Ekwensi, you are not in labor. You are not even pregnant.”
The room went deathly silent except for the steady beeping of the fetal monitor that had been attached to her belly.
