Rita's POV
I wake up cold. Not the shivering kind just the sort that wraps around your spine and settles in your chest like early morning doubt. It's not the usual nausea either. That seems to have given me a break today. For once. But in its place is this strange exhaustion, like my bones spent the night climbing a hill I don't remember dreaming about.
My fingers find the soft throw blanket at the edge of the bed and I wrap it tighter around my shoulders. The room is dim. Curtains closed. The silence… too still.
I sit up slowly, one hand resting on the slight curve of my belly. Almost fourteen weeks now. Just crossing the invisible bridge between the first and second trimester. The books say energy should be returning, that I should be glowing. But today, I feel like a bulb that's been flickering for too long.
I sit there a long time. Not moving. Not thinking in a way that's useful. Just staring into space, watching my reflection in the black screen of the television. I look... blank. But not empty. Just paused. Like someone waiting for a reason to press play again.
A small voice creeps into my head.
Is this all worth it?
The digging. The case. The risks. The late nights reading depositions and encrypted emails. The heaviness of other women's stories piled on top of my own. The constant tension in my chest every time I feel Kolade's shadow brushing past a memory. The dread that one day he might come back, not for money, but for silence.
What if we never get justice? What if this all just becomes a cautionary tale? One more whispered tragedy women share in the safety of restrooms and private chats?
I shake my head and push the blanket off. No. I can't go there this morning. Not with a heartbeat inside me depending on mine to stay steady.
+++
I pull on a loose top and flat shoes and fix my scarf into a simple wrap. No makeup. No earrings. Just Rita.
The drive to Mariam's office is slow. Lagos is already awake and impatient. Keke horns. Guttural danfo brakes. The city doesn't pause for anyone's internal storms.
When I get to the firm, the front desk security guy recognizes me immediately. "Ah! Aunty Rita, welcome. Long time o."
I manage a polite smile. "Good morning, Dare."
He stands quickly to open the inner glass door. "Mariam dey upstairs. I think say dem dey for that small conference room wey una dey use."
"Thank you."
I walk up. The hallway smells of coffee and toner ink oddly grounding. At the far end, I hear muffled voices. Laughter. I push the door gently.
Inside, Gloria is bent over her laptop, glasses perched halfway down her nose. Mariam stands by the whiteboard, mid-sentence. Hauwa and Jumoke are seated, deep in conversation. Toyin is sprawled comfortably on a chair, barefoot, her notebook open on her lap.
They all look up when I enter.
"Rita," Mariam smiles. "You look… rested."
"Just not throwing up today," I say, which earns a round of chuckles.
I settle into the empty seat between Gloria and Hauwa. Toyin slides me a bottle of orange juice. "Low sugar," she says. "I googled your cravings."
"You mean my low blood sugar?"
"Same thing. Google agrees."
We go over what they've found so far new details on shell companies Kolade used, inconsistencies in Nse's signature on old documents, one more woman who reached out anonymously but hasn't yet agreed to meet.
They're efficient. Focused. Stronger than I remember any of us being alone.
"I'll be back in two hours," I say when the meeting winds down. "Hospital appointment."
Mariam nods. "Text if you need anything."
+++
The hospital feels colder than usual.
Maybe it's the AC. Maybe it's the sterile quiet. Or maybe it's just me today.
The nurse recognizes me. Leads me in. We go through the routine weight, blood pressure, the usual checks. Then they draw blood.
I don't flinch.
I've had worse things pulled from me without consent.
When the doctor walks in, she's kind, but brisk. A woman in her early forties with confident eyes and tightly coiled braids tucked into a net.
She flips through the chart. "Your PCV is 27 percent."
I frown. "That's low?"
"It's below the recommended range for this stage of pregnancy, yes. You're in your second trimester. Ideally, you should be above 30, closer to 33."
I blink. "Okay. What does that mean?"
"It means your body's iron levels are dropping faster than they should. It's not alarming yet, but it can lead to fatigue, dizziness, and in extreme cases, complications."
"I've been feeling tired. More than usual."
She nods. "That's likely why. You'll need to increase your iron intake more leafy vegetables, beans, red meat if you tolerate it. Also fruits rich in vitamin C to help absorption. And I'll prescribe some supplements to boost your levels."
I nod slowly, processing.
"Stress can also affect your body's ability to absorb nutrients. Are you under stress?"
I give a soft, dry laugh. "I think that's my baseline right now."
Her gaze softens. "You need to slow down a bit. Rest more. Even emotional stress is physical when you're growing a life."
I nod again, more out of politeness than commitment.
She places a hand gently on my wrist. "Take care of yourself, Mrs. Amadi. The baby feels everything you feel."
Those words stay with me long after I leave the building.
+++
On my way home, I stop at the supermarket and linger longer than necessary in the produce aisle. I pick up fresh oranges, garden eggs, dates, spinach, and packs of tiger nuts. Not because I suddenly crave them but because I need to feel like I'm doing something right.
A woman in a faded Ankara wrapper smiles at me near the cashier. She doesn't know who I am. What I've been through. She just sees another woman shopping on a Tuesday afternoon. That, too, feels grounding.
When I get home, I don't go straight to bed.
I clean the kitchen. Slice the fruit. Pack meals into containers. And then sit on the balcony with a glass of water and a notebook.
I start a new page.
> "I am not just chasing justice. I am protecting the life inside me from ever being touched by the kind of silence that let this happen to me. This is more than a case now. This is legacy."
I pause. Let the words settle.
Then I close the notebook and lean back.
The wind is gentle. For once, the air doesn't feel like it's pressing down on my chest.
I exhale.
And for the first time in days, I feel… light.
Not because the weight is gone.
But because I've remembered why I carry it.