When the nurse handed her the baby, it had already become like stone. It still wore its yellow duck diaper from the morning, which was now damp from the wetness of its last stool. The baby felt warm against Larinbanga’s wrist. Its arms were fixed on its chest as though rigour had caught it halfway through reaching for someone and its eyes stared back at her through half-closed lids.
Abena, her older sister, stood behind the nurse with her arms crossed over her belly, watching the two of them, slowly shaking her head. This is a tragedy, and she feels for her dear sister.
‘Don’t hold her too long,’ Abena said. Her voice was rough from crying. ‘You don’t want her spirit attaching itself to your womb.’
Larinbanga nodded. She tried to remember the name she had given it so she could say it one last time, but her mind emptied each time she reached for it. When she handed the child back to the nurse, she noticed one of her fingernails had been bitten too far down and the flesh was now exposed. Larinbanga had placed her finger in her mouth then and begun chewing at it again.
‘I will ask Michael to bring Pastor Abraham when he is coming,’ Abena said, moved to the table by the bed and began to pack the clothes they had brought to welcome the baby. ‘He must pray over your womb. Affliction will not rise a second time.’
Larinbanga fought the urge to tell her to shut up. A patch of wetness spread on her chest and she pressed her palms against it, willing it to stop. Each time she moved, her nipples felt raw against her blouse. The idea of Pastor Abraham laying his thick fingers again on her stomach filled her with dread and disgust. He had done the same to her three days earlier after she had been split open from childbirth. She remembered the fan turning on the ceiling without blowing any air while his stubby hands pressed hard into her stomach, her breath held. He prayed over her womb like it was a doorway God had carelessly left unlocked.
‘… because the enemy doesn’t rest, La La. That’s the thing people don’t understand,’ Abena was saying. ‘The devil doesn’t knock before he enters.’
Larinbanga said nothing. She pushed herself up from the chair, one hand holding steadily to the drip stand and the other pressed to her stomach to hold herself together from the outside. She moved slowly, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. She pulled her lips together and pushed them forward, holding them that way until she reached the bed where the dead thing had rested only moments before. She lifted the pillow and held it tightly against her chest, moved it close to her nose and breathed in the faint smell of milk and baby powder.
Abena stopped mid-rant. She set down the box she had been holding and crossed to Larinbanga. She tilted Larinbanga’s head up towards her with a finger under the chin and studied her face.
‘Are you okay?’ She asked. Larinbanga held back laughter and shrugged.
‘Just water,’ Larinbanga said. ‘Very chilled, please.’
Abena stood still for a moment before stepping closer. ‘Don’t worry, my dear. God will reward you like Hannah.’
‘Only water,’ She repeated, pressing the pillow tighter into her chest, swaying steadily from side to side.
Abena nodded, made her way to the door, but stopped in her tracks. Her hand on the door handle for a moment too long, her eyes tracked the swaying of the pillow. ‘I will get it,’ she said and left.
Alone, Larinbanga hummed softly into the pillow. Then the baby’s name returned to her. Edinam, named after her husband’s grandmother. She and Michael had argued over it at the early stage of her pregnancy. She wanted to name her Esther or Ruth or one of those good bible women, but in the end, he had won. Edinam. Edi-nam. Larinbanga hummed; the tightness in her arms eased as if they had found the shape they had been looking for. Her breast ached, and milk came, leaking slowly through her blouse. She pulled the pillow tightly into her chest and lowered herself onto the bed. She swayed where she sat, rocking the pillow the way she had practised holding her baby. Then she heard it, a small cooing in her ears. Larinbanga’s eyes searched the room, moving from the chair to the door to the table with the baby’s clothes but found nothing. The coo coo continued.
She looked down again and found her baby. There in her arms. Her chest filled with a joy so sudden and violent that it felt like it was breaking loose inside her. In that moment, she understood why mothers did terrible things to protect their children, the ones who ran into fires, who buried their own hunger to feed their children. She would have done any of it, and she felt afraid suddenly. She was afraid of what shape her love would take if it were taken away from her again. She wrapped her arms around the pillow and started humming a lullaby her mother taught her.
The light from the hallway came through as the door was pushed open. Larinbanga looked up and saw the doctor enter. Her joy folded inside her, strewing about like a flock of birds startled away from their perching.
‘Madam Larinbanga,’ the doctor began, his voice low and soft, like how one would talk to a child. Larinbanga had no need for that. ‘I know this is not easy. But you will be fine. This is not your fault,’ he added.
She looked at him, saying nothing. She just hummed the lullaby in a low note.
‘Your sister says your husband will be here soon. After you speak with him, we will give you something to help you sleep.’
Larinbanga wanted to ask him questions but her mouth refused to form any word, so she simply nodded and lowered her eyes back to the baby in her arms. She smiled at the dark-brown, curious eyes staring up at her. She rocked from side to side. The doctor’s eyes moved from Larinbanga’s face to the pillow, then shifted his gaze almost as swiftly as he had looked. He adjusted her IV line and straightened the charts at the foot of the bed. He looked at Larinbanga again, for a moment, smiled briefly and then left.
Abena entered the room holding two bottles of water.
‘This one has block,’ she said, holding up the bottle that was coated with frost. ‘This one is just cold. Which one do you want, sister?’
Without waiting for an answer, she opened the cold one. Walking over to Larinbanga, she reached for the pillow in her hand. Larinbanga leaned back and, with a surprising gusto, snatched it out of Abena’s grip. The two women watched each other—Abena, with furrowed eyebrows and Larinbanga, with chilling, wide, panicked eyes. What Abena saw, she had only watched a mother hen react that way when a hawk circled above her chicks. She stepped back and held the bottle out to Larinbanga, who took the water with one hand and kept the other wrapped around the pillow.
Abena’s phone rang. She glanced at the screen and the concern on her face dissolved instantly.
‘Thank God,’ She breathed. ‘Michael is here.’ She picked up the second bottle, opened it and began gulping down the water loudly. The plastic crumpled inward with each swallow, crackling as the water around the ice disappeared. Abena sighed with satisfaction. Larinbanga let out a small chuckle. The sound startled Abena. She lowered the bottle from her face. Her eyes found Larinbanga’s and stayed there. Then her face softened.
‘It’s funny, eh?’ she said, laughing. Larinbanga joined in.
Michael walked in to find the two women drowning in their laughter, the crackling of their voices filling the room. His body filled the doorway. Abena, teary-eyed, stopped laughing abruptly when she turned towards the doorway.
‘Where’s my daughter?’ He asked, his eyes moving from one woman to the other.
‘Edinam is sleeping. Sssshhhs, don’t wake her up,’ Larinbanga replied.
Michael turned to Abena, brow raised, who averted her gaze when his eyes fell on her. The room fell into silence.
Pastor Abraham’s small frame appeared from behind Michael and shuffled inside.
‘For those who sleep in the Lord shall rise again,’ he said. ‘Death is not the end for the children of God.’
‘Pastor…’ Abena and Michael said in unison.
Pastor Abraham walked toward the bed and pulled the pillow from Larinbanga’s arms and flung it behind him.
‘My baby!’ Larinbanga shouted, jerked upward and flung Pastor Abraham’s hand before it could touch her. The baby lay near Larinbanga’s thigh, crying. She reached for it.
‘Edinam…’
‘My daughter,’ Pastor Abraham said, placing his hand on her stomach. ‘My child, sorry, sorry. This womb of yours will never produce dead children again.’
‘Amen,’ Abena said breathlessly. ‘Amen.’
Larinbanga cradled the pillow.
‘My baby. Edinam.’
‘La, la.’ Michael leaned closer to her, his face so close to her; his breath hit her face when he spoke. ‘Let Pastor finish. He is helping us.’ He stepped forward, gently took her hand from the pillow, and held it. His hands were warm, too warm. They reminded her of the baby’s warm buttocks when she held her dead body.
‘Leave me,’ she bellowed.
Michael bent toward her. ‘La, please. Let him finish. Edinam is gone,’ Michael said.
‘The room went silent again. Pastor Abraham’s mouth closed in the middle of uttering in tongues. His eyes moved from Michael to Larinbanga, whose eyes were fixed on her husband. The words reached her like a hand across the face. She had held the child herself, smelled powder and stool and death on her skin, but hearing him say it aloud tore something open inside her.
‘No,’ she said.
Michael’s face softened and that softness enraged her more than the words had.
‘La.’
‘No.’
'Every spirit of denial, we bind you in the name of Jesus,’ Pastor Abraham pressed harder. Larinbanga’s head snapped toward him. The pillow lay beside her thigh now. She could see the corner where her milk had soaked through her blouse and into the cloth. She reached for it. Michael caught her wrist. She opened her mouth and what came out did not sound like her own voice.
It was so loud that Abena stumbled backwards. The water bottle fell from her hand and rolled under the chair.
‘Jesus!’ Abena cried.
Larinbanga twisted against Michael’s grip. Pastor Abraham’s hand slipped from her stomach as she bucked upward, reaching for the pillow.
‘My baby!’ she screamed. ‘Give me my baby!’
‘Hold her,’ Pastor Abraham shouted. ‘Hold her down.’
Michael grabbed both of her wrists; his mouth was open, and for the first time since he walked into the room, she saw the same emotion that was tearing through her moving across his face.
‘Larinbanga, stop. Stop it.’ He shouted.
But all she could hear was Edinam. Her soft little coo from beneath the pillow. Her child was waiting and these people had placed their hands on her, blocking her as if their prayer could substitute for the milk her baby needed.
‘Give her to me!’ Larinbanga screamed.
‘Pastor! Pastor, do something!’ Abena screamed.
Pastor Abraham raised both hands above her body.
‘In the name of Jesus, I command every strange spirit to lose her!’
Larinbanga laughed. She pulled one hand free and struck at Michael’s chest. He staggered back just enough for her fingers to brush the pillow. The moment she touched it, relief flooded through her. Then Pastor Abraham snatched it away. Something left Larinbanga. She lunged so violently that the IV line tugged at her arm and the metal stand rattled against the floor.
‘Ei, God. Ei, God. Pastor, she is not herself.’ Abena said, placing her hands on her head. She is under attack,’ Pastor Abraham shouted, clapping his hands.
Michael pressed her shoulders down.
‘Call the nurse.’
Abena ran out. Larinbanga thrashed beneath his weight. She hated the size of him. She hated his height, his strength and her helplessness equally.
‘Edinam,’ she cried. Her voice broke around the name. ‘Edinam, I am here.’
Pastor Abraham stood between her and the pillow. He spoke in fast tongues and in English equally well.
‘Every familiar spirit, every spirit of death that has followed this woman from her mother’s house, I command you to catch fire!’
‘Don’t burn my baby!’ Larinbanga screamed.
Michael’s grip loosened as the words came out. Larinbanga turned her head slowly toward the pillow. It sat on the chair behind Pastor Abraham. It looked small and soft, like Edinam when she came out of her and now it had been abandoned.
‘Please, ’ she whispered. 'Please. She is cold.'
The door burst open. Two nurses entered first, followed by the doctor. Abena hovered behind them, crying openly, both hands pressed to the sides of her head.
'What happened?' the doctor asked.
'She is manifesting,' Pastor Abraham said. 'Doctor, give us space.'
'No.' The doctor’s voice was sharp. 'Move away from my patient.'
'She needs prayer.'
'She needs help.'
Larinbanga reached again for the pillow. 'Please. My baby is there.'
The doctor’s eyes moved from her face to the pillow and back. Something changed in his expression and she hated that too.
'Madam Larinbanga,' he said carefully. 'Listen to me. You are safe.'
'No.'
'You are in the hospital.'
'No.'
'We are going to give you something to help you rest.'
'No!' She tried to rise again.
Michael held her down. The nurses moved to either side of the bed. There were hands everywhere, holding her down. They were on her shoulders, on her arm, her thighs. There were hands adjusting the IV. All of them certain of their purpose, none of them hers.
Larinbanga screamed until her throat tore. Abena screamed with her. Pastor Abraham prayed louder. Michael kept saying her name. The doctor kept saying ‘hold her steady’. The room became a crowd of mouths and fingers and white coats and sweat and scripture. Then the needle entered her arm. Cold moved through her from where she was pricked. She tried to hold on. At first to the rage because it had shape. Then to the pillow, because the pillow had weight. Then to Edinam’s coo, which had neither shape nor weight but was the realest thing in the room.
Michael’s face leaned over hers. She looked at him for a long time. She had loved this man. She could remember loving this man. The memory of that love sat inside her chest. His mouth moved but she could not hear him anymore.
The ceiling rose higher. The light thinned. She turned her head toward the pillow one last time. It sat on the chair where Pastor Abraham had left it. The corner was still damp where her milk had soaked through her blouse and into the cloth.
She watched it until she could no longer keep her eyes open. She watched it as the room went dark, until there was only the smell of powder, milk and the warmth of a small body she could not stop feeling in her arms. She only held on to the cooing.
Yeayi Kobina has a background in journalism and history. His writing reflects his interest in stories that blend historical settings with fantastical elements. He was the joint recipient of the Tampered Press Manuscript Prize in 2025, longlisted for the Commonwealth Short Story Prize in 2026 and Longlisted for the Gently Rippling Waves poetry competition (2025). His stories have been published by Flame Tree Press, Isele, Nenta and Ubawli.
Photo by Skylight Views