AFRICAN FICTION: Taking Sandra For Abortion (3) - An Original Short Story

For thirty minutes or thereabouts, Sam did not hear anything from either Dr. Woo or the chubby nurse who had received himself and Sandra at the reception.

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Occasionally, Sam would bite his fingers, shaking his head. At intervals, he paused and stared at the white ceiling above him and the swirling, sneezing ceiling fan glued to it. I will never forgive myself for impregnating Sandra, Sam said to himself before whispering the words, Lord, let this cup pass over me.

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And frankly speaking, it was a heavy cup, one that could send both Sam and Dr. Woo to prison should anything untoward happen. Sam still could not imagine how he ended up being a hero in the embarrassing novel of Sandra's pregnancy.

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While Sam was still quite lost in the valley of his own thoughts, he heard what seemed like a whisper of his name, Sam

"Y-es" Sam stammered, raising up his head and splitting out a tiny fingernail that was dancing on his serrated tongue. "Did you call me?"

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By now the chubby nurse was standing on the edge of the passage that led to the theatre.
"Yes, I called you. Dr. Woo immediately needs your attention at the theatre."

"Ok-ay" Sam stuttered again, as confused as a monkey on an electric pole. He hoped that Sandra was not dead and that Dr. Woo's call was not to break the doleful news to him.

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The chubby nurse led the way while Sam quietly followed. They soon arrived at a large room with a stretcher that had Sandra lying on it. Her legs, spreading apart to form a letter Y, were hanged like a roasted full chicken cooling off in an oven. Sandra looked away when her eyes fell on Sam's. The stench of drugs and blood and water filled the air.

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"I have invited you here, so that you'll see for yourself," Dr. Woo said, clanging the giant pair of scissors in his hand. "Sandra's pregnancy is over four months old and you'll have to pay me some extra money. You remember our bargain - the bigger the head, the tougher the headache it experiences?

" Yes sir," Sam answered dumfounded. He couldn't believe what Dr. Woo had just disclosed. If Dr. Woo was correct, which was most likely the case, then it would mean that Sandra was carrying another man's baby not his, for the first and only time he had carnal knowledge of Sandra was about a month ago.

"Are you doubtful, my friend," Dr. Woo looked at Sam, stroking his grey beards. "See the bucket yonder."

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Sam turned his neck at the direction where Dr. Woo had pointed. There, a few yards away, was a bucket, half filled with blood and what seemed like the intestine of a chicken.
"I have evacuated four buckets from Sandra already. Based on my years of experience, if Sandra was truly a month pregnant, one bucket should be enough."

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"Who impregnated you Sandra?" Sam asked, angry and irritated, "why did you choose to implicate me for the consequences of another man's action?" Tears rolled down Sam cheeks. He felt robbed and betrayed.

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"I am really sorry. Please forgive me, Uncle Sam. How can I tell the Reverend father of our parish, who is expected to be celibate, that he is responsible for my pregnancy. Please forgive me, Uncle Sam.

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Without uttering a single word, Sam handed the outstanding balance to Dr. Woo and left the theatre without saying, goodbye. At that point, the outcome of the abortion, good or bad, life or death, did not matter. The culprit was a priest and the saviour was a quack.

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The End.

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