“Do whatever you must. I’m not afraid. I carried you in my womb. No test can change that.”
Later that afternoon, Agu’s private physician arrived at the mansion with two lab technicians. The drawing room was transformed into a quiet testing space. The team spoke respectfully, almost reverently, as though they knew something sacred was taking place.
Swabs were taken from both mother and son—inside the cheeks, a few drops of blood, sealed in sterile containers.
“Results in seventy-two hours,” the doctor promised.
As they left, Sarah exhaled deeply.
“Three days,” she said to herself. “After waiting thirty-nine years, what is three more days?”
Agu squeezed her hand.
“I’ll wait with you.”
Those three days were the most peaceful Sarah had ever known.
Every morning, Agu took breakfast with her under the shade of the bougainvillea in the courtyard. She told him stories of his father, a soft-spoken bricklayer with dreams too big for his humble hands.
“He used to hum while working,” she recalled. “He would hold you up and say, ‘This one will change the world.’ And look at you now.”
Agu was quiet for a while before whispering, “I wish he could see me today.”
“He does,” she replied. “From heaven.”
Each night they sat in the cinema room watching old Nollywood films. She laughed at the dramatic scenes, and he laughed at her laughter. She wore gowns he bought her, ate meals she could barely pronounce, and slept like royalty.
But at dawn, she still woke up weeping softly into her pillow.
Years of pain do not vanish overnight.
On the third evening, as the sky turned purple with sunset, Agu’s assistant walked into the living room with an envelope.
“Sir, the test results.”
Silence fell.
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