Debola. Debola, Debola!” Moya cried, her voice cracking under the strain of her anguish.
“Debola, wake up!” She shook the child in her arms as if she could will her back to life, her desperate cries echoing off the sterile green walls of the hospital room.
The doctor who had stepped in to confirm Debola’s death just two minutes earlier stood silently in the background, his arms tucked behind him. This scene, though heart-wrenching, was far too familiar to him—an unavoidable part of his job. He lingered for a moment, debating whether to approach Moya with the necessary paperwork for her daughter’s death certificate. Her grief showed no signs of abating, so he quietly slipped out, deciding to return later.
Thirty minutes later, Dr. Rumi returned, a stack of forms in hand. He found Moya sitting beside her daughter’s covered body, tears streaking her face as she spoke softly into her phone.
“Hello, Yara,” Moya said, her voice trembling. She gripped the device like a lifeline, tears dripping onto the screen.
On the other end, Yara, her older sister, recognized the distress immediately. Her heart skipped, dread rising as she imagined every possible reason for Moya’s tone.
“What is it, Moya? Why does your voice sound like this?” Yara demanded, the tension in her voice betraying her fear.
“It’s Debola,” Moya managed, her words catching in her throat.
“What happened to her?” Yara’s tone sharpened, her mind racing. But what she was about to hear was beyond anything she could have imagined.
“She’s not waking up,” Moya whispered, the weight of reality choking her. The words felt like a death sentence in themselves, and saying anything more would cement the nightmare into reality.
“Talk, na!” Yara snapped, her frustration tinged with desperation.
“She’s not waking up!” Moya sobbed into the phone. “She’s gone, Yara! She’s gone…”
The sound of those words jolted Yara into action. She shot up from her office chair, grabbed her bag, and bolted for the door without a word to her colleagues. “Where are you?” she demanded.
“We’re at Memorial Hospital,” Moya choked out.
“I’m on my way,” Yara replied, already hurrying toward her car.
As the call ended, Dr. Rumi, who had been standing quietly in the corner, saw his opportunity. He approached cautiously, clutching the form in his hand. “Ma’am, I’m very sorry for your loss,” he began, his voice neutral. Without waiting for a response, he pressed on. “We need to complete a form for your daughter’s death certificate. It won’t take long.”
Moya stared at him blankly, her grief too heavy to allow for indignation. When she didn’t reach for the form, she asked, “Can you just read the questions to me? I’ll answer them.”
Nodding, Dr. Rumi retrieved a black pen from his chest pocket and began. “Mother’s name?”
“Her biological mother’s name was Benedicta Olaiya,” Moya said, stopping him mid-stroke.
Dr. Rumi’s head jerked up, curiosity flashing across his face. “She’s adopted?” he asked.
Moya nodded, her voice breaking. “Yes. My husband and I adopted her when she was a baby. Her mother was just 16 when she gave birth and died in the process. I… I couldn’t have children of my own.”
As tears spilled down her cheeks, Moya’s voice cracked further. “Debola was my everything…”
But for Dr. Rumi, Moya’s words triggered something entirely different. Memories of another little girl flooded his mind—a girl brought into the hospital during his first year of rotations. She’d been badly injured, and her adoptive parents claimed it was a playground accident. He had suspected abuse but had remained silent, unsure of his instincts. Days later, the same girl had been brought in unconscious, beaten and discarded on the side of the road.
The memory cemented in him a dark belief: It’s impossible to truly love a child who isn’t your own.
The moment Moya mentioned Debola’s adoption, alarms blared in his mind. He immediately jumped to conclusions. Without informing her or asking a single follow-up question, he turned on his heel, walked briskly out of the room, and pulled out his phone. He called a contact at the police station, detailing his suspicions with calculated precision. To him, there was no doubt: Moya’s negligence had caused her daughter’s death.
When the police arrived, Dr. Rumi pointed them toward the grieving mother. His smirk was barely concealed as he watched the officers march down the hallway toward Moya, who was still seated by her daughter’s lifeless form. She had yet to lift the white sheet covering Debola, unable to face the sight of her once-lively child reduced to a cold, still body. Her mind screamed at her to preserve the memory of Debola’s laughter and warmth, knowing this last image would haunt her forever.
The officers entered the room, their voices curt and authoritative. “You’re under arrest for neglect,” one of them said, snapping handcuffs onto Moya’s wrists before she could process what was happening.
“What do you mean, neglect?” she asked weakly, her voice cracking with exhaustion and disbelief.
The officers didn’t bother to answer. They pulled her to her feet and began marching her out of the hospital. Moya didn’t resist. She had no strength left to fight. Hours of wailing had drained her completely, leaving her hollow and numb.
Yara arrived just as the police were escorting Moya into the back of their vehicle. “Where are you taking my sister?” she demanded, her voice trembling with anger. But Moya didn’t answer, and the officers ignored her entirely. Without hesitation, Yara jumped into her car and followed them to the police station.
At the station, Yara was given the shocking details of Moya’s arrest. She protested fiercely, but the officers informed her that bail was not an option for now. They claimed Moya’s actions—or lack thereof—warranted further investigation.
That night, Moya sat in a cold, dimly lit holding cell, her hands wrapped around her knees. Sleep was impossible. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the white sheet draped over Debola’s body, the outline of her daughter’s form seared into her memory. Her grief was compounded by disbelief—how had her love for Debola been twisted into something so vile in the eyes of strangers?
The following morning, Moya was transferred to a medium-security prison, where she would remain until a decision was made about her case. Her heart ached with the weight of injustice, but the deepest pain came from knowing she was no longer able to grieve her sweet girl in peace.
