Ten minutes later, Mansa had moved to the kitchen, glass of water in hand, still staring at the phone as if it might start lying to her.
"You could be lying," she whispered. She pointed at the screen like a teacher scolding a student. "I've learned to never trust witnesses who don't speak back."
She took a long sip, set the glass down, and sighed. "One test. That's all I have. One tiny test strip to decide the fate of my entire life. Ridiculous."
She tapped her contacts until she found the one person who could confirm this properly.
Aba. Calm, collected, and trained to handle exactly this kind of panic.
Mansa pressed the call button.
The line rang once. Twice.
"Hello?" Aba's familiar voice came through.
"Aba," Mansa said quickly, excitement and nerves tangled in her words.
A pause. "Mansa? You sound like someone who has either won the lottery or been arrested."
"Neither," Mansa said, though her voice betrayed her hope.
Aba sighed. "Alright… explain."
"I did a test."
"And?"
"It says positive."
Silence. Then Aba said carefully, "You think you're pregnant?"
"I don't think. The test says so," Mansa replied firmly.
Aba chuckled. "Mansa, you cross-examine witnesses every day in court, yet now you're arguing with a piece of plastic?"
"Exactly why I'm calling you," Mansa said, her voice a mixture of seriousness and humor.
"Hmm," Aba replied, amused. "You have not changed."
"Of course not," Mansa said proudly. "Consistency is key."
"Alright," Aba said patiently. "Let's ask the necessary questions."
Mansa straightened like she was standing in a courtroom. "Proceed."
"Relax, counselor. This is not a courtroom."
"Habits die hard," Mansa said with a small smile.
Aba asked gently, "How many tests did you take?"
"One."
"Mansa."
"Exactly why I'm calling you!"
Aba laughed softly. "Okay, and any dizziness? Nausea?"
"No, not yet."
"Good," Aba said. "Breathe."
"I am breathing."
"You sound like you're preparing to argue before the Supreme Court."
"Well, this is important!" Mansa replied.
"I know," Aba said with a laugh.
"Come see me at the hospital, i was about to go home, but for our friendship sake, i can spare some few time.", Aba said.
Aba carried out the necessary tests and asked Mansa to go home , she will be called when ready.
A few quiet moments passed(about an hour and half), then Aba called. She said more gently, "Mansa… I am going to say this calmly so you do not faint."
"I never faint," Mansa said, a little defensively.
"You are pregnant," Aba said simply.
The words landed softly—but inside Mansa, they exploded like fireworks.
Mansa froze, a flood of emotions running through her.
"Mansa?" Aba asked gently.
"I… yes…" she whispered, not trusting her voice.
"Are you sitting down?"
She realized she had perched herself on a kitchen stool without noticing. "Yes," she said.
"Good," Aba continued. "Because I would not want to be responsible for you collapsing dramatically on the kitchen floor."
Mansa let out a shaky laugh. "Are you sure?"
"Yes," Aba said. "I am sure."
Five years of waiting—five years of quiet longing, whispered prayers, and careful hope—all came rushing back at once.
The nights of lying awake with John, staring at the ceiling, pretending not to think about this.
The months of visiting hospitals and keeping hope alive quietly, alone.
A single, loud, joyful tear slipped down Mansa's face.
Aba laughed softly. "Those sound like tears."
"They are," Mansa admitted.
"Good tears," Aba said gently. "The kind that have waited patiently for five years. Let them flow."
Mansa wiped her face. "I don't even know how to tell John."
"Simply say it," Aba suggested.
"Too simple," Mansa replied with a mischievous grin. "I want to make him sweat a little first."
"Please do not give the man a heart attack," Aba said, laughing.
"No promises," Mansa replied.
She hung up and stared at the city lights again, a giddy sense of anticipation rising in her chest.
Yes, tonight everything could change.
And she would make sure it did—dramatically.