If I weren’t a nurse, I would have predicted that she carried two babies in her womb. Her stomach was huge but not huge enough for two babies of at least 6.5 lb. each. I could tell she was a slim person, but her condition made her appear fat. Her skin was dark, covered in an orange abaya and her hair was tied in a messy turban. She came in alone, in a taxi whose driver was kind enough to escort her into the ward. This is where we met.
I often wondered how they lay in bed, how they shower, how they prostrate to the ground during prayer and occasionally, how they even sleep.
She had her right hand on her waist and her head bent towards the right side of her body. She complied with my colleagues and I as we guided her to an area in the labor ward. Nurse Fatou was the one to engage her in conversation to calm her nerves, and this is how we learnt that this would be her second child. The first was a boy, she said.
I stepped out to call for the only obstetrician on call and returned to tend to my last patient for the day. By the time the doctor had arrived - shortly after I - the patient’s legs were widely spread across a birth table and a cloth covered her knees down. Her vaginal examination was conducted by me. She was fully dilated and labor had already set in.
Dr. Jagne quickly rushed to her. Fatou was the one who stood beside her and told her to push. She was also the one whose hands were being harshly crushed. I remained at the vagina with Dr. Jagne, trying to get the baby out. She was losing a lot of blood and we could not even see the baby’s head. I yelled for another nurse and he came in a little later than I would have liked.
“We need blood! She’s losing too much of it.” I exclaimed to him.
He ran to collect the blood donation kit and returned to us. This time, he was quite fast.
“Who is her donor?” He asked.
Fatou asked the patient who she came in with as if she did not see her come in alone.
“I came alone.” The patient, whose name I did not get, said. “My husband is at work.”
Oh no.
Nurse Amadou learnt that her blood group was O+. When he went to the blood bank to find some for her, there was none. On the other hand, the baby’s head was still refusing to come forward. And blood was still being lost. Dr. Jagne augmented her and tried vacuum delivery but to no avail.
We decided to get the baby through a caesarean section. There was more blood loss and none to replace it. Although her husband was called long ago, by the time he arrived, he left only with one patient.
My mother used to say she does not comprehend how I manage to find humor in even the most heartbreaking things. I was twelve and unmoved by death. Even the death of my own father. While she and my sister cried, for days that turned to years, it was I who brought a humorous energy around. Sometimes she liked it. Other times she did not. And when she did not, I made an inner laugh when she said “someone could try to kill you and you would still laugh in his face” once.
I too do not comprehend how I manage to find humor in everything around me. From the death of my father, my sudden drop out from university, a thievery break in, to a change of homes, I laughed about it all.
The sun is very hot today. The weather app on my iPhone X says it is 32 degrees and it is only 11 A.M. My husband has gone to work and I just had a bowl of cornflakes for breakfast. It isn’t enough to feed two but I am too lazy to prepare a proper meal.
My sister, Yassin, and best friend, Aisha, were at my two bedroom - with a shared bathroom and a living room the size of my former study - house yesterday. They were the ones who prepared me a cheese omelette with baked beans and gave me a bowl of diverse fruits last night. Where my husband was, I haven’t the slightest idea. He says he works late sometimes. One time, while I was grocery shopping with him, we ran into his boss.
“Mr. Njie! You came shopping today.” His boss, Mr. Ndure said.
“Yes, yes. I did.” Habib said. He motioned to me. “Meet my wife. Fanta.”
The middle-aged man and I shook hands and exchanged polite greetings. Before we both went our separate ways, he said to my husband, “I think you should work less hours so you have time for your beautiful wife here.”
It has been two years since that encounter but Habib does not listen. Not to me, not to his boss. I wonder how he still has a job.
My work leave commences today. I am unsure of what to do with my life for the next two weeks other than cooking, eating, praying, cleaning, and sleeping. But I did that even with work to tend to.
Because work starts at 8 A.M, I usually wake up at 5 A.M to do the house chores – which isn’t much considering the size of the house. I then prepare a quick breakfast for Habib and I, do the dishes, and proceed to getting ready for work. This is usually the time he wakes up. Lately, I have been praying he wakes up moody or late just to avoid having the morning sex he likes so much.
I did not tell him I am pregnant. We wanted to wait for his business to fall into place, move out of this house and into a bigger one – one like the one I come from is how he describes our future home. But for someone who is aroused by the sight of me in a silky night gown and decides against the use of contraceptives, his mind is at too much ease about the chances of his wife getting pregnant.
The closest I have been to ultimate happiness was not the day I became a nurse, or the day I married the man I was so sheepishly in love with. It was when Dr. Jagne, told me I was three weeks pregnant.
I thought I was in love once. With my parents, my sister, my friends, my husband. Until I laid my hand on my stomach and felt a soul inside of me, I did not know that to love, wholly, was to pour your entire soul, heart, blood, energy, and prayers without desiring anything in return. This is the closest I have been to ultimate happiness.
My mother was the first to hear of the news. That woman must have told my sisters and Aisha the same minute I told her because when I messaged them less than fifteen minutes later, they were congratulating me. That was yesterday. That was why they came to my house. They are all unaware that Habib is unaware.
When I finish preparing benachin for lunch, I change into an African attire, wear a perfume by Victoria’s Secret – Pure Seduction is the scent I go with today. Habib should be home soon, so I arrange the living room, adjust the bedsheet in our room and head to the bedroom beside it. It has been empty except for the stool and baby cot since we moved here. The baby cot was a gift from Habib’s mother a year after our marriage. She indirectly insisted that we give her a grandchild. What she did not know is that it was her son who insisted that we wait before bringing a child into our lives. As much as I wanted a baby, I agreed with him. I wanted a real home for my children. One where they had everything they need - love, care, necessities, space, and an ideal environment to raise them in.
I hear the gate open as my phone rings. It is my mother. I roll my eyes and pick the call.
“Ma.” I say into the phone.
“Fanta! Where are you?” She sounds worried. “Habib doesn’t know you are pregnant?”
God. I really hope she was not too excited when she spoke to him. I had completely forgotten those two converse like high school crushers every other day.
“Not yet, what happened?” I close the door of the empty bedroom. I walk towards the living room.
“We were talking on the phone and I –”
I don’t hear what she says next because Habib screamed my name from outside the living room.
“Mama. I’ll call you back. Habib just got home.”
I end the call without waiting for a response. I adjust my top and open the door for my husband. I know he is displeased. He proves it by not greeting me.
“So I get to find out my own wife is pregnant through her mother?” He starts.
“I was going to tell you today.”
“You were what?” He shakes his head in disbelief.
“I prepared you benachin. I’m wearing your favorite perfume. The bed awaits us if you’re happy with it.”
“Fanta.” He is not happy.
He shakes his head and takes a seat on the brown colored couch.
“Your mother called me to ask that you move back in with her. She wants to ensure you are well treated and taken care of until the child is born. And guess my surprise.”
I sit beside him, resting my palm on his left shoulder. “I’m sorry. I should have told you when I found out –”
He cuts me off. “When did you find out?”
“Three days ago.”
He shakes and bows his head. But this is Habib. My Habib. I know my way around him like I know my way around getting my patients to be comfortable with me.
By sunset, my bare body is buried in his arms in the comfort of our bed as we talk about the plans for our child. It was unexpected, but we agree that perhaps it is a blessing from God for a greater blessing that awaits us.
The baby’s name is going to be Maryam if it is a girl. And Muhammed if it is a boy.
The following weeks went by like days and the months, like weeks. It is crazy how fast time moves when you are happy.
For the first time in my life, I noticed how much ample space my room had, how lovely the seamless curtains, and how cozy the fur blankets were. Though there were nights infused with meds, lack of sleep, frequent pain, and irritation by almost everything and everyone around me, I liked this period. Because at the back of my mind, I kept a constant reminder that I was nurturing a life. One with my blood, love, and soul.
When Habib and I first met, we were only young and in love. We thought only of the present moment. It surprised us both when we decided we wanted to spend our lives together. Me, because I knew Habib came from a lower class in society and is not as well-off as I was. Him, because he had promised not to go beyond his abilities of living. My mother was not exactly the most supportive of the both of us. When his family came to ask for my hand, she said to me, “it is not that I think we are above him. You know I do not think in such a manner. But you must also think of yourself, your future, and that of your children.” I remember sitting still, playing with my fingers on the couch where I sat, next to her. She went on. “Listen,” she took my hands in hers, “when a man marries a woman, he is supposed to raise her social status, and if he can’t, he must maintain hers; not lower it.”
“Ma, he will learn to maintain it. I know he will. And eventually, he will raise it.” At that, she only said she saw how much faith I had in him, and though it does not do away her worry, she will let me marry him. And she did. But not before making me swear to find my way back to her when I find it too hard. Yet after two years of marriage, not once did I go to her. Until recently.
I spent my two weeks of work leave with Habib. When I resumed work, I moved to my mother’s house like she asked. Habib was in full support of this as he said his mind would not be at ease while he is at work and I am left alone.
In the meantime, work is going so well for him. The house he is building for us at Jabang, an hour away from where we currently stay, is almost ready. It will not be ready by the time our angel is born, but it will be before he or she turns one. At this, my family and I were content.
Against my mother’s wishes, I chose not to ask for the sex of the child. I wanted it to be a surprise. More for myself than anyone honestly. The pregnancy faded the rest of the world out of existence. It was just my baby and I. He or she is expected to be born in a month.
The October weather in the Greater Banjul Area is a bipolar one. And it is every year. The sun radiates twice as much heat as it would the rest of the year – this is the time NAWEC forgets their responsibility as the nation’s only water and electricity supplier. The rainfalls are heavier, causing flood in homes, worsening the already damaged roads, and delaying work in the country. If you are lucky enough, the rain will calm your nerves as you lay in bed and cuddle yourself with a blanket. If you aren’t, you find yourself trying to make your way through the flood with the water up to your waist.
It is the twelfth day of October and Yassin and I are preparing for my last antenatal check-up. The sun is cruel today so Yassin is driving her new 2019 Ecosport Ford car. It was a gift from her fiancé. Unlike me, she found herself someone richer than the family she comes from; and what I admire about their story is that neither showcased family wealth when they met. It was merely a coincidence. A lucky one my mother was relieved at and I secretly envied.
My black and gold abaya is silky and free enough to allow me to lift it to the top of my large tummy but not obedient enough to stay that way when I tried to take a urine sample for my doctor. Yassin came in to help me. My blood pressure was taken and reported normal, my weight has immensely increased – as expected, and as I have no diabetic parent, I was safe to say I am not diabetic myself. Everything is fine with the pregnancy, the doctor says. I am expected to give birth to a very healthy baby.
During the drive back home, Habib calls me. He says he had a dream last night but its content sounds more like a nightmare. I do not understand why he used the term dream. Sometimes I wish he gave more attention to the words he uses with me, for he knows what a word sensitive person I am.
November came faster than the previous nine months went by. Within the blink of an eye, I found myself in a private room at the Banjul Hospital, covered in a hospital robe and cap, seized by nervousness, and tormented by the dissecting forceps and scissors at sight.
I occasionally look up at the ceiling painted in cream water paint. I focus on the source of the light at the center of the room. I imagine closing my eyes, feeling a pinch of immense pain and when I open them to the sight of the bulb again, my baby is in my arms. But I am a two-and-a-half-year-old nurse who has spent nights with laboring women. I know it does not work like that. It is not the way God has made it.
Fear, excitement, and anxiety run through my veins at the widening of my legs. Pain is what I feel at the dilation and effacement of my cervix. My contractions are inspired by Habib’s support through my right hand. My tears begin to fall, my screams are getting louder and the pain, more severe. Yet it is not this that worries me. It is the voices of the nurses. I hear them say I am bleeding heavily. I hear them say they think it would be better that I undergo episiotomy to prevent vaginal tears. I hear them say mothers need to stop circumcising their daughters. I hear them say my labor will be prolonged. Before I lose consciousness, I hear one of them say “we lose more mothers because of cultural norms.”
“Do you still have the nightmares?” Habib asked.
“Erm.” I sit up. “Not really, no. Not in a long time.”
“That’s good to hear.” He said.
“Why?”
“I had a dream last night.”
“Okay.” It comes out as a question.
“It was similar to the ones you used to have. Except in mine, it was not your patient’s blood you were drowning in.”
There is silence from both of us. I hear him take an intense breath. “It was yours. And our baby’s.”
My nostrils stopped functioning. Maybe for a minute, maybe for less. Or maybe it was more. I don’t know. It was not the only organ that stopped functioning though. My hand, my brain and mouth did too.
“Fanta?”
“Fanta?”
My mind is in space. I hear him call my name but I am unable to respond.
“Fanta!”
“Yes! Yes.” I see Yassin look at me through the rear view mirror. “Don’t worry. Allah will protect us.” I say into the phone. “Let’s just pray.”
He says okay. He ends the call and goes back to work. I lean on the window and stare outside until I get back to my mother’s house.
It’s crazy how pain can bring you back to life. I thought I was gone. I was still in the hospital. Habib was still beside me. I was now pushing again. And screaming. And crying. One push comes after the other. This push is not like the rest though. This push has me arched and drowning in my own sweat. I am relieved when I see that it is the push that brings me my baby boy.
How small he is. Soaked in blood and wailing like the troubles of this world just touched him. For me, it is as if the pain I had been feeling for the past hours never happened. The nurses bring him to me and my husband. We hold him together and we smile. Neither of us has ever been happier.
“Oh our little Muhammed.” I say. “Muhammed.”
It is not long before I feel myself fading. Slowly fading out of existence. My body is at its weakest. I feel my heart beating slower. My baby’s weight is now too heavy for me to carry. I slowly pass him to his father. I watch him leave the room. I know he is going to show the baby to his grandparents and aunt.
I am left alone with the nurse who is tidying up the room. She turns to check on me. She sees what I feel. Without so much strength in me, I laugh at the sight of her rushing out of the room.
Left in solitary with no support, I understand what my patient from two years ago was feeling. How sad it must be, to bring a life into the world at the cost of your own.
I look at the ceiling again. I focus on the source of light; until I become it.
Women who have had Female Genital Mutilation (FGM) are significantly more likely to experience difficulties during childbirth and that their babies – or themselves – are more likely to die as a result of the practice.
One woman dies per minute in childbirth around the globe. Almost half of these deaths occur in Sub-Saharan Africa. In The Gambia, 579 deaths for every 100,000 live births.