MAMA (Diary Of A Strong Black Mother)

“Nneka! Nne Nne! Bring those oranges inside and lock them up quickly. Okwa ifu na mmiri na abia? Can’t you see that the cloud is crying already?”

I said as I dabbed off the sweat that trickled from my lower jaw down to my cleavage. The sky was tar-black and the large clouds were moving towards me. 

I watched as people ran for cover outside and the traders opened their umbrellas above their stand. The clouds spat out their beads of water. Puddles began plinking as the rainfall became heavier.

Supporting my lower chin with my left hand and waving my plastic fan with the right, I thought of the burden of having to get my husband, Dike, out of work early to get me home in his Keke Napep, until something else stole my attention. I grinned and shook my head as Nneka, my 6-year-old child, struggled to gather as many oranges beneath her oversized brown shirt while hunting for those that rolled across the wet ground. Probably they were running off from the bad odour her shirt emitted from the plenty of sweat that trickled down her dark skin. 

“Just bring those inside first, then you can pack udara later. Inugo?”, I said, as my shoulders danced to the rhythm of my laughter. She ran like a happy dog into the shop and went out again, she enjoyed the drizzling rain and would spend the evening playing in the rain and burying her feet in wet sand if I wasn’t looking.

Little did I know that it wouldn’t be all laughter and jamboree throughout the evening.

The weather got so cold and breezy, yet, I was sweating. “Rush to Pa Fidel’s shade, he is owning…” I held my tummy instantly and screamed in pain, cutting off my sentence. I felt it, but I felt it would be better not to believe it. The contractions. Oh, God. No. They came again for the umpteenth time and felt like sharp shooting pain through my round stomach. The terrified look on Nneka’s face would have made the situation worse; so I totally ignored it.

Maybe it was one of those sharp pains that would come and go; I thought, so I didn’t bother. Well, that was until sitting still became a problem. Pressing my lips against the other, I quickly made a mental prayer. Begging God that this could not be happening. My baby was due in two days, so why was I in the middle of Onodu market sweating like a Christmas goat and feeling my hips extend? Ha! Chukwu biko. Well, that was my first prayer God didn't listen to. My baby was here, and I had to do something fast. Very fast. But how?

My body was hot, heavy and in pain. I felt like that nightmare would never end. It was as though I was through hell and back and the fire would not stop. Just before I could say ‘Jack Robinson’, not less than seven panicking market women filled my room and caused a frenzy.

 “Chim oh! Her baby is coming!” 

“Felicia, do you need water?”

“Biko, call the hospital! Let’s get her out of here!” Mama Ezinne, the eldest of the women, said as she reached out for my arm. There was a lot of fuss around me and my head started to spin. My wobbling legs took only three steps forward, and I soon collapsed into the other supporting arms behind me. 

“I can’t”. I said gasping for breath, wondering where all the influxes of energy I had earlier that day had gone to.

Other women especially the elder ones had pity eyes and were already sourcing for neat clothes, scissors, and a water bath. The rest of them in the room, especially the children, gawked at me as if to say I was a ghost. I followed their eyes, and soon I found myself gawking too. My water has broken and I didn't even notice.

Everyone hovered around me like wild animals. I needed space. I required air for Christ’s sake!

 “Get this thing out of me!” I shouted, squeezing the hand of Ifechi, one of the women I was closet to.

 “If the baby won't leave my body soon, I might faint.” I screamed, squeezing her hand again tightly. 

Soon, I was laid to the ground and Mama Ezinne checked me with her fingers. Why couldn't they just bring the baby out already? 

 “This isn’t good,” Mama Ezinne exclaimed. She widened his eyes. “It looks like something isn’t right with the child. He is in a very uncomfortable position”

“What do you mean? This can’t be happening” Ifechi added, almost interrupting her. I just laid still, battling my demons in my head as I listened to their banters.

 “It’s the umbilical cord… it’s wrapped around the baby’s neck.” Mama Ezinne replied, her voice was quite low and hushed, but my ears were just like an Ostrich’s.

“What does that even mean?!” I yelled through my pushing and pain. There couldn’t be any complications. I was quite young when I had Nneka but that was the swiftest and serene delivery ever. I should be doing this from hindsight and not shaking like a 16-year-old.

“If we don’t get the baby out now, she is going to die”. 

Mama Ezinne spoke to the other women, ignoring my tantrums.

“Lets get to the hospital then! Dike has not been taking his calls! Lets find okada bikonu!” Ifechi said.

“It’s too late. By the time we get there we might lose the child. I am an experienced midwife in this and to be fore warned is to be fore armed . I’m sorry, but we’re going to have to rely on faith alone for this”.

My store at that moment could be mistaken for the Upper Room in the bible when the holy spirit descended on the apostles. Chants of prayer from everyone including Ifechi’s pastor who prayed through the phone. I couldn't help the tears that streamed down to my ears. I was in so much pain, one I can’t even describe as I write this. Only Mama Ezinne and two other women like her attended to me. Ifechi stood by because I held her hands for support. The rest were ready to get God down from heaven. 

“Do you need water?” One of the women asked.

“Is the position okay for you?” Mama Ezinne asked for the eightieth time.

“Keep pushing, you’re almost there,” the other woman reminded me.

None of anything they had to say was helping. All I really wanted was for them to…. “Shut up!!” I screamed, still heaving and pushing steadily. Then, entering the room was my husband, Dike with crying Nneka by his hand. He went on by the ground and knelt beside me. His hands replacing Ifechi’s.

“Obim,” I said, relieved. If anyone could brighten her day it would be my husband.

“It’s fine, all you need to do is keep breathing.”

“They said he has a—”

But he shushed me.“I already know,” she said. “Just keep pushing. Don’t quit now or all of this was for nothing.”

An hour passed and baby didn’t seem like he wanted to come out, anyway. His head popped back into my body so quickly. Because of the blood being slippery, Mama Ezinne couldn’t get a good grip on the head. It wasn’t until the next long push that got the job done. Half the baby exited my body, and she was able to pull out the rest of the body.

 I watched as Mama Ezinne cut the cord from around his neck, and immediately she put my crying baby boy on my sweating chest. Dike stood close, smiling.

“I love you,” I said, looking deep into my baby’s eyes. And with that, my baby went silent. No more crying, just silent.  

Dear reader, they said you don’t remember the pain of giving birth. They lied. I remember plenty. But they also said that it would all be worth it. And as I look into the eyes of my brand new baby, I can tell you that they were right. On that count, at least.

Benecca’s Tales

2021

All Rights Reserved.

Picture Credit - guardian.ng

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Mothers are everything❤️

You have to understand how hard it is for me to properly appreciate mothers. 

Writing this story, I could not help but feel Felicia’s pains and struggles just to give life to another person. It's a pain that is indescribable, I don't know if I even did justice to it in this body of work lol. 

But notwithstanding, I believe that Women are strong but Mothers are stronger and should wear superhero capes where ever they go to.

All characters in this story are virtual and are only products of my imagination. 

This story is inspired by the song “Mama” by the Nigerian Artiste, Yemi Alade.

Written by, Anakor Vanessa.