Awu's Story

by Mintsa, Justine; Toman, Cheryl; Kuoh-Moukoury, Thérèse

  ‘What is this all about?’ asked Obame as he left his bedroom displaying the bag that filled the tiny living room with a strong odor of sweat. His wife was setting the table and pretended not to hear a thing. His two nephews, who were in the middle of a game of songo,10 suddenly stopped what they were doing. The oldest one glanced up and, looking his uncle straight in the eye, said:

  ‘Summer break starts tomorrow and so we want to go home right after our last class.’

  ‘Well, thanks for taking the time to tell me. But I would still like to know what this bag is doing on my bed. To whom does it belong? Bella, are you listening to me?’

  ‘Obame, I too, like you, only just discovered it a few moments ago. I don’t know who put it there.’

  ‘So who is responsible for putting this sack on my bed?’ exploded Obame Afane.

  ‘We did,’ said the oldest nephew. ‘Rather, I did,’ he specified. ‘We wanted our laundry to be ready before we leave.’

  After this response, Obame took a seat in the living room, placed the bag on the floor next to his armchair, and remained silent for a long while, staring at each one of his nephews in turn and shaking his head. Finally he said:

  ‘You wanted your laundry to be done before you leave, is that right? And so it will be, don’t worry. Isn’t that right, Bella? I guess this is for you then,’ said Obame, holding out the stinking bundle of clothes to his wife.

  “And do you know what, Awu?” Ntsame continued. “Later, Obame confided in me that he had forced his wife to endure all those hardships so that she could find favor with the gods and become fertile. The laundry was duly washed, starched, and pressed. Then Obame left to take his nephews back to their father. For good. But, alas! Awu, the years went by, and Bella still wasn’t able to bear the fruits of their love. When all hope was lost, and Obame was under pressure from all sides––both from his own family and from Bella––he had to seriously consider acquiring more fertile terrain, and he had to already be certain he could sow there, all pleasure aside, fruits that would proliferate in abundance. Forgive me, will you, Awu? I am not saying that my brother loves you less, but I am just telling you what happened. And when his wife died, he was terribly hard on himself and he still is today. So you can understand why I don’t have a place in my heart for those two thankless kids. They ruthlessly and needlessly made my poor sister-in-law suffer. And all those loud mouths in the village went along with it and didn’t say a word. It’s sickening, yes. I really think those kids will find themselves in hot water one day. What goes around, comes around.”

  Just as Ntsame had said these words, Ada came back to sit next to her Aunt Awu. She loved and respected her. These were the only two women Ada felt she could trust. She knew that Aunt Ntsame wasn’t crazy about her situation, but she never uttered a single harsh word toward her either. Ntsame’s presence was even somewhat reassuring. At some point in a woman’s life, she needs to feel close to someone on her mother’s side of the family. Ntsame’s daily visits gave Ada a sense of security now that her own mother had abandoned her in this condition. She felt a sort of reassurance that even all of Awu’s care and tenderness couldn’t provide, even though Ada was very grateful for it. Some unknown feeling inside made her long to get close to a woman who shared the same blood.

  “Did you go far?” Awu asked her.

  “No,” answered Ada staring at the floor. “I stopped to sit under the giant atangatier11 with the blue dates, and we talked a bit before going our separate ways.”

  “They have no business coming around here trying to influence you, you got that? Do you understand? There are already enough problems as it is.”

  Ada had appreciated her aunt using precisely the words “there are problems.” The formidable Aunt Nstame, who feared no one, still had the sensitivity to not terrorize her—a little girl in the wrong—with a more traumatic “you have problems” instead. Ada felt so good in the presence of these two women who loved her that she all of a sudden came out and said:

  “I’m sorry.”

  She paused for a bit. Then she continued:

  “I’ve wanted to ask for forgiveness for a long time. But I’m not sure whom to ask for it or how. Forgive me, but I’m not a bad girl at all. I’ve never insulted anyone and I never wanted to hurt anybody. Just a bit ago, Aunt Ntsame told me not to allow my cousins to be a bad influence on me. But how could I let that happen, knowing that I don’t approve of their behavior? When they behaved badly with Aunt Bella I was still very young, but I was old enough to know that what they were doing was very wrong. And I still believe so. So please . . . I made a mistake getting pregnant, it’s true, but please, please . . . don’t take me for a bad girl. I’m not!”

  Ada began sobbing bitterly, but neither of the two women made an effort to console her. A moment later, she blew her nose loudly using the tail of her dress, wiped her cheeks with the backside of her hand, and with her eyes still lowered, she let out a big sigh.

  Part Two

  Obame Afane had been informed by radio that he was indeed officially retired. One month later he decided to travel to the capital to put his pension file in order. Outside of the capital there was no office anywhere else in the country that took care of such matters.

  Construction on Obame Afane the schoolteacher’s new house, located not far from his childhood home was, in fact, not quite finished by the time he had to vacate the residence that had been provided to him as part of his terms of employment. Still awaiting permanent doors and windows, his new house was temporarily equipped with panels made of tree bark. The carpenter, Mezui Mba, had the doors and windows all ready to go—they just needed to be paid for. But what mattered most to Awudabiran' was to have a large wooden table in her living room where she could display her various fashionable creations. After so much sewing for others, she wanted to treat herself for once and feast her eyes on enchanting views and surroundings. So she insisted that everything be ready by the following dry season so that she could take advantage of the vacation period to move into the house for good.

  What excitement there was in the village the night before Obame’s departure for the capital!

  Pastor Gambier and a few missionaries had come by very early in the morning to wish Obame a good trip and a productive stay. Shortly before he left they prayed for him and his family.

  A council of the most revered elders gathered shortly thereafter to bestow bits of wisdom upon Obame and to give him their blessing.

  Komandé, the former chief of police who had himself retired three years ago, advised Obame about what documents he needed to produce and the offices he had to contact. He did point out, however, that his own file had still not gone through all the proper channels and he didn’t understand why; he was hoping that the next cocoa crop would give him enough cash so that he could pay for his return to the capital to find out. He didn’t know anybody there who could take care of his file for him.

  Komandé described the capital to him as a place where he should be on alert for all kinds of traps: roads, thieves, alcohol, women.

  Those who had never been to the capital just simply wished him good luck.

  The women were present but kept silent except for Ntsame, who in the most aggressive way she knew how made sure she got in a last word:

  “Just leave already. Nothing is going to happen to you. Everything will be fine. Our gods and our ancestors are with you. For over thirty years now, you’ve been tearing yourself out of your wife’s arms to take a dive in the river at the crack of dawn before going to work—with eyes barely open and legs that could hardly carry you there. For thirty years, chalk dust has filled your lungs. For thirty years, you’ve been shouting yourself hoarse to the point where I don’t understand how you still have a voice at all. Thirty years of refusing to have fun in the evenings because you have papers to grade and things to write instead, working by kerosene lamp until your eyes can no longer see. Thirty years now. I’m pretty sure it’s no longer blood that flows in your veins,
but red ink. Your entire life you’ve put all your strength and vitality into serving children. Now you have earned the right to take a rest. You have done more than enough for the country, and the country now has to compensate you, as you deserve. And besides, you can’t even call it compensation. Not at all. A pension isn’t a privilege but a right. You have served the nation, and the nation in turn shows its gratitude by giving back what it owes you. That’s the least they can do. All these years they have taken a certain amount of money out of your salary. Now they will give it back to you. It’s your money. It’s the sweat off your brow. The gods and the ancestors don’t even need to be with you in order to recover what is rightfully yours. The gods have no bearing in a state governed by the rule of law. You have carried out a job well done. Now go get what’s coming to you.”

  During her rant the veins of her neck occasionally bulged out while the ones in her temples visibly throbbed. Decked out in a scarf, her head nodded defiantly. From the austere and contemptuous expression of her temper, one knew immediately that this mature woman commanded respect. After saying everything she had to say, her eyes rolled back in her head for a fraction of a second, her forehead crumpled with rage, her nostrils flared, and her mouth seemed to close definitively, exhibiting a frown of disgust. To conclude, she gazed purposefully outside at the atangatiers that the windows had framed as if they were a living portrait.

  What hustle and bustle on the day Obame was to leave! The men stopped by either to find out about the departure time or to inquire about the mode of transportation Obame was taking. The women flocked to the kitchen to help Awu prepare for her husband’s trip as she catered to his every need. She had washed, starched, and ironed his best shirts along with his handkerchiefs that she had embroidered herself. His old shoes were so carefully polished that they shone like new. Awu had prepared several dishes: smoked fish packed in cucumber seed, shrimp in peanut sauce, a few sticks of manioc, some bits of sweet banana, and some roasted peanuts. All of these foods could remain fresh for several days. And that was good because Obame was undertaking quite a long trip. First of all, he had to take a local bus from the village to the bus station in the city, and from there he had to catch yet another bus to the capital. At the very least, the trip would take a day and a half if the roads didn’t present any hazards and provided that the bus was in good condition. During rainy season, it wasn’t unheard of for that trip to last three days. And as a matter of fact, it was the rainy season. One had to prepare accordingly.

  Awu and Ntsame took every precaution in helping Ada out of the bus; the bumpy race to the hospital had come to an end, with the driver slamming on the brakes so hard that it’s surprising that the baby wasn’t born on the spot. The abrupt halt had caused everyone to scream except for Ada who, already moaning for nearly an hour, had bit her bottom lip so hard that it bled.

  The three women headed off on foot toward the provincial hospital that was visible from the bus station. Making it to just about fifty meters outside the main entrance, they were forced to slow their pace at the sight of a pack of dogs emerging from the shadows of one of the bunches of banana trees lining the road; the dogs were already ferociously tearing apart a burgundy-colored mass of flesh of some sort. As the three women approached the hospital, they were nauseated by the foul odor of decomposing meat while all the while the leaves and branches of the banana trees swayed to the calm and peaceful rhythm of a gentle breeze. Suddenly and quite brutally, they discovered the origin of the odor as they passed through the main entrance; sickly colored batches of gauze and cotton had been piling up and stuck at the bottom of two posts of an older-style stationary gate that stood just behind the outer wall. Seeing all of these tainted hues for a mere fraction of a second was more than enough to make an indelible mark on their memory: the blackish red of old, dried-up blood, tinges of dark red blood, the brownish red of festering blood, and reddish, whitish, milky pus. No longer startled by intruders passing by, flies were trying desperately to extract all that they could from these materials before the expert tongues of the neighborhood cats could get to them at the end of the evening.

  Awu had given birth to her five children at the Ebomane clinic, which had closed a few months back due to a lack of medications. However, Awu knew the provincial hospital very well for some time now, or more precisely, ever since her husband had taken his retirement. Every month she would make a trip to the administrative center close by to sell her placemats to the public officials and to the wives of other prominent people in Ebiraneville.

  As Ada’s moans had cranked up a notch, Awu separated herself from their little group and at a pace somewhere between walking and running, she headed off in the direction of the maternity ward to let the midwife know they were coming. She knocked at the door and entered without waiting for anyone to open the door. She was surprised at how warm the midwife’s greeting was in return. With a little more confidence, Awu proceeded inside the room, the two other women following close behind. After spotting Ada, the midwife asked her to produce her medical file. Ada promptly granted her request. The midwife took the file and said that only one relative at a time could remain in the delivery room. This was fine with Ntsame who, when it came right down to it, was a very squeamish person who could easily faint at the sight of blood. So rather instinctively, she left. The midwife closed the door behind Ntsame and casually asked Ada to hand over her surgical glove before lying on the delivery room table. Ada and Awu looked at each other perplexedly.

  “What’s a surgical glove?” asked Awu.

  “What’s a surgical glove? Why, it’s the plastic glove we use for the examination!”

  “No, we don’t have that,” said Awu dumbfoundedly.

  “And thread? You have that, don’t you?”

  “Thread?” Awu resumed.

  “Yes, the thread to tie up the cord!”

  “The umbilical cord?”

  “Well, I never! What other cord can I possibly be talking about?”

  “No, we don’t have that either,” answered Awu mechanically.

  “And of course you don’t have a razor blade either.”

  “Razor blade?” Awu couldn’t resist saying.

  “Well, come on now! How are we supposed to cut the cord?” the midwife exploded.

  “But we didn’t know all of this, m’am! At other places . . .”

  “At other places what? At other places what? Everyone tells me: ‘At other places, at other places, at other places!’ And then what! Do you think maybe I don’t know what goes on at other places? Do you think I’m having fun helping women give birth on my measly salary? This time I’ve had it, and you’re not getting away with playing this game with me. And besides, I don’t even have five francs to my name. My own children didn’t even eat last night. They only drank citrus juice, and without sugar at that. Meanwhile, I know that ‘at other places’ kids are stuffing themselves with good things to eat.”

  Just as she finished these words, Ada let out a piercing cry and began panting heavily. The midwife bent over her, tapped Ada’s swollen stomach, and said to Awu:

  “Obviously, she won’t give birth for at least thirty more minutes. You have time to go down to the stand run by the Malian, the one located near the main entrance, just five minutes away. He has everything you need except for the surgical glove. In its place, you can buy two plastic bags—you know, like the ones used for wrapping things up. That’s how we do the job for women who come with no surgical glove.”

  Awu went out and commissioned Ntsame, who came back a few minutes later with the requested items.

  Ada was lying on the delivery room table. She tugged nervously on the mattress covered with a filthy plastic-coated canvas. And when the pain became unbearable, she tried to muffle her scream.

  “Push it out for me!” said the midwife. “Push! Push! Now stop! Don’t push anymore. Don’t push again until I tell you to, you got that? Don’t come here acting like a child with me. You weren’t acting like a child when y
ou got yourself pregnant. You’re about to give birth. You’re about to be a mother. Take responsibility for that or else I’ll knock you out! Come on now, push,” she said to Ada, who once again started panting like a puppy. “Push, push! Harder, harder! Are you going to push or not? Push!!! Good, now stop. Catch your breath. Breathe in. There you go . . . and breathe out! That’s it. Good. Okay, now you’re going to push, you’re going to push. Push, push!! Push, you imbecile! You’re not helping your child any by crying like an idiot. Stop breathing and push!!! Come on! You have already dishonored your parents enough by getting knocked up at your age! Save face, at least, by being tough! Send this child out to us! If not, I’m going to smack you!”

  Never having been naked in front of strangers before, let alone having been called out on her bad behavior, Ada burst out sobbing from shame as well as from pain. Just like a little child, she cried her eyes out—she cried so loudly in fact that she even worried the midwife who promptly slapped Ada with the back of her hand.

  “Push, push, push! Stop breathing! Pretend you’re constipated! Then push with all you’ve got. Come on! Go ahead, that’s it! Push, push!!! There you go!”

  Ada’s final gut-wrenching scream preceded the first cry of her offspring. Awu stared at the plastic-bag-wrapped hands that were gliding precariously around a sticky little body. Soon the Malian merchant’s dust-laden weaving thread was knotted around the umbilical cord, and the partly rusted razor blade separated the child from its mother. This is how Sikolo Ntok made his grand entrance into the world in a provincial hospital at the dawn of the twenty-first century. The name had been chosen a long time ago. Ada had told her two aunts that if she gave birth to a boy, she would name him after his uncle Obame Afane, whose first name was Sikolo.