“It’s all up to you now. My job here is done,” said the midwife after cleaning and dressing the child before handing him over to Awu. “Call your sister who is waiting outside,” she added.
Awu was afraid to bring the baby out of the room, so she opened the door halfway with her free hand and called in Ntsame, who arrived right away to grab the baby. But by the time Awu turned around again, both women found themselves face-to-face with the midwife, who was holding a thick, red-wine-colored mass of flesh on a bloodied steel tray. Awu and Ntsame were taken aback.
“This is your daughter’s placenta. Take it and throw it out.”
Ntsame was secretly delighted to be holding the baby in her arms, as it served as an excellent excuse for not carrying out this dreaded task. When Awu had had her own children, her mother and mother-in-law had taken turns handling her placenta. She herself had never even set eyes on any one of them. She knew indeed that one day it would be her turn to do this. But she just didn’t think it would be so soon. She wasn’t fully prepared. Her first three children were boys, the oldest of whom hadn’t even turned twenty yet. She knew indeed that she was the mother of all the daughters in the family. But at that very moment, what that role fully entailed seemed to catch her off guard. Nonetheless she had a clan to defend and a husband to honor. Wasn’t her life supposed to be like a chain stitch? In that case, piercing the fabric was the necessary first step.
“Here, take it,” said the midwife impatiently, brandishing the tray. “And don’t forget to clean everything,” she continued. “Remember, I told you that my job here is finished.”
Then, turning around toward Ntsame, the midwife said, “There is blood everywhere. Set the baby down next to his mother and start cleaning. Hurry up—someone else is waiting outside.”
Without a word, Ntsame obeyed the order. She went to give the baby to Ada, who was relatively calm since fortunately she wasn’t suffering from any cramps, which for some women are more painful than the childbirth itself. As Ntsame approached, Ada detected that her aunt was rather shaken up by all that was going on. What’s more, she was convinced that it was the first time in her life that her aunt didn’t fight back. But what Ada didn’t realize was that Ntsame loved her younger brother Obame Afane, and so everything that Obame Afane tolerated, so could she, and unconditionally at that. Ntsame supported Ada because she wanted to help her brother come out victorious. In Ntsame’s mind, Akut no longer counted.
“Where is the mop?” asked the midwife.
“Oh, yeah, the mop, I was just going to ask you about that.”
“You were going to ask me?” the midwife answered back.
Ntsame couldn’t resist the temptation. A sixth sense just wouldn’t let her do it. She pretended to look around before the midwife once again went on the attack:
“What about the broom?”
“Broom?” Ntsame repeated mechanically once again.
Ntsame’s inquiring look infuriated the woman, who exploded once more:
“Just exactly what planet do you come from?”
“Good question,” Ntsame snapped back. “Because I was just wondering myself what kind of place this is!”
“Well, then, I can tell you exactly what kind of place this is! You are at the Ebiraneville provincial maternity hospital! When your family member gives birth here, you bring with you everything that you need, and afterward, you clean up everything she has soiled—and fast—because others are waiting.”
Pronouncing these words, she helped Ada and her son move to a bare, filthy sponge mattress that was resting on the ground against the back wall. All the beds in the one and only maternity ward were occupied.
Ntsame was wearing a three-piece outfit consisting of a camisole and two bands of fabric, with one band coming up from behind to form a wraparound skirt, while the other end was attached fashionably haphazardly above the waist. She untied the one end and proceeded to wipe off the laminated surface of the birthing table by first dampening each corner of fabric with the water from the running faucet. While Ntsame was still meticulously engrossed in this task, Awu had returned with a defeated look and muddied hands. She went directly to the faucet which, of course, was still running.
“Don’t bother washing your hands; you’re not done yet,” shouted the midwife, who was now busy trying to prepare a syringe. “You still have to clean the floor!”
Awu was wearing a large kaba. But as they had left Ebomane at an early hour, she had covered her shoulders with a long pagne. But as the temperature rose, she had attached the pagne around her waist. At that moment she undid it, wet it, and threw it to the ground before crouching down and scrubbing the floor covered with tiny beige tiles that were actually more pinkish in certain spots than in others. She discovered, in fact, that washing the floor meant making all the bright red patches pink. It was quite difficult to determine precisely the original color of these tiles anyway because those around the sink were turning green due to the mold that was proliferating in that area. And near the entryway, the tiles were almost brown because of an endless cycle—mud had been tracked in, eventually turning into dust only to be transformed once more into mud.
Finally deeming the room suitable for receiving a new patient, the midwife released the two women from this ordeal. They went to wash their hands. The water pressure was too weak to allow the women to wash their pagnes as necessary. After a quick conversation, it was decided that Ntsame would go back to the village to wash the dirty laundry and to bring back food while Awu would stay to keep an eye on Ada.
Later in the night, curled up on the floor in the corner right next to Ada, Awu relived the scene in her mind once more, as if in a state of dreaming, as she stood outside the door of the maternity hospital in the face of the unknown, holding in her two hands the stained steel tray on which the mass of flesh was resting. Her confused look had caught the attention of an elderly woman sitting on the ground under the veranda, caressing the head of woman with a protruding belly; she was resting her head on the old woman’s thighs, and the rest of her body lay stretched out on a pagne.
“My daughter,” said the old woman, “how is it going?”
Awa was startled but did not answer. She was ashamed of admitting her inexperience, as that would have easily been interpreted as a sign of incompetence. She simply looked back at the woman, pretending as if she were in the know.
“I see,” the woman said, raising her head in such a way that allowed her to look at Awu face to face. “Listen, my daughter, it’s no big deal. You are in the city and you’ll do like everyone else. You aren’t going to keep this placenta until you return to the village, I hope! That child was born in the city. And this Mass of Life must fertilize the city. Take a machete from my sack over there. Follow the road and you will see clumps of banana trees off to the side. Choose yourself a nice spot and you bury it, your placenta. And don’t forget the next time you come here, try to bring your own machete along with the baby’s things.”
The trip was long but bearable. Once in the capital, Obame found a taxi driver to whom he dictated the address of a relative, the husband of his first cousin. He wasn’t aware of any other close family members in Meyos.
He was warmly received. Salutations were brief, however. Everyone was in a hurry to leave, the little ones off to school and the adults to their jobs. Starting tomorrow, though, his in-law could accompany him to all the offices where he needed to go.
Almost every day at noon, when he would return with his cousin’s husband from these appointments, he would find at the house relatives who had been informed of his arrival and knew of the purpose of his stay. Immediately after each welcome and without any lag time in between, they would subject him to their own problems. They thought that he had already received his pension, and each one was asking for a certain amount to support his own needs. He had lost touch with his oldest relatives a long time ago, and as for the younger ones, he barely recognized them and some, not at all. He told them that he hadn’t rec
eived anything yet and that his file was still pending. It would have been nice to be invited over by any one of them. Even one time—just to get to know the family better. But this was not the case. He started to believe that everyone there had found an excuse for coming precisely at noon; although his cousin had prepared a hearty meal, the sheer number of unexpected guests spread lunch rather thin.
After four days he had accomplished all the necessary steps. He just needed two more documents that he would mail to his cousin’s husband as soon as he got back to the village. After that, he would only have to wait for official notification from the Public Revenue Office.
After a week he returned home, happy to have discovered the capital. He was also glad to have reconnected with the family, but he was worried that they were all counting on him too much.
Upon his return he was warmly received as he told the village all about his stay. Many expressed their disappointment about all the hassles one must go through just to claim one’s due. They figured it should more than suffice to simply report where one has worked and for how long, or if not, they thought administrative officials should be sent out to help all the government workers nearing retirement so that they could fill out these forms locally on the spot.
One month went by, then three, then seven! Still no notification, even though Obame mailed the missing documents as soon as he arrived home. And his cousin’s husband even went to the trouble of dropping them off as soon as he received them. Obame Afane had to once again inquire by mail to know the exact reasons for this endless wait. He didn’t want to make yet another trip to the capital unless he could be absolutely certain to bring back at least an advance on his pension if not the full benefits he should have already earned. Finally he received an official letter from the National Social Security Office asking him to come sign an additional document.
Since her marriage Awu enjoyed the social life she had always dreamed of. Accompanied by her husband, she regularly visited the village for weddings, funerals, and other events. She was admired, respected, and asked for advice, even by elders. And she helped everyone the best that she could without a bit of arrogance. She was both proud and grateful when her husband would regularly send her family a sack of rice, kilos of beef, or pagnes.
This is the life they had both been used to up until his retirement. But now the good old days were over. Fortunately, her husband had already secured a certain social standing. He was revered and respected, mostly because of his honesty and generosity. Awudabiran' thought so highly of him and loved him just as much. But since his retirement she actually felt sorry for him, since his meager donations to various ceremonies organized either by his in-laws or his own family caused him to lose face little by little. But the fact that he was residing in a never-ending construction project was a dead giveaway as to what his true financial situation was. He couldn’t take the gaping holes in his new home anymore.
What no one realized was that the family of Awudabiran' continued to receive their son-in-law’s attention without him actually knowing it. Awudabiran' was determined to save face among members of her own family. And she was willing to pay the price. Her pride and love for her husband drove her to preserve the best possible image of their couple.
Since the start of Obame Afane’s retirement, Awudabiran' was trying in every way imaginable to find extra work embroidering table linens. She made them for every taste and pocketbook. For those in the know, she was an expert of the art. Her work, in fact, demonstrated this talent. She feared that these same masterpieces were betraying her, revealing the unique pleasure she got from creating them as their sheer beauty spoke volumes. She and her works held many a secret!
If Awudabiran' hadn’t had to help out Nguema Afane’s two wives, who often had nothing to eat, and if she hadn’t had full responsibility of Ada and her baby, her financial resources would have been sufficient. But given these circumstances, she had to learn how to cut down on expenses. In order to do this, she had to nix all luxury items including things like salt, peanut oil, bars of soap, kerosene lamps, and toilet paper. There weren’t many residents in the village using these products anyway. Every kid in the village knew how to make salt from burning palm tree stumps. And gigantic clumps of palm trees proliferated along both banks and in forests. Peanut oil was expensive, but palm oil cost only the trouble of going to pick, boil, and grind the nuts. And those lumps of clay found either along the moist riverbanks or here and there in the underbrush—who wasn’t aware of their value and their true properties for making skin softer? Earthworms manufactured these for free. And resin, this magic potion—has it not helped our eyes overcome darkness since the beginning of time?
As for toilet paper, was it all that necessary in the village? Why not make do like the villagers and use corncob hearts and malva leaves instead? Didn’t Abi, Aladji the shopkeeper’s wife, set aside a day when even she wouldn’t use this paper she was selling? And in Awu’s own culture, wasn’t it customary just to rinse off with water? Why hadn’t she maintained this custom? It’s not like she hadn’t tried. But she had done so only on occasion. And these occasions had always been very particular. In fact, the WC that housed the septic tank was the one and only place where it was possible to have any privacy. Its four walls made of tree bark and its little straw roof knew a thing or two about Awudabiran'. Hadn’t these things witnessed each time she had squatted here contemplating using either the shelled corncobs or the malva stalks, everything arranged below her on a board covered in banana tree leaves? Ah, these walls of bark and the straw roof were the only confidantes she ever had; they knew very well that she found the corncobs more to her liking. It was a natural end for them, the end of a journey within all of creation. That which is born of the earth is finally returned to the earth. Those corncobs had no further use otherwise. It was a suitable destiny for them in their final stage of existence. It was more than adequate. It was why she preferred using them in that way, in spite of their roughness upon contact. In fact, each time she spotted those shelled corncobs, nothing about them reminded her of the tenderness of the once surrounding leaves or the smoothness of their stalk or the silkiness of the golden beard that had enveloped them. The multitude of empty sockets on these hollowed-out corncobs could only call to memory those fleshy kernels made to explode on contact with red-hot embers; kernels full of nectar from which one could prepare sweet and flavorful concoctions over a dying flame exuding an array of colors. After examining the naked corncob, she used it without any regret whatsoever, and it did the job with a delicate touch.
But it was a different story with the malva leaves. Each time that Awu had no choice but to use them, it would pain her nonetheless to soil these leaves of such a pure hue of green, although she had to admit that their softness was incredible. As much as she dreaded the thought of diminishing this true marvel of nature, she also looked forward to renewing the subtle pleasure of the velvety-smooth leaf caressing her skin.
When Ada looked at her baby, you could see everything on her face but a mother’s love and tenderness. Awu had even noticed that Ada only held her child when it was time to breastfeed him. If he cried for any other reason besides being hungry, Ada didn’t care. One day upon arriving home from work, Awu was alarmed by the child’s shrill cries that could be heard from outside the house. She hastened her steps, thinking the baby must be alone and perhaps in danger. Much to her surprise, she found Ada and her two cousins sitting calmly in the living room conversing as if nothing were going on. Upon seeing their aunt, they were startled and immediately stopped talking. Ada got up and headed toward the bedroom, followed by Awu, who was in no mood to greet anyone. The toddler was lying on his back and screaming like the devil; on his little face, swollen and red, a combination of snot, saliva, tears, and sweat, and his feet wriggled about in the feces and urine in which his little bottom was also covered.
“Akiééé! Ada! Akiéé!1 Don’t you get it that you are a woman now, that you’re a mother, that this child is yours, a
nd that you’re the one responsible for him? Don’t count on me for everything. Ada, make a bit of an effort! It’s not normal how you are acting! It’s not normal at all!”
In saying these words, she proceeded to put her purse on Ada’s bed, took off her watch and placed it in her purse, and then removed her shoes. While this was going on, Ada grabbed the baby powder and a new change of clothes. Without any concern for her beautiful white percale dress with pink flowers, Awu took the baby in her arms and quickly exited the bedroom. Both of Ada’s cousins were still in the living room. Awu ignored them as she went toward the bathroom where there was still a basin of clean water. The child had stopped crying but started to wail once again upon contact with the cold water. A moment later, one could hear him splashing about. Ada remained glued to the doorstep holding the baby powder and the baby’s clothes. She was afraid of making eye contact with Awu, who was now sitting on a little bench allowing the baby to calm down by giving him a little fish to play with, one that Obame Afane had carved for him out of bamboo. The child desperately tried to submerge the fish, which kept popping up again to the surface. Ada ran up with a towel that Awu snatched out of her hands. She took the baby out of the water and brought him to the living room as Ada sheepishly followed behind. Awu sat down on the wood-trimmed couch and laid the baby out onto the towel. Both cousins remained silent, keeping a low profile. After having powdered and dressed him, Awu handed over the baby to his mother. It was at that very moment that Ntsame charged into the living room. She was holding a lovely basket with a handle. Her face became fraught with gloom at the sight of her two nephews sitting across the hallway; but then she lightened up once again seeing Ada take her child from Awu’s arms.
“You look beautiful, my wife, in this pretty dress,” said Ntsame, who often called Awu her wife.
Awu's Story Page 8