You’d lain in that little patch of sunlight a few days after you were born. It was supposed to clear jaundice, Mama said. You were my first, what did I know? I swallowed everything Mama said hook, line, and sinker. Like when she said my left breast was producing sour milk because an ant had died in the one I expressed. I stopped feeding you on that breast. It hurt so much when I had to squeeze the milk out myself. You got by on the one breast, suckling voraciously at each feeding, giving Mama so much joy. Obinna is going to be a strong boy, she would say. This is exactly how you were as a baby. All you did was eat and sleep. Look at you now, Adaora, mother of your own. 

I’d had enough of ji mmiri ọkụ to last me a lifetime but I was allowed nothing else those first couple of weeks. Everything was hot. Hot, scalding bathwater, hot, peppery food, and heater at full blast in my room. Because of the baby, she said. They so easily catch pneumonia. I drew the line at placing hot towels on my abdomen. I heard it made the skin wrinkle and that’s the last thing I wanted. 

I was grateful for Mama’s help. You weren’t a troublesome baby, at least nothing like the horror stories I heard on the several new mom groups I joined on social media. I remember that as my due date got closer, my heart skipped a beat every time I thought of babies crying non-stop for hours on end or having to wake up five times a night to feed. Mama made it so that I barely felt the stress. She was the one who suggested expressing breast milk for night feedings. That way, she would handle it and I’d get my beauty sleep. 

I loved spending time with you. You seemed to have some sort of inner joy because you were always bright-eyed and gurgling. Shudders went down my spine whenever I thought how easily you could have gone the way of your siblings before you, a steady trickle of blood flowing down my thigh as your father and I rushed to the hospital at 2 a.m. 

I didn’t peg myself as someone who would have four miscarriages in a row. I came from a family of prolific childbearers. Childhood memories were full of large family gatherings with a myriad of cousins, uncles, and aunties. The extended family on my mother’s end numbered ninety by the time my grandmother died. I remember my siblings and I playing a game. The winner was the person who could successfully identify everyone present in the family picture we had taken for the brochure. My mother herself had birthed eight: six boys and two girls. Genetically speaking, I could have easily had a dozen children without breaking a sweat. Yet sweat I did. 

The first miscarriage happened at twelve weeks. I was standing in the middle of the kitchen, thinking if we should go the fitfam route and have fruit salad for dinner or damn the consequences and have that lovely okro soup your father made the week before. At the instant I decided that something must kill a man, I felt a wetness between my thighs. I remember thinking it was way too early to start losing control of my bladder;my smile faded as I saw a single drop of blood rolling down my leg. A second one joined it, and I watched, numb, as they raced to pool on my white fluffy slippers, the foam soaking up the blood like cotton wool. The memory of your father’s face when I told him something was wrong will remain clear in my head. We made it to the hospital in silence, his panic evident in the constant tapping on the steering wheel. We listened to the doctor explain his examination findings, my brain zoning out after it heard, “I’m afraid there’s nothing more we can do.” I lay on that bed, the perfect picture of health, with my baby coming out in tiny clumps onto the pad I now wore. They’d offered me a more active approach but using a vacuum cleaner seemed so final. It took two weeks for all of it to come out. It took two years before I dared to try again. 

After that first miscarriage, Mama stayed with me for a while. For every question I asked, she had an answer. 

“Should I have eaten less junk, more fruits?”

“Ada, if it was really about what you ate, then you should have been drooling your whole life because I ate okro soup like it was going out of fashion.”

“But, Mama, you know what I mean.”

“Yes, I do. And that’s why I’m telling you that none of this is your fault.” She paused, my hair in her hand as she made the last braid of my cornrows. “Ada, sometimes these things happen. I can’t claim to know how you feel because I was never in your shoes, but the last thing I want you to do is blame yourself for something you had no control over.” 

She turned me towards her. 

“Ada, nwa m, from the moment you were born, you have been nothing but a joy to me. You have your mother’s prayers that your child will be the same to you. Wipe your tears, my daughter. Even though it’s been two months since it happened, I know you’ll grieve for this baby forever, but I think it’s time you started living again.”

She was right. The world didn’t stop for me, didn’t even take any second to acknowledge the loss I had faced. My boss had been understanding, but I could only take it so far. So when Mama left later that week, I knew her advice was timely.

When I told your father I wanted to return to work, his eyes searched my face before he nodded slowly. At that moment, I realized I’d been grieving by myself, forgetting he was too.

“I’m sorry, Obinna.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for, my love. I’m just happy to see a glimpse of the real you again.”

We never got over that first one, but perhaps if we had known what lay ahead of us, we would have saved some of our tears for another day.

Ten years and four miscarriages later, I’d become a pro. Expert at recognizing the signs of an impending miscarriage. Knew the names of all the medications involved, all the options available to me. By the third one, I briefly considered completing the process at home by myself. The fourth one, I didn’t even bother calling your father to get me to the hospital. As soon as I arrived, my OBGYN looked at me and knew. And from the hushed conversations, pitying looks, and gentle hands, I knew even the nurses were aware of my bad obstetric history. I even took the vacuum option with the last one because I just wanted to get it over with. Afterwards, my doctor and I had a conversation and he told me my diagnosis: antiphospholipid syndrome. My body had some intrinsic defect that caused my blood to thicken and form clots that affected my babies.

I look back at all of it and I wonder where I found the courage to go on. With the second pregnancy, your father and I were extra careful. Before we conceived, we underwent a battery of tests, none with negative outcomes. Perhaps if we had gone to a more sophisticated hospital, we may have picked up the APS in time. I checked, rechecked, and cross checked even the smallest headache or loose stool. I learned that Google isn’t your friend when it comes to these things because it’ll find a way to magnify every fear you’ve ever had. It became a running joke between your father and me whenever he would come home.

“What are you dying from today?”

“Well, if my poop doesn’t have its usual colour, I might have malabsorption syndrome, and that means the baby won’t get enough nutrients and may die!”

“You don’t say. I was hoping it was the vegan diet that would get you so that I can finally stop eating like a goat.”

I tossed a pillow at him. “I’m being serious!”

“Yes, yes, of course, you are,” he chuckled as he dodged my badly-aimed missile.

Much later down the line, I missed those days when we could make fun of the situation, when it was all fun and games. Because by the time I came back from vacuuming the fourth baby, I just casually mentioned that I’d lost the baby, again, as I packed a bag to go to Mama’s house.

“Are you alright? Where are you going? Can we at least talk about this?”

I laughed, a low, hard sound. 

“Talk about what? My most recent failure? The baby is gone, Obinna, what’s there to talk about? How it happened? Just like before. Where I went? The usual place. Oh, perhaps I should mention I used the vacuum option this time. Don’t want to spend the next few weeks peeing red in the toilet as usual and suffering excruciating pain. Anything else? Some medication, nothing out of the ordinary. That about sums it up. What else would you like to know?”

I zipped up my duffel bag and slung it over my shoulder. 

“Ada, can you just stop for a second and let this sink in?” He made a move towards me.

“No, don’t touch me! Please, I can’t do this if you do, just don’t. Please.” I backed away, my hands in the air. 

“Ada, don’t do this. Don’t leave right now.”

I turned and ran for the door, your father behind me. I made it to the car, locked it, and turned the key in the ignition to the sound of his fists beating on the window on the driver’s end, his entreaties muffled as I backed out of the driveway. 

I didn’t see or speak to your father for three weeks. At first, he called over and over again and sent text messages, letters, and people to come talk to me. Initially, my mother respected my wishes and warded him off whenever he came over to see me. I’d stand in the hallway, listening to him beg to see me, even if it was for a second. The last time he came, he cried, and I cried along with him in my dark corner, wondering why I was punishing him, punishing myself for something that I had no control over, keeping myself away from the one person who could comfort me as no one else could. I knew it made no sense, but I had convinced myself that we were responsible for everything that had happened this far, and for that reason, we had no right to be happy together.

It was after this visit Mama called me to order. “Adaora, I did not raise a coward. Hiding in your mother’s house and keeping yourself away from the man you vowed to be with, for better, for worse, is not something I expect from a child of mine. Enough of this nonsense!”

She sighed. Her voice softened. 

“I know this is hard, harder than it has any right to be. I know you have seen more tragedy than most people. But I will be honest with you when I say that this wasn’t your best move. You haven’t seen Obinna lately. That man is a wreck. He not only lost his baby, but he also lost his wife at the same time. I know you’re looking out for yourself, but could you take a minute, and think about how he feels?”

My tears were creating a puddle where I sat.

“And since when did having a child become the sum all of your existence? Obinna is an only child, an orphan, so no one’s pressuring you to give them children. I certainly am not, and were your father alive, he wouldn’t dream of it. Why then have you chosen to use this as a marker for success?”

“I’ve never failed at anything before in my life, Mama. Is this punishment for that? Four times? Who did I offend?”

She gathered me to her bosom and let me cry.

“You have offended no one, my dear girl. Life has just been cruel to you, but you’re not going to just sit there and take it. You’re going to get up every time, no matter how many times it knocks you down. You’re a fighter, Ada, and even if you don’t believe it, I do and I know it. Now wipe your tears, you’re going back to your home, okay? Go. Grieve with your husband. Together, you’ll both find a way to get through this.”

Your father welcomed me back with open arms, nodding through my teary apologies for my absence. Mama was right: he looked like a wreck. He’d lost weight and the light had gone out of his eyes. 

“I’m just happy you’re home, Ada. I was losing my mind; I didn’t know if you were okay.”

“I know, and I’m sorry, so sorry. You lost a baby, too, but you won’t lose me as well.” 

“Ada, me and you, we’re a team, and we will always get through anything as long as we’re together. It’s the alone part I know I can’t do. Stay. Don’t leave me.”

“I won’t. Never again.”

That was the day you were made, a reminder of the love that we shared.

That experience, before you came, taught me a lot but two things stood out. One was that most people didn’t know how to handle grief. Reactions ran the gamut from genuine sympathy to the woman whose mother asked her to move from my side at the women’s meeting in the village because bad luck like that was infectious. Some remained insistent that ‘God will give you many more to replace the one you’ve lost, as though children are easily replaceable. Some were determined to let me know that they had seen or heard worse cases than mine. Was that supposed to make me feel better? For others, it was a completion of who had had the most misfortunes, “My sister, if you see me that time eh! My mother, grandfather, uncle, brother, and nephew, all died at the same time! I thought I would go mad. For you, at least it’s just a baby you lost o. You’re young, you can get another one.” Some people completely avoided me, like I had the plague, or worse, like I would infect them with my bad luck. People I considered friends were now reduced to acquaintances bumping into each other at the drinks aisle in the mall, with them looking everywhere but at me as they hurriedly went through the motions of asking how I was. I could have comfortably written a book titled, ‘What Not to Do When Someone’s Grieving‘. 

The second thing I learned was that experience was the best teacher, albeit a horrible one. I didn’t know I was a sensitive person until all of this happened. Or perhaps, I became sensitive because of it. I felt everything more acutely and picked up on things that I’d never given momentary thought. The glances, a mix of pity and sadness, as the newest mother at the church women’s meeting emphatically declared that she wanted to give out this last child because the boy’s wahala was too much for a sixth child. The silent nudge my neighbour in church gave me when they asked women looking for the fruit of the womb to come forth for prayers. The knowing look my aunt gave at the last family gathering while offering that there were things more spiritual than the church could handle.  My garrulous cousin saying ‘you won’t understand’ when conversations about raising kids came up. My colleagues at work delegating tasks to me because ‘Junior and his sister chose to fall sick at the same time. I have to take them to the hospital. Will you cover for me?’ Even the lady that told me to my face that I was trying too hard and should consider adoption instead. The ones that gave me lists of dos and don’ts with every new pregnancy. Each comment, look or action was like a barb, driving itself into my heart.

It was two months before I realized my period was yet to show and another month before I used a pregnancy test. I told your father nothing. We were happy for the first time in a long time. It was such an irony that I knew news of another pregnancy would only weigh us down, something that was supposed to be a thing of joy. Morning sickness was explained away or hidden. I was waiting. Waiting for it to get past that marker, the point where all your siblings before you had left my body unceremoniously. You got past it. Then I waited a little longer. And a little more.

One day, your father came home in high spirits. 

“Guess who got the regional manager position!”

He twirled me around the living room while I squealed for him to put me down. 

“I don’t know, it has to be Kemi, I mean she has worked so hard,” I teased.

“Babe, you know as well as I know that Kemi is useless.”

“So, who could it be? I mean it can’t be you; that position is reserved for those who have given all their life, and we both know you’ve only given half of it!”

“I’ll strangle you, this woman!”

I hugged him tightly. “You deserve it and more, my love. I’m so happy for you!”

“I know. Especially because we’ve been through…”

“Shhh. I know.”

We stood for a while in the centre of the living room. That’s when I broke the news.

“Are you sure?”

“I am. Been to the hospital and everything.”

His eyes held both fear and excitement like he couldn’t decide what to feel.

“How do you feel about it?”

“We’re having a baby, you big head. How do you think I feel?”

“So that’s good, yeah? We’re feeling good!”

As I was twirled about for the second time that day, I knew somewhere in my heart that our luck had finally turned. This was it. You were it. 

Except for Mama, we told no one. It was our little secret. We didn’t need the extra pressure from other people, with their unsolicited advice and naked worry. I resigned from my job. I remember my exit interview with the HR manager. We both knew I’d just been putting in the bare minimum, and my self-resignation made management heave a sigh of relief. Somehow, I’d been kept on the staff because no one had the guts to fire the childless lady. Keeping the news from the extended family was easy. I’d withdrawn from family gatherings and except for the occasional check-in calls with Mama, I pretty much kept to myself. So when your father put up a picture on social media, of you wrapped up in a baby blanket, your face still red and wrinkly, there was pandemonium. Calls, messages asking who, how, when, where, why. I smiled and I laughed and I cried until my face hurt. 

My little miracle. Miracle.

About the Author:

Chinelo Okonkwo is an avid reader who loves dogs, animal videos, great food, and the smell of new books. She loves meeting new people and can be reached on Twitter and Instagram @nelielsama23.

*Featured image by Dorota Dymek from Pixabay