Chapter III
III
They told her to push. Push.
As if it was easy; as if they weren’t asking her to surrender herself to death.
She heard someone give a guttural cry, and then realised that she was the someone.
She had been right to fear this pain. She didn’t think she would survive the experience.
A voice told her she was doing well, but it was as though she were submerged underwater and the voice was trying to reach her from the surface.
The words had no meaning. She breathed. She pushed.
She felt the head crowning. She screamed, and it was over.
They lowered the baby into her arms, naked and crying.
She stared at the child that she had nurtured for seven months—the cause of her acid reflux, the endless blood-thinning injections, the sickness, the absent-mindedness.
Here she was, her daughter, in the smallest and most fragile of packages.
Her skin pillowy soft against Ebun’s own.
The crying subsided. They took their breaths together.
Her daughter’s eyelids flickered open, and the eyes were boundless and familiar.
Ebun was engulfed in a joy that was so concentrated it felt like grief.
Nothing would ever matter as much as this child.
“Beautiful hair,” a nurse exclaimed as Ebun ran her fingers tenderly over her baby’s scalp. The statement was true enough. Her daughter’s hair was already thick and coily; likely to become long and resilient, soaking up moisture and defying gravity.
And then the moment was over. They whisked the baby away, to check that her organs were fully developed and she would be able to survive on her own.
When her daughter was returned to her, Ebun saw that her eyes were heavy with sleep. Eyes that reminded her of Monife—wide-set and downturned. She gave in to her own desire for rest. This was a moment steeped in all that was good. She didn’t have to think of anything else.