Babies not the major purpose of ladies on earth

You think your purpose in life is to birth babies?” That was my
question to her when she came to me, crying.
She had explained to me the pain and ridicule she went through in
the hands of women, including her very own mother-in-law. She
was called unprintable names—barren, infertile, sterile, unfruitful
and a doctor told her she had a hostile uterus.
She cried, tears enough to flow a Nigerian Mississippi.
And as the months turned to years, her tear ducts were dry, dry as
the Tucson dirt.
She had seen them all, native medicine men had taken enough of
her money to open branches across the globe.
“Oh, don’t worry, this one’s a retired pastor,” her friend had once
told her, “He’s no harm.” And she went along.
Another time she’s told, “This woman doesn’t charge, anything you
give her is okay,” and so she began a journey to ‘mama Ilaja’, a
woman dressed in long white robe with a red ribbon accentuating
her muffin top waist and distended stomach. She hopped on one
foot and rung bells while chanting and repeatedly shaking her
head.
And when she spoke, she said, “Iya Ibeji,” then gave a dramatic
pause, and then continued, “I am calling you this because in the
first year of your marriage, you were pregnant with twins, but your
aunty in the village stabbed the babies out of you through a mirror
in her calabash.”
She sat and listened, and even though she knew she was never
pregnant and she does not have an aunt, she remained silent and
listened.
Mama Ilaja continued, “but I have a solution to that. Your twins will
come back to you.” She reached into a deep clay pot and holding a
white powder wrapped in clear cellophane bag, she handed it to
her with the instructions, “when you see your menstruation, don’t
take it on the first day, but on the second day, make pap, pap
made from maize, pour all of this in it and drink with no sugar
while standing up, all at once. On the third day of your
menstruation, if you don’t see blood, go to the market and buy your
baby things.”
I held her right hand and looked at the white substance in the
cellophane bag, I swallowed hard and asked, “go to the market and
buy baby things? The second day of your period? I mean, only a
few women ovulate same time as they menstruate. What are the
odds huh?”
Then she shocked me, “mama Ilaja said I shouldn’t sleep with my
husband when I do this. She says it will work.”
“Well,” I said, “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but except
semen now comes in powder and fertilises the egg orally, this is
not possible.”
“I am not going to use it.” It came out weak and feeble.
I held her hand and said, “my dear, it is time you moved on with
your life, you have clung onto this baby thing for way too long. Yes
you have been married for seven years with no baby, I know it
hurts and I know you want one so bad. If you can’t have one of
your own, won’t you adopt? Many babies in orphanages crying to
God to send them a mum and a dad, do you think He will come
down Himself to do it? He needs me and you to help wipe the tears
of this children.”
She looked at me like I slaughter infants on weekends and public
holidays when she said, “my pastor says ‘none shall be barren in
our land’. I can have my own children, I am a covenant child of the
most-high and the Bible commanded us to ‘go, be fruitful and
multiply’.”
She had no idea what her words did to me, stabbing my heart with
daggers and my soul with spears, I lowered my voice, not trusting
that my tears will respect the fact that my mascara was designers.
I said, “is that how you see yourself? Is that your purpose in life?
Do you think this is why God created you on earth, to multiply?
Aren’t others doing just that?”
She was quiet and so was I.
As I let the words sink in, my next simmer in my head.
Then I continued, “Chickens give birth, goats and dogs alike. Heck
my cat just gave birth to three beautiful kittens, but does my cat
have a purpose in life? Children are a gift sent to lighten our
journey through the earth’s passageway, they can be from our
loins or the loins of others, for what matters most is not the loins
of whom they come, but of whose heart they make their home.
They are tiny humans with whom we want to share the excess
love our hearts so carry it overweighs us, for they are the ones that
paint our latter days with the beautiful colours of their earlier days,
their childhood. But they must not be from our loins because all
that matters is the capacity of the home our heart houses.”
Many months later, after going incommunicado, I ran into her at a
wedding, more like she ran away from me though. She looked
away when our eyes met and walked away when I walked towards
her.
And it was then that I saw her bulging belly and heard a woman
call her ‘iya ibeji’.
Then I prayed that the babies that baked in the oven of her uterus
not make a warm meal of her someday, leading her to the grave
beyond faster than it takes my pizza to cook.

3 Comments

  1. Good update

  2. Nice post

  3. Ok

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