Sophia is confused because nothing’s happened with her. By eight p.m. I’m getting my first contractions, and within two hours they’ve become vigorous. From now on I get an examination every half hour. By midnight it’s almost unbearable. The pain makes me vomit repeatedly. Eventually I’m taken into the birthing room. It’s the same room in which I sat in the gynaecological stirrups for my earlier examination. The female doctor and two black nurses try to calm me down, but somehow I’ve lost all my English. In between contractions I stare at the women and see only their mouths opening and closing. I start to panic because I’m not sure if I’m doing everything properly. Breathe, breathe deep, keeps going through my head. Then they tie my legs to the stirrups. I feel helpless, out of control. Even when I want to cry out that I can’t take it anymore the nurse puts her hand over my mouth. I stare at the doctor in fear, and at that moment I hear them say they can already see the baby’s head. With the next contraction it’ll be out. I push with the last of my strength; and it’s as if there’s an explosion in my lower body. My little girl has been born. It’s one-fifteen a.m., and a healthy 6.52 lb girl has come into the world. I’m ecstatic. She is as beautiful as her father, and we’ll call her Napirai.
While the doctor is still dealing with the afterbirth and such like the door opens and Sophia throws herself into my arms. She watched the birth through the window. They show my baby to me again and then take her off to be with the other newborn. I’m happy enough about that because right now I’m too weak to hold her. I can’t even hold the cup of tea I’m offered. They put me in a wheelchair and bring me back to our room and give me a sleeping pill.
I wake up at five a.m. with terrible pains between my legs and wake Sophia who gets up straight away and goes to fetch the night nurse. They calm me down with painkillers. At eight o’clock I drag myself to the nursery to see my baby. I’m relieved when I finally find her, but she’s screaming with hunger. I have to do something to comfort her, but that’s not so easy. My breasts may have grown enormous, but there’s not a drop to be had from them. Trying to express milk doesn’t work either, and by evening I can’t stand it: my breasts are as hard as rocks and hurt; and the whole time Napirai is crying incessantly. One of the black nurses tells me I ought to work harder to get the milk glands to open, or I’ll get an infection. In extreme pain I try everything. Two Samburu women come along and ‘milk’ my breasts for nearly half an hour before at long last it starts to flow. And then it won’t stop! There’s far more than my baby can drink. Not until mid-afternoon does everything seem to work properly.
Meanwhile Sophia’s contractions began hours ago, but there’s no sign of the baby. She’s screaming and crying and demanding a Caesarean, but the doctor won’t have it because it’s not necessary. I’ve never seen or heard Sophia use language like it. The doctor finds it a bit too much and tells her to control herself or he won’t carry out the delivery. The examination takes place in Italian because he’s from Italy. After a terrible thirty-six hours and the use of a vacuum extractor her daughter too is born.
The same evening, just as visiting time ends, my darling turns up. He had heard about the birth in the morning via the regular radio contact and immediately set out for Wamba on foot. He’s painted himself specially and had his hair done and greets me with joy. He’s brought meat and a wonderful dress for me and wants to see Napirai straight away. But the nurses tell him he’s too late and has to come back tomorrow. Although he’s disappointed he beams at me proudly and happily, which gives me some hope again. Because he has to leave the hospital he decides to spend the night in Wamba and is there for the first visiting time in the morning. He comes into the room laden with little presents, just as I’m feeding Napirai. He lifts his daughter devotedly in his arms and carries her into the sunshine. She looks at him with curiosity, and he can’t let her go. It’s been ages since I’ve seen him so happy, and it reassures me that everything will be fine again.
The first few days with the baby are tiring. I’m still very weak and don’t weigh enough and I have stitches in my vagina, which hurt when I sit down. My little girl wakes up two or three times a night either because she wants the breast or needs changing. As soon as she goes to sleep Sophia’s baby starts crying. They use cloth nappies here, and the babies are washed in little basins. I’m not very good at nappy changing, and I don’t dare put the things I’ve knitted on her for fear of breaking her arm or leg. So she lies there on her baby blanket naked except for the nappy, while my husband looks at us and says with obvious satisfaction, ‘She is looking like me!’
He comes to see us every day, but he’s starting to get impatient. He wants to take his family home. But I’m still too weak and am a bit worried about being on my own with the baby. Washing nappies, cooking, fetching wood and maybe working in the shop again are unimaginable. The shop has been closed for three weeks now as there’s only maize flour left and, according to Lketinga, the boy no longer seems so reliable.
Apart from anything else there’s no transport; he had to walk here because there are problems yet again with our car. This time Giuliani’s worked out that it’s the gearbox. So first of all he’ll have to get back home to see if the Land Rover has been fixed before he can come and fetch us.
That at least gives me a bit more time. The doctor is pleased too that I can stay for a few more days. Sophia, on the other hand, is leaving the hospital just five days after giving birth and on her way back to Maralal. After a further three days my husband comes back in the fixed car. I really don’t know what we’d do without Father Giuliani. I’m ready to leave Wamba because since Sophia left I’ve already had two Samburu mothers in the room. The first, an old looking, emaciated woman having her tenth child, and premature at that, died the same night from weakness and anaemia. It simply wasn’t possible to get in touch with her family to find a suitable blood donor. The events of that night took so much out of me that I’m now desperate to leave.
The new father stands proudly at reception with his new daughter in his arms while I settle the bill. The twenty-two days in the hospital, including the baby’s delivery, cost a mere eighty Swiss francs – I can hardly believe it. On the other hand, I have to delve somewhat deeper into my pocket for the air ambulance, which costs eight hundred francs. But what’s that, against both our lives!
For the first time in ages I’m back behind the wheel while my husband holds Napirai. But after barely a hundred yards the baby’s screaming because of the awful noise the car makes. Lketinga tries to calm her down by singing, but it’s no good. So he drives, and I hold Napirai to my breast as well as I can. One way or another we get to Maralal before evening. I need nappies, some clothes and baby blankets. We want to buy food too, because there’s been nothing in Barsaloi for weeks now. There’s no alternative but to book into the boarding house. Just to find a dozen nappies, I have to search the whole of Maralal, while Lketinga looks after our daughter.
The first night out of hospital isn’t very comfortable. I have difficulty in changing Napirai because it’s so cold in Maralal at night, and I’m not so good at breastfeeding in the dark either. The next morning I’m tired and I’ve got a runny nose already. Half of the nappies are already used so I wash them here. By midday the car is loaded up with food, and we set off. There’s no question of taking the jungle route this time. But my husband reckons it’s raining up in the mountains towards Baragoi and there’s a risk of the rivers filling up and becoming impassable. So we decide to take the road back via Wamba in order to approach Barsaloi from the other direction. We take turns at driving, as Lketinga can handle the car well now; he only drives too fast into large potholes occasionally. Napirai doesn’t like the car at all. She cries continuously and only quietens down when the car stops, so we take frequent breaks.