41. THE BABY SHOWER

THERE WAS some confusion about when the baby shower would start: Sadia had told people 2 p.m., then pushed it back to 5 p.m. The address she gave turned out to be a locked church on a quiet street in Syracuse.

“Just come over to my in-laws’ house,” Sadia said when people called, confused. Then everybody could head to the party together.

But at 5:30 p.m., Chol’s family was still getting ready.

“Africans are always late,” Sadia said matter-of-factly.

It was a hot July day: In an upstairs bedroom, Sadia leaned close to a fan and closed her eyes. She was wearing a long-sleeved shift to protect her party dress—it was making her even hotter. Only two weeks from her due date, even walking was difficult.

She wore mermaid-colored eye shadow, and her hair—generally hidden under a head wrap—was in long strands of dense curls. Chol—a thin, sweet-looking young man—popped in for a second to check on her, then headed back downstairs to run party errands for his mother, Amal, who had been cooking for two weeks.

Some of his siblings fanned out around Sadia. Chol’s 9-year-old brother was ironing his pants on the bed. Another brother was lying down, watching a video. A teenage sister was helping an aunt with the delicate job of pasting on false eyelashes. His youngest brother—a stocky 5-year-old in shorts—was vigorously applying lotion to his arms.

“Bro, can you put some on me?” Sadia asked. She indicated her feet, covered in a lacey henna pattern. Slipping off the bed, the little boy began rubbing cocoa butter into them. “Thank you.”

Sadia’s family was new to the idea of a baby shower. “We’re not really sure what it is,” said Sofia, who had just arrived with her daughter. “But it seems like a good idea,” she added, referring to the gifts. “I wish I’d had one.”

The baby shower was Amal’s idea. Tall and elegant in a long traditional dress, she moved around her small kitchen, ladling beef and lamb stew into large aluminum trays and packing up salads, macaroni and cheese, and cakes.

Sixteen trays had already been taken over to the local school, where she had rented an event space in the basement. The DJ was already there, setting up. Blue and white balloons were hung, as well as a sign: Welcome Little Prince.

Sofia was one of the few people attending from Sadia’s family.

Ralya was also there: She had recently married Siddi, a good-natured young Somali Bantu man she has known since middle school. It was not an arranged marriage; they dated for two years.

He appreciates Ralya: “He knows I have a wild side,” she said, laughing, “that I’ve always been spoiled.”

The couple did everything right: Siddi asked her grandmother’s permission to marry Ralya.

“I prayed money for him!” Halima told Ralya, meaning that she had prayed for a good man—and given money to charity to help her prayer along.

Siddi’s family provided a dowry of cash, dresses, scarves, jewelry, furniture, rugs, drapes, and a large-screen TV.

The couple had a big Somali Bantu wedding at an Italian banquet hall in New Hartford. Ralya honored the traditions: She made five entrances in five splendid outfits. As she sat in a gold-painted chair, her aunts lovingly draped colorful scarves over her head and showered her with dollar bills.

The couple waited to have sex until after their wedding.

In contrast, Sadia and Chol broke every rule: Sadia got pregnant without any of the protections Zahara wanted for her.

“If your daughter is married the right way, everybody cares for you,” Ralya explained. “My mom wants the same thing for Sadia and Mana.”

Ralya did not even bother making an excuse for her mother’s absence from the baby shower. Zahara had not wanted her younger girls to attend.

“Sadia and my mom,” Ralya said, shaking her head. “I leave them to God!”

At 6 p.m., Sadia’s father-in-law, Moyluk, a kind-looking man in a Panama hat, was still greeting his relatives arriving from Rochester. Their cars, parked on the street, were stuffed with gifts: baby clothing, jumbo packages of diapers, blankets, and toys.

Moyluk signaled for his youngest daughter to give those arriving a bottle of cold water.

The small house—though darkened by window drapes—was sweltering.

Sadia sat on the living room couch, trying to stay cool. Chol’s aunt offered her Sudanese flatbread; she shook her head. “The things I used to like, I don’t like,” she told me. “But I never drank tea before—you fill it with powdered milk. It’s delicious.”

Sadia checked her makeup, using her iPhone. She nodded at her reflection, pleased: “I still got it.”

Suddenly, Moyluk announced they were leaving for the party.

Sadia struggled to take off her long shift. But her belly was too big. She collapsed against the couch, laughing.

Chol’s teenage sister—a bandana over her long braids—helped her peel it off.

And then Sadia’s party dress was revealed: She was wearing a low-cut white minidress, skintight over her baby bump. A gold necklace and bracelets glowed against her skin.

“My mother-in-law gave them to me,” she said.

For years, I had only seen Sadia covered up, head to toe. Even she looked shocked. “I’ve never worn anything that showed so much,” she said, looking down at her cleavage.

But she was happy. And her young sister-in-law gently put her hand on Sadia’s belly, stroking it to help her cool off, before getting into the car.