Precious


precious 2

“It hurts terribly; I can’t walk, I …. help me….” Nafisa moaned, as she dragged her feet along the narrow corridor. “Walk straight na! Officer gon see you wincing like a sissy, and he throw you in solitary lockup, be strong! Stand up and walk Nafi!” Sofia hissed at her bestie, holding on to her massive weight by the waist, but the hurting woman could not keep it together. She groaned louder and louder, as she dropped grossly in a heap, clenching her teeth, while holding onto her swollen belly.

The prison camp officer noticed the commotion and came lashing out. “What is you two up to this time eeh!” “Excuse me Mr. Officer, she, she’s …..” Sofia tried to explain. “Move over you rascal!” The pretty man yelled, raising his cane ready to thrash Nafisa mercilessly for being a nuisance on a slow, Sunday mid-morning. Luckily, the gods saved Nafisa as she had already passed out and had to be dragged to the sick bay within the prison precincts. The inmates nicknamed Officer Roman Martins, Mr. Pretty, for his narcissistic behavior and an incessant fetishness with busty women.

Within hours, Nafisa had given birth to a beautiful child. She held her in her arms, and cried like a babe, evidently worn out from the birthing process and tensed with worry. Nafisa waited for the fate of her newborn. She did not give it a name, unsure of her future behind bars. The prison was no place for innocent souls. God knows she was a monster herself, and the pregnancy was a surprise even to the warders who only learned of it when she suddenly went into labor. At least she managed to keep it a secret.

 Her voluptuous body made the safest haven during the pregnancy. Sofia kept her on the right diet and sacrificed her meals sometimes for the sake of the baby. She was an angel in the god-forsaken prison, tucked away in the heart of Lesvos Islands in the Mediterranean Sea. This was a refugee camp turned prison for asylum seekers in Greece.  Inmates condemned to serving lifelong sentences in here had little or no chance of leaving the Island. Worse still, in the case of Nafisa and Sofia, who accidentally, or not, (who knows …) were found with 7 kilos of cocaine on their way to Europe.

Soon “they” would come for her baby, and Nafisa could not stop crying. She was madly in love with her child, never mind the circumstances it was created.

Nafisa had little strength to fight off Roman as he tore into her overalls, raping her on the bathroom floor, with a gun held to her face. On one occasion, he shoved himself inside her as she slept. This one almost gave her a heart attack; thankfully, he was carrot-medium sized. Once on top, Roman overpowered her each time he forced himself on her and only rolled over when he’d spiffed deep inside her.

Nafisa Kazuri had always been a big girl with a huge bust that made heads turn. She roared with laughter as Sofia Asibi exasperatedly narrated her ordeal with the border immigration officers. “This one’s for my Koko and this luscious green dress is for my baby girl; I sees her every time I go to sleep. I love me baby girl to de moon and behind.” She dramatized, with eyes closed as if to reminisce the last time she saw her daughter. “Officer like me story, he gives me a big smile and takes one sugar pop, shoving me luggage to de front.” “Aaai, stop na …” Nafisa begged, shaking uncontrollably from the laughter. Her lungs caved in and she couldn’t take it anymore with Sofia’s outlandish tale.

Such stories made the women forget all their troubles in the camp. It was a god-forsaken place. No one survived without “protection.” New offenders learned the hard way on how things worked in confinement. The officers  on occasion allowed for gang wars to take place as a form of entertainment, sometimes someone died, and other times they ended up in isolation cells for weeks.

Nafisa and Sofia were the only Africans in the entire camp population of about 200 women. The first two years were challenging since everyone wanted the two dead, for being black. Nonetheless, the girls spoke Hausa, and Swahili concurrently to confuse anyone who had a keen ear on either language. It was difficult to tell what dialect these two detainees use, and it worked perfectly in their favor. The duo had traveled all over the world trafficking outlawed contraband. They could kick ass too, use any ammo and survive the harshest punishment meted out on them for whatever reason. But despite these amazing hardcore skills, life was tough. I mean no alcohol, no hanky-panky, no pools to laze around and swim, mountains of cash … It was the true definition of “I got caught in the act,” this prison life. It sucked, the air was stale all the time, and no one cared if you took a shower or you had a mild migraine.

On the first day, the menu consisted of cabbage, bread and a slice of cheese. Nafisa cried. Cabbage! She had hunger pangs all the time until she learned how to smuggle in candy bars and chia seeds from Mojo, a friend, and one of the most wanted persons by the  Interpol . He couldn’t visit as often as he wanted because the undercover cops had him on the list of criminals on the run. Luckily, Mojo bleached his skin and dyed his hair blond, transforming himself into a yellow yellow fellow, with blue eyes. He paid off all the camp officials, including the Refugees management in command to be able to visit Nafisa without any complications. And they kept it a secret, but not for long.

Someone ratted him out, and the visits stopped abruptly. That is when Roman decided to violate Nafisa’s human rights. He was a vicious man this one, wanting her every minute, at a moment’s notice, and without politesse. He even had the nerve to penetrate her  in the toilets. One time Roman tied Nafisa’s hands tightly onto the solid cell iron bars using his shoelaces and shoved himself in exasperatedly, slowly, thrusting hard until he was done. Nafisa dropped in a heap of madness and cried herself to sleep when the brutal man finished his business. It was a nightmare. But she got food. Lots of food.  She always got the best meat cuts, fresh fruits, and large bread pieces during mealtimes.

The “Afrikan” toughies had scars too, from numerous defensive territorial wars in the god-forsaken camp. Mostly the Moslem and Asian gangs detested them so much. On the outside, the two acted strong and bitchy, but deep down inside; Sofia was struggling with ulcers and halitosis from the crack she’d consumed in the past. They could kick ass for sure, but two against ten to fifteen angry women at a go overwhelmed the duo on most occasions. And every time a fight broke out, they always landed in isolation cells. After the third year going back and forth from the dark cold cells to the sprawling sunlit yards, Sofia and Nafisa rather outgrew the fear of loneliness. Instead, they would keep each other company with ridiculous stories, and at times cry together when it got too harsh. There was never a dull moment, apart from death, they would chide along as if nothing had happened.

These seclusions created a strong bond between the African sisters. They made a pact to never stray  at least 5 feet away from each other, for the rest of their lives in the prison camp. As long as anyone survived a stab, or a kick in the wrong place, everything was all right.

Ten days passed quickly. Nafisa enjoyed her stay in the penitentiary clinic tending to her baby; she was in good cheer, but a little tense from the silence of her superiors regarding the young one. Something wasn’t adding up.

On the 11th day, Sofia was finally allowed to see her best friend at the hospice, without cuffs. “Oooh, mi goodness, she so pale girl, and big too… she cooed over and held out her arms, can I hold her?” Sofia asked, “Of course, you can, here … careful with her head now ” offered Nafisa “She reminds me of Nolla, when I first held her, it was heavenly. I couldn’t take my eyes off of her.” Added Sofia, smiling sheepishly at the little one. “I know, this girl has changed my life forever, I mean I’d do anything for her. She’s so Precious” Nafisa said, feeling so in love with her baby.

Roman walked in bouncing and smiling like the devil himself. “Okay you two party’s over, Nafi, hand over the baby to this woman,” commanded the cruel officer, pointing at Dr. Marie. Nafisa was dumbfounded; she knew this moment was going to happen, but not today, not today. “No! I ain’t givin up my baby, am going to choke her to death if I have to.” She said, in a shrieked voice.

“Please, don’t harm the child, she doesn’t deserve to die this way Nafi, say goodbye and let her go, you know this ain’t the place to raise no baby…” Sofia tried to coax her friend, but she was too grief-stricken with the sudden development of events. Nafisa began moaning and rocking her child back and forth, pressing the fragile being tightly to her large breasts. “Please ma, don’t, I beg you don’t do that…” Sofia pleaded.

“Give it here bitch!” … Roared Roman, shoving his way towards the bed ready to thrash Nafisa by any means anyhow. He knew the baby was his, and could not have her declare it in front of the doctor or else it would cost him his job. Sofia sprang forward, taking the stinging lashes on her back, as she protected Nafisa and her baby. “Give me the baby Nafi, she implored, this man will kill you, and you must stay strong if you want to see her again! We’ll make sure to keep track of her adoption. I’ll talk to the doctor, I promise, she shall not disappear into the system.” Sofia whispered into her friend’s ear, as Roman kept hitting and hitting her until the Doctor yelled for him to stop.

”What is wrong with you! Have you gone mad! Asked the doctor who almost fainted at the fierceness and ruthlessness expressed by Roman. These women have not resisted, and yet you lash out at them like a dog. Now give me the baby Nafisa, c’mon now,” the doctor insisted still shaking in anger from the madness of the situation.

Sofia slowly straightened up, holding the baby with one hand and trying to balance her bruised, broken body with the other; she turned around and handed over the wailing child to the doctor. Before the doctor could settle the young one in her arms, Sofia’s legs could hold her weight no more. She fell flat on her face groaning in pain… “Help! We need an extra hand in here,” the doctor yelled, as two aides came in and helped Sofia on to the adjacent bed in the tiny room. She passed out, and they had to quickly administer some first aid to keep her vitals steady and functioning.

“Now listen to me young lady, we’ll bring you the paperwork for you to sign off your rights over this child claiming unfit to raise her.” “NO! NO! NO! You need to wake Sofia; she said she’d handle dis, wake up woman! They took away my baby, help me, why is you dead when I need you, woman, wake up na! Cried Nafisa, give me my baby, let me hold her one-time pleeeaase…”

 Okay okay, calm down, you can’t hold her in such a nasty mood, you must compose yourself now. Doctor Maria was already getting worked up.” I’ll not let her go. Now, here, hold her and say goodbye quickly.

Too weak to speak, Nafisa carefully placed her shaky dry lips on her precious’ forehead; she lingered there for a moment, tears rolling like a river and vowed to find her someday. Dr. Marie looked away, as she struggled to hold her tears from falling. This was a nasty break up, and she felt compelled to help the poor grieving woman. “Listen, she whispered to Nafisa, Canada, St. Josephina Orphanage, ask for Sister Beatrice Catherine Albert, when the time is right. “Thank you, doctor, bless you. Can you come back tomorrow; I need to give you something. Nafisa implored, smiling and crying at the same time. See you soon my little pudding; my spirit will be with you always.” Dr. Marie patted her on the back “Good luck, and stay strong. Look after your friend; she saved both you and the child.” “Yes Doc, I’ll be right here when she wakes up,” Nafisa assured the physician. She wiped her tears and closed her eyes; she was hungry but too weak to think about eating.

The next day, Sofia was looking better, but in great pain from the beating thrust upon her the previous day. “Salama? (You’re good?) Nafisa asked in Swahili, “Ni Lafiya. Ina Kwana?” (Am good, how did you sleep?) Sofia responded weakly in Hausa. “Nilijisahau nkalala kabisa. Nahisi njaa sasa.” ( I lost all my senses and slept soundly.)  Nafisa added, looking around hoping to stumble on manna. Ni ma, ba su bar mana daga nan duk dare, sayyiduna? (Me too, did they leave us out here all night, unchained?) Asked Sofia, wondering why they were alone.

She tried to step out of bed, but her fragile bones couldn’t let her. “Doctoooor! Officeeeeerrrr!”   Yelled Nafisa, the hunger pangs couldn’t let her stay still; she needed to eat. “What na! Why you screaming like dis a marketplace?” Retorted the officer in charge. “Wapi chakula, nahisi njaa! Matiti yauma, dawa za kupoza maziwa zi wapi? (Where’s the food? I’m hungry, my breasts hurt, where’s medicine to stop the milk flow?) Nafisa yelled back, unfazed by the imposing officer’s cane. “Unless you speak in English, I ain’t calling the doctor you sick freak!” the lady officer Snapped back. “Fine, when is the doctor coming? We hungry, and we need pain medication,” retorted the nasty lady. “No drugs for any of you suck it up!” Said the officer, unfazed by their current woes.

She turned back ready to leave, and in a flash, Nafisa hurled her water jug, striking the Officer at the back of her head. It was a muscular forearm that one. The rude officer fell, buzzing on the alarm tied to her waist. Two more officers responded promptly and came in hurriedly. They immediately hailed lashes at Nafisa, whom unlucky for her, Roman targeted her breasts, and he hit on them jugs severely until Nafisa passed out.

Dr. Marie walked in on the mayhem and fired her gun in the air. The two officers turned around, on seeing the gun, they pulled back.  “On your knees you sick f**ks! Roman hesitated…, one more step and I’ll shoot both your kneecaps.” Warned the nervous doc. The bullies slowly obliged, as the doctor called in on the Superintendent. The sickbay is a few meters from the boss’s offices, so she came in immediately. “What in the world is going on? Is she dead? Asked Ms. Warrington, pointing at the battered inmate. Oh my God is Bernny dead, what happened?”  “Probe them, I found these two pounding at Nafisa, now deal with your staff, I need to check on the prisoner for any internal bleeding, she took a heavy beating from these maniacs. Why do you let this shit go on Mrs. Warrington?” Asked Dr. Marie, confidently tucking away her gun, as she checked on Nafisa.

Sofia tried to get off the bed in vain, she could not do anything to save her friend, but thankfully, Nafisa hadn’t passed out. She needed to play dead to be safe. “Niko sawa dada” (I am okay sister) Nafisa let out a word of assurance to her friend who was already sick with worry besides her hurting bones and flesh. “Gode Allah! (Thank God!) Sighed Sofia.

Dr. Marie was relieved that her patient was alive and unharmed. Bruised, but out of danger. “You asked to see me yesterday, what’s up?” She inquired Nafisa.

Nafi smiled and handed her a letter saying “My heart is at peace now. I have written this to my daughter. Now please promise me, you will monitor her, and bring me photos whenever you can. When she turns 12 years, give her this letter. My spirit will always guide her. I know it; I feel it in my heart.

 I shall be her guardian angel. I’ll be on my best behavior, so that if she ever wants to visit me, she will find no scars on me, just smooth healthy skin, lovely neat hair, but locked up for life. If the jailer decides to set me free for good behavior someday, the better. From now on, I live for my precious. “You hear Sofia! No more dungeon cells, be at your best. We changed people now.” Sofia smiled, nodding her head in agreement on realizing the absolute resolve in Nafisa’s eyes.

 Dr. Marie hesitated at first but agreed to take on the dangerous task. “It’s risky, but I’ll do it for you, you’re a fighter, and I greatly admire your demeanor.”  “Asante sana Daktari, (thank you so much doctor) Nafisa responded, relieved that the doc agreed to monitor her baby.

It was a joyous day at the clinic.

 Nafisa and Sofia healed weeks later, and with special protection from the Superintendent, the two feisty women lived peacefully at the Prison camp.

With Dr. Marie’s unusual request to the foster parents, they christened Nafisa’s little girl Precious Alma Chiddle.

Precious read her mother’s letter fifteen days after her 12th birthday.

 

My Precious baby girl, if you’re reading this, Dr. Marie kept her word.

I was too emotional when writing this, but I do not want to overwhelm you.

I decided to write a poem, to keep it short and simple.

If you hate onions, you got that from me, I can’t stand the smell.

If you’re hungry most of the time, you also got that from me, I eat every four hours,

At least they let me eat in portions in here, else I’d be a full-blown war tank.

If you have a short temper, that’s me. And if you don’t like boys messing with your head, guess what? me too!

If you like swimming, dancing, and playing the guitar, I did that too when I was a free woman.

If you’re in trouble but easily get away with it, that’s my spirit protecting you, child.

And if deep down you felt you didn’t belong with your foster parents,

that was my spirit leading you to find me.

Before you tear this letter, just know I shed a tear for every word I wrote,

and my chest still hurts since the day they took you away from my arms.

My breasts hurt full of milk for six months because I

couldn’t nurse you my Precious, they refused to give me medicine to stop the milk.

But I loved you with my full breasts anyway.

I love you every day; I love you more than words can say,

and I love you more for reading this letter to the very end.

And if you’re crying as you wind up, I cried too.

If your heart beats so fast, you can feel it in your throat, mine too,

because you’re my truest Precious baby girl, and I

will love you till I die, and after.

Come to mama, my Precious.

 

 

 

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Man Down


black_rose_

He sat on his piano, feeling empty and distraught. A surge of hollowness engrossed in his weak heart, but deep inside he still had some love engulfed around his betrayer. These kinds of situations don’t make a man cry out to let the pain subside a little. Reaching for his feel-good pills in the drawer, and a bottle of wine on the other hand, it was so tempting to drain all of the drugs down his throat, but no, that’s pathetic, and it gives power to his enemy. He tossed the pills away and chose to immerse his sorrows in the smooth red wine. One long gulp was enough to open up his creative senses, and he began to sing out the pain, and it felt a little better. It gave him strength, just what he needed. Marlon Mo, his younger brother, a talented rapper walked in and without a word, took the mic and got with the flow, expressing his distress at the moment. The siblings produced a powerful rendition of two soulful artists lost in love, trying to let out their pain.

Shem walked in on his lover Dafre, in a restaurant, dining with his great-aunt Liza Letta, an arch enemy of Shem’s parents. Dafre, aware of the difficult relations between his family and his lover’s family chose to keep it a secret. But he relentlessly reminded Shem that no matter what, he loved him dearly, more than he’ll ever know. The Letta family had done some despicable things to the Mo clan, going as far as using black magic on Shem’s father and his brothers. Dafre shrewdly befriended Shem, trying to bewitch him too. He gradually grew fond of the talented stud and found him soft-spoken, intelligent and committed to his singing career. Dafre fell in love instead, and vowed to protect Shem from his evil aunt Liza.

The untimely break up was just as hard on Dafre as it was on Shem. The deceit and manipulation played on Shem came as a complete surprise. How could he let someone come on to him like that! How could he be so blinded to see the truth, or not notice that something was wrong? Dafre seemed too perfect. As he contemplated his love life after the ugly restaurant encounter, Shem took to drinking heavily and continued to produce more music.

Beautiful-mare-friesian

One day, Dafre walked into his apartment unannounced. Shem grabbed a knife, ready to mutilate his fine-looking chocolate face! Smh… he had the nerve to show up! “I’ll tell you everything I know, including the plans at hand that my family has against yours,” he frantically said, sensing the imminent danger around him. “Please, just put the knife down and hear me out.” Shem obliged, and stared straight into Dafre’s eyes. “Speak up!”  yelled Shem, picking up the knife once more and summoned Dafre to a kitchen stool. Shem moved closer, watching his every move. He saw regret, anguish, and love in those eyes that he’d looked into so many times during their intimate moments. “Why? He whispered. What made you do this to my brothers and me?” Dafre bowed his head in shame not knowing where to start, tears welling up his eyes, he explained everything, and tried to reach out for Shem’s hand still begging for forgiveness. “I should have killed you a long time ago, Dafre interjected.”But I fell in love with your demeanor, your beautiful soul, and I couldn’t do it. You’re better than all the rest.”

Shem moved back, withdrawing his hand from Dafre’s soft touch. He was beginning to harden up, but the devil’s in the detail, he thought. Shem couldn’t take in all the shocking specifics he’d just heard; he slowly looked up, tightened his grip on the knife and whispered, “Get out! I never want to see your ugly face again!” Dafre sighed heavily and slowly got up, defeat written all over his face. He walked towards the door, looked back, but Shem had his back turned on him, with nothing else to say. On hearing the door lock softly, Shem walked deliberately towards it and dropped there in a heap, in extreme desolation. He sat there crying; his body quivered wildly as if a fever had just struck him, and finally,he  cried like a baby.

Dafre was on the other side of the door, and heard his lover mourning in heart-wrenched anguish. It tore his soul apart. He wiped his face,straightened up and knocked hard on the door. Shem just lay by the door, too weak to open it. “Open this damn door Shem, am going to break in if you don’t!” Shouted Dafre. The loud bang and big manly voice brought Shem back to reality. He stood up, grasped the knife even harder and opened the door ajar, with the dagger peeping out. “Let me in honey, please. I won’t hurt you anymore I promise. I will never let anyone come between us, I love you, I swear I do, Please,” begged Dafre, placing his palm on the knife, squeezing hard, until it bled. He pushed the door, careful on the sharp blade and put his left hand on Shem’s puffed-up face, gently brushing off his warm tears and running nose.

They stared at each other for what seemed like a lifetime, engrossed in the agony that they both felt, one so vulnerable, the other so guilty. Shem moved closer, dropped the knife on the floor, looked sternly into his ex’s eyes holding his face, and said “One more step into my house, and I’ll kill you with my bare hands. Get out and don’t you ever dream about me again.”

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Nagharamia-AliKiba ft.Christian Bella Music Video Review


nagharamia

Ali Kiba knows his worth in the music industry. His vocals are unmatched when compared with the latest crop of bongo artists, not to mention his equally talented arch-rival, Diamond.

Perhaps Harmonize has given him nightmares in recent times with almost all of his singles-hitting millions in viewership on YouTube.

Some artists thrive on hit songs. Like the current craze – Kwangwaru, (a collabo by Diamond and Harmonize) which airs even on Kameme FM on perennial requests from Bongo Fans.

Harmonize has tremendously grown musically, producing fantastic bongo sounds accompanied by outlandish hot videos, delivering unmatched entertainment in East Africa.

Sadly, his songs faze out almost instantly, but he is no doubt a rising, and  talented young dude from Tanzania and here to stay.

But today I want to focus on a brilliant artist whom I have listened to since about ten years ago. Ali Kiba.

I love both their vocal rendition, Kiba, and Harmonize. But I prefer Kiba’s songs because he elucidates raw talent with each new single which he reminds us as his signature in every song he makes.

Nagharamia is a duo by Ali Kiba and Christian Bella done in (2015) produced by Enos Olik, a Kenyan, and one of the finest producers in East African showbiz.

If you haven’t heard this song, you should. But I am sure you have. The duo released a powerful rendition of musical talent showcasing their high pitch vocals, something not familiar with Kenyan secular musicians.

The story line is flawless, dope, and intriguing. Though cliché, perhaps borrowed from usher Raymond’s Same Girl, I absolutely love it, and can’t get enough of it; mostly Bella’s rendition… so sexy I swear!

Bella fluently starts on a high, swaggering with his hoarse voice, combined with the coveted stimulating Congolese accent.

It’s totally awesome, without the usual overly dramatized soundtrack and dizzy overworked dancers. The beat is deliberate and sensual.

Kiba joins in a swell matching high note to Bella’s husky pitch, with his alluring, mature, and fascinating raspy voice. You just get lost in the mollifying vocals. So cool.

You almost forget what the entire song’s all about, a young girl two-timing these two studs. Then towards the end, that beat, it almost sounds like Taarab, Bongo and a little bit of Lingala.

The entire song brings out an authentic and uniquely produced Swahili love Ballard. Napenda sana! (I love it)

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Cry Beautiful


cry pretty

How did we get here? Nobody is supposed to be here. I thought. It  was unusually quiet today, and my baby couldn’t sit still or be comforted with nyonyo…”Hush now Laila mpenzi ssshhh … But she let out a loud wail as if to mock me “just so you know it’s painful mummy!” Only that poor mama couldn’t tell what or where hurt the little girl the most. She was livid!

Anyhow, after a while she finally gobbled at the large breast to calm herself. “You know what’s best Laila, don’t you? ” I cooed relieved to breastfeed my baby. “Mmmh …” the sick child mumbled in agreement, as she relished her sweet milk and managed to drift away in sweet slumber. It would only be a while before our turn to see the doctor came. Hopefully she would stay calm.

The woman right across us was pretty. She was captivating in plain sight. I mean she had such smooth skin and beautiful full lips. Her boobs sat firmly in her sheer blouse in a white camisole. No Bra. Just bare boobies so firm like ripe oranges on a tree, waiting to be picked. Tears flowed freely from her pretty eyes, and she did not bother to wipe them away.

When our eyes locked, she quickly looked away and frowned as if to let me know it’s wrong to stare and I should mind my own damn business. But I could not help it, how could such a lovely lady cry. Who made her so gloomy with so much pain in her soul? You could tell it was a somewhat deep, soulful kind of hurt. It came from the heart. Life must have been terrible. I looked away, minding my own and turned to my right. No one on that side, so it was safe to stare.

 The doctor’s door was ajar, and I could see the patient that sat on the visitor’s chair. She had a neat bun held up high on her head. And the red pumps, I looove red pumps worn with matching cherry lipstick. She sure looked swell this one. I couldn’t see her eyes, but I wondered what brought her to see the doctor so early, so dolled up looking fresh like wild lilies in the summer. Fresh is good in a hosi, I thought. Before I could turn and look the other way, miss red pumps hurriedly stood up and left the doctor’s office.

My little Laila winced, and I almost forgot she had abandoned my breast and I’d left it uncovered the whole time! Motherhood I swear!

Miss red pumps sat next to the pretty doll. She looked concerned as she read the piece of paper in her hand. She stared at it a bit longer. I wondered how many words it contained. Undoubtedly, it was too small for more than fifty words at most.

Maybe she needed to commune with the words. Contemplate and figure out what life was supposed to be like after the shocking revelation from our doctor. I say “our” because we would eventually go in, in a few, Laila and me. For a doctor’s report, and perhaps, a positive review when we come out. I wondered if she’d write me a mysterious note too.

Laila was smiling in her sleep now. I guess the angels were talking to her and feeding her lots of breast milk. After all, what goals do infants have besides relishing milk? Overflowing jugs full of natural goodness.

 I wonder if them kids on formula see angels in their sleep. (DISCLAIMER: This is not certified by any God-fearing Apostle).

Anyways, back to miss pumps. The doctor stepped out of her room, and I was supposed to go in next. Hujuma! It was my turn, but she chose to extend the consultative forum outside of her office. I felt cut. Not fair!

“It’s good that you’re both here,” she said to the two lovelies’ right across us. “I am sorry for both your losses; we can schedule more appointments if you like, separately of course.”  It is as if the doctor had said something mystifying, miss pumps and the doll looked at each other, distraught and shaken. None of that mattered in the next episode that followed.

The two women hugged, and just sat there, in what seemed like an eternity of marasmus fever. Like an electric shock, they shivered and buried their heads in each other, crying so sympathetically, agonisingly. Doctor Noor joined in on the sorrow, and she too cried like a baby. You could almost hear the sobs, prayers, sorries, you know, the comfort that goes along with weeping.

Laila was not fazed. She was sound asleep. I couldn’t take it anymore; I carefully placed her on the bench (I know! Not cool), but whatever, they needed me over there.

 I dashed over and hovered over the three women and my soul in sync, I found myself in tears, sobbing and hushing the lovelies with so many am sorries. As if cautioned by an alarm, we all let go in unison.

 “Hi, my name is Fay,” I quickly introduced myself. “I’m Bernice,” said the pretty girl. “And I’m Kassy,” said miss pumps. Doctor Noor Hassan did not need to introduce herself; we all were well acquainted with her. “They lost their babies, first time for Bernice, and a third time for Kassy.

It’s been a tough trimester for both of them.” “Ooh noooo, shoot! I’m terribly, terribly, sorry ladies, I cut in. I had no idea!” Silly me, I really felt bad and helpless for the two women. In an instant, I suddenly remembered Laila on the bench and was torn between her and my new friends. “It’s okay, go, Kassy said, shooing me away to check on my daughter. Can I hold her? Please,” offered Bernice, I know she’s asleep but can I just hold her for a bit, I’ll be gentle.”

 “Oh Lord, what now, what if she refuses to let go.” I slowly picked my sleeping child, and it’s as if Doctor Noor sensed my reservation, she asked to hold the baby first, then passed her on to Bernice, who took the child in her arms gently. “She’s so beautiful …,” both women said in agreement, Kassy hovering over and pushing back the shawl to have a look. They both giggled and just stared at Laila, cooing her, and touching her little fingers.

“Can we have coffee later in the week, the four of us?” Offered doctor Noor. Yea, that’s a good idea, awesome! I surely need a break …. We all agreed hastily.  In that instant we became friends. It’s as if the tragedy never happened and we stuck together like glue.

We have loved each other since. It has been only five years but who is counting, right? Both Bernice and Kassy had their babies a few years later, and we still cry over that day at the hospital.

We are all mothers now.

 Happy mother’s day to all women going through trials of all kinds. You too shall overcome one day.

 

 

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