New Life

Baby Gare Bear, an hour old


"Each contact with a human being is so rare, so precious, one should preserve it."
-Anais Nin

I am dozing on my couch when at 10.15 pm my phone rings, it is William. He says, "you have to go to my house right now, my wife is having a baby. I am in Njombe and the car is broken." I sleepily answer, "why didn't you call Jessica (our village nurse)?" He did, but she is traveling. uh no.

Some background: William is one of my closest friends in my village, he is 29 and married. He grew up in Image and we mainly became good friends because he was my old village executive officer's motorcycle driver. Then it turned out that his primary school level education makes his kiswahili perfect for me to understand. Plus he is just a generally nice guy. He lives way far into one of my sub-villages, so I have actually never visited him at his house. I am sure that I have greeted his wife very nicely at various times, but I have no idea which village woman she is, mostly because Tanzanian men generally only spend time with their wives in private and no one has ever pointed her out to me in the context of her being his wife. I know that they have one physically handicapped child and that she has carried two more babies to full term to have them arrive already dead. I also know how badly they want children, all in all, I am pretty freaked out. Especially that he has so much faith in my ability to make sure that this child arrives alive. So I do the only thing that I can do... I throw on a pair of jeans and go running like a mad woman to William's mother's house.

Luckily, Tanzanians almost never sleep, so I am able to get her out the door in a matter of minutes. She and I, at a quick, let's say, gallop fly over the rutted dirt road in the dark. It takes us about half an hour to arrive. The scene that I am met with leaves me shaking. The house is a one room, dirt floor, thatched roof number that is so typical of Tanzanian homes. There is one candle burning and through the flicker I see a woman curled up in the corner moaning quietly. When I reach her I can see that her eyes are as big as saucers, she is sweaty, but freezing cold. Is she in shock? Is she going to die? I feel like Prissy in Gone With The Wind as I think to myself, "Aw Miz Scarlett, I don't know nothin' 'bout birthin' babies." I have been at many many Tanzanian births, but never one that I felt was so high risk or that I felt so alone for. Mama William ran out to get a neighbor woman who brought some warm water, some of her fire, and some fabric. I figured coordinating help was all that I could really do, so I began to make an exit. William's wife looked terrified at me and asked in Swahili "your leaving?!? but I need you. You are my husband's best friend and you are good luck." What was I supposed to do? I would feel horrible if the baby died and they believed that it was because I wasn't there, but what if it died and I was there? That thought terrified me.

It was a long night. One of my longest ever. I mostly just held her hand and kept talking, trying to calm her (and honestly, myself). At some point, before light, she gave birth in a squatting position, she sort of half caught the baby herself, and then it lay there on the compacted dirt. I quickly wiped it and looked at it and miraculously, it cried. I cried. Mama William squealed with delight. His wife smiled, satisfied, tired. I quickly looked over the tiny visitor. All limbs- perfect. Face- beautiful. A head of soft black hair. A strong, beautiful baby boy, which, culturally, is the best thing that can happen to any Tanzanian family. I looked up through the thatched roof to the fading stars and thanked the universe.

After cooking chai with Mama William and bathing the new baby, I set off toward my home to get some much needed sleep. Feeling a warmth in my heart and missing the small weight in my arms of the child a few moments old.

That afternoon, William returned absolutely thrilled. It is customary in Tanzania for the father to name the baby, when I asked why he said because the mother gives birth to it. Especially if it is a boy the father always gets to name it. This seems a little unjust which, of course, I pointed out. Also in Tanzanian villages, children in the womb are not talked about until they are born. There is no baby shower, designing the nursery, buying baby clothes, picking out names, talking about that a baby is coming at all. When I asked why, the answer was because the baby could die. Can you imagine living in an environment when the chance of a baby dying was so great that you didn't plan for it at all? Anyways, I walked back to the house to visit the family that afternoon. William demanded to know what my father's name was. "Gary", I said. He and his wife looked at each other and smiled. William then tells me, "That is this baby's name. Gary." "What?" I ask. He says, "Well it really is too short of a name (Tanzanians hate short names, they always have long names which they shorten.) His real name will be Garrion, but he is called Gary." This is somewhat hilarious because Tanzanians can barely say the r sound and constantly switch it with an l sound. I tell them that they really don't need to name the baby after my dad and should name it what they want. But they are both insistent. I walk home laughing. In a small village in East Africa there is a child named after my father, I am not sure what could be funnier.