After 41 weeks in the womb, Baby Biriwasha seemed in no hurry to come out— In the first of a five-part series about the hopes and fears of a new father in an uncertain Zimbabwe, Chief K Masimba Biriwasha counts down to the birth of his first child
At 41 weeks Michelle’s stomach bulged like a thick-skinned watermelon. But no matter how much we prayed, yearned and wished, the baby chose to remain in the enclosure of his mother’s womb.
Friends started calling and sending text messages, asking whether the baby had been born. Our anxiety grew.
It was not surprising to catch Michelle whispering to her hump, urging the baby to step out into the human world, as she became restless for the waiting period to be over.
Often Michelle complained of discomforts, aches, twinges and an occasional leg cramp. And many times she did endless rounds in the bedroom, rearranging the furniture and emptying and repacking closets, a phenomenon I later found was called ”nesting” — literally, preparing for the arrival of a newborn.
When Michelle and I decided to bring a new life into the world, I guess it was a sign of defiance against the socio-political and economic circumstances prevailing in our beloved country, Zimbabwe.
I have always wondered why people in some of our continent’s desolate and war-torn places decide to have babies whose emaciated images become fodder for international media outlets. Now I know and I no longer pass judgement. Though Zimbabwe is not quite war-torn, there is enough stress to get your blood pumping at full throttle, particularly with ever-rising medical costs. A friend quipped that when you visit the doctor in Zimbabwe, you must be prepared to get an extra bill for a heart attack from the shock of seeing the first bill.
Michelle and I are a first-hand example of the fact that, even when a country is undergoing severe political and socio-economic problems, the baby mill never ceases to function.
There is something about pregnancy: it portends something new, full of meaning and possibilities that have not yet happened or been expressed; for some reason pregnancy has no regard for political or societal problems. It happens. Come rain or sunshine, babies will continue to pop.
Whatever the case, by choosing to have a baby in a politically unstable situation, Michelle and I set ourselves a big challenge: to give our baby the best possible love and care under the African sun. After all, by truly loving and caring for our baby, we hope we will be setting an example of how to bring up a generation of new Africans.
Having a baby in Zimbabwe today takes a lot of money and strength of will, loads of it, and you always have to think a step ahead of a spiralling hyperinflation if you want to give both the pregnant mother and the baby the best care. We worry about finding the right medication in case the child falls sick. Pharmacy shelves are often badly stocked or, if they have what you want, it is priced as if it’s on its way to Heaven.
One Saturday morning we woke up early to visit the obstetrician for a routine check-up. A friend of Michelle’s sent a phone text saying that she was selling tomatoes for Z$25, about US75c. It was a bargain rare to come by in Harare, so Michelle immediately sent a phone text back telling her to bring the tomatoes. Besides, we were also selling women’s clothes and we could do a barter, so to speak.
Today Zimbabweans (including Michelle and I) cope with the harsh economic circumstances partly through wheeling and dealing. Luckily Michelle’s friend came to drop the tomatoes before we left our rented apartment and we managed to get a free ride to the city centre, about 10km away from where we live.
As we have no car, we usually use public transport, that is, minibuses which jolt over potholes causing painful jabs to Michelle’s bulging stomach. On minibus rides Michelle has to pick her seat to avoid bumps that give her what she calls ”ouches”.
On the way to the city we often exchange political talk with the driver. Politics is a major point of dialogue in Zimbabwe, but you have to be careful about the people you speak to lest you get your lips cut off. Anyway, Michelle and I agreed with the driver about the need for a paradigm shift in our national politics, which served to make the ride to the city short and sweet. Certainly, we want our baby to grow up in a more tolerant society, one which celebrates diversity and differences of opinion.
For the pregnancy check-up we paid US$15, an amount beyond the reach of many ordinary folk in our country. I imagine that home births must be the norm for many women in Zimbabwe, though I have no way to substantiate this claim.
The nurse measured Michelle’s blood pressure and weight. Michelle had added half a kilogram since her last visit, to 68,5kg — a total of 13,5kg more than her pre-pregnancy weight.
I was worried about whether she would look fat after the pregnancy; after all, almost every part of her body had bulged. So I asked the nurse, who allayed my fears, telling me that much of the extra weight would be shed through the loss of blood, the placenta and the breaking of waters during birth. But Michelle was not amused by my concern and showed me her ”watch your talk” scowl.
Still, I breathed a secret sigh as we walked into the doctor’s sparsely furnished offices.
Thank providence, by 41 weeks Michelle’s pregnancy had not presented any major complications. But she was worried that the baby’s kicks had become less frequent. The doctor pointed out that Michelle’s stomach was overstretched and the baby now had little room to manoeuvre. He checked the baby’s heartbeat and told us that everything was in good shape and that we should expect the birth at any moment.
We walked out of there filled with hopes and dreams of adding a new African to our beloved continent. It is our hope that we will raise a baby that is happy, healthy, patient, empathetic and can achieve whatever it is that he truly wants from life. More importantly, we hope that his days will be filled with laughter, fun and happiness and that he will take a part in shaping a new dimension in Africa’s repositioning in the globe of humankind.
On our way home we passed hordes of men and women lined up on the streets secretively asking motorists and passersby if they wanted to change US dollars or South African rands. Some had their faces hidden behind open newspapers, pretending to be engrossed in reading but furtively looking for the quick forex deal.
Silently, I prayed that our baby would be born to a new Zimbabwe, filled with dreams, hope and love for all its citizens.
On a cool Sunday morning, August 31, just as new flower shoots were beginning to appear on the jacaranda tree-lined avenues, our baby announced his arrival with a crimson splash at Baines Clinic, Harare, at exactly 9am. He weighed 3,6kg. We named him Tadana, a Shona name that literally means ”we have loved each other”. And so begins a new journey in our life as parents.
Chief K Masimba Biriwasha is a children’s author, poet and playwright. His ”dad’s diary” will appear on the first Friday of each month
