'Abebi' by Fatimah

Abebi was old. Abebi was tired. Abebi was weak. Abebi was sad. Abebi was bitter. And she was pregnant. Again. Unlike her first two pregnancies, Abebi was unethusiastic about this one. She held no hopes, no excitements about motherhood. She didn’t think of beautiful names for her baby, she didn’t think of pretty clothes to dress her child in. In fact, she tried not to think about the baby at all.

12 years earlier, Abebi was a young, vibrant, strong, happy and cheerful 18 year old. She was full of love and life, and she was head over heels in love with Akinwande her husband. Their wedding ceremony was a joyous affair, a two day carnival where there was plenty to eat and the whole town made merry.

Exactly nine months later, she was delivered of a bouncing baby boy. He didn’t live for more than three days. Family and friends consoled her, “you’ll have another, many more even. The water spilled, but the pot isn’t broken” they said. And have another did she. She had a beautiful girl with the cutest nose ever, the child lived long enough to die during the naming ceremony. Once again she was consoled. Once there’s life there’s hope…

There was hope and Abebi had another child. And another. And another. And another. And they all died in infancy. Abebi was plagued by the Abiku. A spirit child who had no mercy for his mother. He would be born only to die and be reborn to die yet again in a vicious cycle of blood, pain, sweat and tears.

Abebi’s breast milk was sour. She had aged more than her years. Her vagina was already slack from pushing out children year after year. Children who didn’t stay. Children? No, the same child who had chosen to torment her. Abebi had stopped hoping for a child to send on errands, to look after her when she was old with each pregnancy. Instead, she was resigned to the fate that she was going to more likely than not bury the child.

“In vain your bangles cast. Charmed circles at my feet. I am Abiku, calling for the first. And the repeated time.”

They had tried to appease the spirit child, sacrifices of palm oil, cowries, corn meal and chicken were made. Yet Abiku did not stay. Why did he keep coming and going. Why? Abebi didn’t understand why this was happening to her. If Abiku liked the real world, he should stay, if not then he shouldn’t even bother to come!

“Follow where you please your kindred spirits if indoors is not enough for you. No longer then bestride the threshold”

Then Abebi met The Shepherd who told her to leave the Babalawo. “Come to church” he said, “and all your problems will be solved”. The people in the church wore long white robes and colourful belts and sashes of shiny material, they rang bells and they spoke in strange languages. They danced and sang with infectious vigour and passion. They stamped their feet as they prayed in a circle while Abebi knelt down in the middle.

They were not going to beg Abiku to stay, they were going to force him to. So when Abebi was delivered of her previous pregnancy and the baby died again as usual, his feet were burnt with fire upon which incense had been sprinkled. His ears were nicked, and they drew crisscross lines with a fresh razor on his back. Mutilated and scarred, Abiku would not want to come back again, for if he was reborn, he would be born with those scars again. The shame of looking hideous would make him not come again.

Therefore this pregnancy Abebi was carrying was expected to be a new baby. Not the same child she’d been giving birth to over and over for the past 12 years. When she put to bed, if it was a baby with those same scars, then Abiku had come back yet again. If not, she had finally overcome him and had a real child. For the first time in about a decade, Abebi saw a glimmer of home, a tiny ray of light, but she was reluctant to hold on to it strongly.

She didn’t need much help, she knew how to open her legs wide and push. Abebi didn’t scream with terror and panic like new mothers. The midwife in the church widened her parted thighs “one more push”. With sweat beaded on her forehead, face masked with pain, Abebi heaved and the baby slipped out.

She was scared to look at it. Did she dare hope that Abiku had finally left her. She gestured at the midwife to bring the squirming bundle close. Abebi moved the shawl aside and looked at the tiny creature wrapped inside. One look was enough.

“So when the snail is burnt in it’s shell. With it’s heated fragments, brand me deeply on the breast. You must know him when Abiku calls again”

Abebi was too tired to display any emotion, she just sank back into the pillows and closed her eyes.

Temitope Adeiye is a writer and an aspiring baby girl. Check out her awesome writings on the wanderinglass.com and follow her on Twitter @FlawlessMilo

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