All at once, Sechele’s face relaxed into his easy smile, and he nodded at the space over my head. I turned to see.
The captain was crossing the kotla for me.
Pessimism told me he had been commanded to do so. Optimism told me he could have simply been absent if he had wanted to be.
He shrugged past the group until they began to make a wide opening for him. He did not look happy for the attention he was receiving. His eyes stared at nothing as he made his way to the center. At last, he looked up, and I could relate his feelings. We did not want to be here on display, but our love for this chief kept us here.
He came to stand directly in front of me. A sigh escaped him. He did not look me in the face.
The chief was well prepared. With a broad drum as accompaniment, a young lady from the tribe sang a sweet African melody with perfect three-fourths time.
Without the use of my left arm, this dance was doomed to be disjointed. I held out my one good hand and waited for the captain to reciprocate.
He stared at my hand for a moment before placing my hand in his. He then slowly and gracefully moved his right hand onto the back of my left elbow. As we began, he cradled my injuries with his broad palm. With each step and each movement, my left side was protected by the watchful eye of my partner. He, more than anyone, knew the extent of my injuries and was not willing to have them relapse. At one point, I slipped in the warm, thin layer of dirt and instantly his arm was there to catch me in a way that would never hurt the wounds. He had thought ahead to the possibility of my falling and had planned accordingly.
The slip was what made me look into his eyes. He looked into mine to judge if he had hurt me, despite his efforts. But I looked into his simply because I wanted to.
He seemed to realize this after a moment and his expression softened. Our dancing became more fluid then. He moved back slightly to make room for my shifting feet, but his hand remained on my elbow and occasionally my waist.
I don’t remember the words of the song, nor the eyes of the crowd or the heat of the setting sun. I don’t remember the steps I took nor the way he dressed nor the fear of an upcoming war.
I only remember how he felt.
The warmth of his presence made me feel as if I had been cold and had not even realized it. All of a sudden, I was handed a thick, warm blanket and I wrapped myself in it now, berating myself for not knowing before that I was freezing.
I did not look away for the rest of the dance, and neither did he. All too soon the melodic notes ended, the beat ceased, and the group erupted in whoops of approval.
As quick as summer lightning, he softly put his forehead to mine and we took a deep breath together.
We broke the connection and turned to thank the swarms of Africans coming upon us to thank us for such a beautiful performance. Some of them had confused looks on their faces. The waltz was completely other to them, but I was the new tribal favorite and so they approved of everything I accomplished.
I attempted to make eye contact with the captain again across the mob of my people, but he would not look my way and soon dismissed himself and strode off into the darkening sky, his hands in his pockets.
All too soon, the time came for me to say farewell to my family. Robert and Agnes came and gave me sweet little hugs, each saying goodbye in their small voices. I would have cried freely but I was afraid of scaring them, so I kept up an easy flow of comforting optimistic language. I would see them soon, I was sure of it. Mary looked on with a straight face, even more stern than usual. All morning she had seemed not quite herself, more cross than I had ever seen her. I assumed she was angry having to leave her home because of threat of war and lack of rain.
David walked briskly into the room and announced they were prepared to leave. Mary gave a short nod and turned to depart, but David caught her arm and turned her around to face him. To my astonishment, she squirmed from his grasp and would not look into his face. This was unusual behavior indeed! I had never seen Mary upset with David.
“Mary?” he asked, a suspicion growing in his tone that I did not understand. She shook her head, but he grabbed her face with one hand, a little too harshly, I thought. At last she had nowhere else to look but his eyes, and I could see tears suddenly gush from her eyes down her dry cheeks.
The sight of it made me gasp out loud. Never had I seen Mary cry, and I felt I had seen her endure much. Something was wrong, and I did not know what it was.
David knew.
“Oh Mary,” he said consolingly and pulled her to his chest for a sweet moment before releasing her and jumping into action.
“Mebalwe!” he cried out of the open door. “Go and fetch Selemeng! Mma-Robert is laboring.”
It took my mind a moment to realize what was happening. Perhaps because I had never been in a situation like this before.
Mary was having her baby right this moment.
She dismissed herself and began making slow laps around the house as Mebalwe went to retrieve Selemeng, whom I assumed was being summoned because of her experience. David made preparations in their bedrooms for the coming excitement. I could hear him muttering under his breath, reminding himself of everything that was needed.
The captain and I were put in charge of supervising the little children. We sang songs, played simple games, and did our best to distract their attention while ours was riveted on the goings-on in the house. Selemeng had arrived with her commanding voice and took charge. I could hear she had brought several other women from the tribe, and they chattered on in excitement with a dash of worry. Since the situation had turned to an emergency, and because they didn’t need to worry about my understanding them, they reverted to Sechuana and I occasionally looked to the captain for translation of their quick speech.
The captain would speak in hushed undertones so as not to alarm the children in any way.
“She started labor last night but said nothing, hoping she could make it to her mother’s house today. She is now too far along in the process to travel.”
I felt that somehow I should instinctively know more about childbirth. After all, I was a woman! I should understand in some part what Mary was going through and how to offer comfort. But I knew nothing of this. I had heard, of course, that laboring was absolutely painful, hence the tears running down Mary’s face, but that was the extent of my knowledge on the subject.
I saw through my window Selemeng and Mary occasionally passing by together, conversing in quiet tones while they slowly trod around the house. Selemeng appeared as if there was nothing amiss. Mary’s eyes often closed as she tried to remain calm and collected through the pain.
In spite of my embarrassment, I inquired of the captain.
“What’s going to happen?” he looked at me with a slightly perplexed look. “I don’t know anything of this.”
He nodded, understanding the culture we had both come from and how this was not something we ever spoke of, let alone see it and sit in the adjoining room.
“Mrs. Livingstone is having labor pains, meaning that her body is slowly pushing the child out. The pressure will build and increase in strength until she is ready to push.”
“How do we know if things are going well? How do we know if they are both healthy?”
“We won’t know the health of the baby until it is born, but Mary they will monitor closely by checking her temperature, her pulse, and other signs. Selemeng has done this hundreds of times. She has been responsible for the birth of most of the children and teenagers in this village. If there are any problems, she would be the one to know the answer.”
“Are there often problems?” I asked, truly nervous.
“I have known of many, yes,” he told me truthfully. “There is a reason they call childbirth a miracle. It can be a precarious business.”
I appreciated that the captain never treated me as if I were weak. It would be so simple for him to dismiss my worries and questions and tell me everything would be fine. That he told me the truth on how h
e felt and what he had seen told me that he respected me. He treated me as if I were strong.
After a couple hours, Mary came back into the house. I caught only one glance, her head down, eyes shut, and both hands on the underside of her belly. She took long, controlled breaths, which I assumed was difficult for her. In the face of so much pain, I admit I typically held my breath. It seemed Mary was not so unreasonable.
Selemeng and David accompanied her into her room. We heard much more Sechuana mingled with Mary’s controlled breathing.
After a few moments, David came into our space, his head held low, his features fallen. The children were asleep for a midday nap, and for this I was glad, because David looked truly broken. I could not take my eyes from him. It was quite difficult to see someone whom I had always known to be strong, so crushed by circumstances. He did not speak, I imagined he did not have the desire. But I could not bear not knowing how my friend was coping. So I asked.
“Is she in a lot of pain?”
David looked up in slight surprise, as if he was shocked I was still in the same location I was in. He did not answer right away.
“It must be a lot of pain for Mary to cry,” I clarified.
Slowly, he shook his head. “She cries because she fears for the child.” He paused and then told us the news.
“The child is breeched.” The captain stiffened, but I did not understand. David, seeing my confused expression, continued. “It means the baby has flipped, and its head is up where it should be down. Its feet are trying to come out first, which is dangerous for the mother and child. Selemeng is attempting to turn it.”
“And how does one turn a baby inside the womb?” I asked.
“Not easily,” David responded. “The hands are placed on top of the belly and the child can be massaged into the correct position. As you can imagine, however, this can be excruciating for the mother.”
His voice caught at the word mother and I bit my lip to keep myself from crying on his behalf. Still, I could not be silent. I had to know the extent of the news.
“What happens if the baby cannot be turned?”
His head was down when I asked the question and remained down for several aching moments after I was silent. I knew the captain watched to see how I would manage as the possibilities sunk in. I could not tear my eyes from David.
“We shall see,” David finally responded. It seemed he feared dreadfully the death of his wife and child, but spoke these words as proof of hope. We would not know until the labor progressed.
I could not bear to think of it, and yet, I could think of nothing else. How could we possibly cope without Mary? It seemed impossible to me. She was the root of the family, the stability we all needed to function. She was the glue, the mortar that shaped us all! How critical the role of the mother was, I had never known. Now, sitting here helpless, as she lay dying in the next room, I could see how this family centered around her.
My mind jumped from possibility to possibility, wracking my brain to the point of physical pain. I thought of the consequences of her death. What would become of these little ones? What kind of a man would David be without Mary? What kind of person would I be?
Then I moved to courses of action. How could I help them? What could I do? Although I put my best mental facilities to the task, I came up short. There was nothing I could do to help.
An idea struck me suddenly. There was something I could do to help Mary and David.
Pray. David had taught me in his sermons that sometimes all we can do is not enough. Sometimes we needed to beg for divine assistance.
I looked to David and his head was still downcast, but now his eyes were closed. He was praying already.
If I had not been more healed, I may have hurt myself with how forcefully I jerked my head downward and began my plea for the lives of those within these walls.
To that God who rescued me from my mother’s house, and who now holds my father as companion, I pray for the family you have given me in the desert. Please save them.
Please save us.
I did not err in my choice of words. I begged God to save them all, because without Mary, we would all be lost.
Selemeng continued into the evening, attempting to turn the child. Robert and Agnes woke from their naps and asked me where their mother was. David stepped in.
“Mama is having the baby,” he told them excitedly. “Selemeng is with Mama now trying to get the baby out, but it wants to stay inside Mama because it is cozy and warm.”
To fulfill his description, he picked both children up into his arms and placed them on either knee. He hugged them close on the use of the word warm.
“Papa,” Robert began in his serious voice. “I have decided, if the baby is a boy, his name will be Thomas.”
I gasped. That was my father’s name. But he didn’t know that, so how … ?
“Is that so?” David inquired. “Well, that decision will be left up to Mama. Since she does the work, she has the greatest say in the matter. Selemeng says we should call the child ‘Tlhogo e thata’!”
The children laughed, understanding the reference, and I cocked my head in question.
“Pig-headed,” David translated for me. I half smiled.
“I want the baby to be a girl!” Agnes cried.
“We shall see, sweet girl.” David kissed her head. “We shall see.”
I tucked my head away from their sight and made my way to the lean-to to make some dinner. I had barely made it to the sink before the sobbing began. I could not seem to help myself. I wanted so badly to see Mary and help her in any way that I could but I was little better than a cripple and absolutely ignorant of all things medicinal. The woman I admired most in the world was in terrible pain and there was nothing I coulddo.
I felt weak and I was never so angry as when I felt weak. My fingernails grated against the wooden counter in frustration.
The captain came to stand beside me. And I knew that he would. I tried to keep my crying as quiet as I could. He didn’t seem to mind it. In a motion as slow as the passing time, he reached for my hand and smoothed out my fingers against the grain.
I looked to him with tear-filled eyes. I was afraid for Mary.
He knew that. He kept his hand on mine.
Sechele arrived in a blue velvet suit coat accompanied with long white tails that were beginning to stain and wear on the bottom edge. He did not pause to let us admire his garb as he typically did.
“Mma-Robert?” he asked simply.
“The baby is breech. We are waiting,” I stated.
He looked to me with an understanding in his eyes. He put his hand on my good shoulder and squeezed me gently.
“Children have an instinct of survival,” he told me. “If they do not survive with Selemeng in the room, it is because there were no other options.”
I was not sure if this made me feel any better. At the moment I only cared about Mary’s situation, but I thanked the chief and allowed myself to be escorted to a chair.
Suddenly I heard a triumphant yell from Mary’s bedroom. David leapt out of his chair so quickly it toppled to the ground behind him as he sped away. The silence in the air hung heavy. Even Robert and Agnes remained perfectly still, mimicking the adults who listened for a single sound of hope.
David returned and announced.
“The baby has turned! We will now try for a normal delivery.”
Sechele actually whooped in celebration, making me jump and then laugh at the process. I put my hand to my heart. One obstacle down.
During the next hour, I gave my small family a thin soup from the day before and each a half glass of milk from our friend Banana. We ate in silence as the adults listened to the steady and even breathing of our matron. I could not imagine what Mary had experienced, but then, forty-two minutes into the hour, I heard a sound I had never before experienced.
The cry of a newborn child.
David rushed to his wife’s bedside. What relief that sound could create! I f
elt the stress wash away from temple to toe. The child had arrived, and its crying must surely be a sign of healthy lungs, for what a loud sound it was!
“They are checking the baby now,” the captain explained. “First appearance shows he is healthy.”
“He?” I asked elated. “It’s a boy? And Mary is well?”
“Yes,” the captain replied, then paused for a moment as we both listened.
Quietly, almost too low for us to hear, we heard Mary’s exhausted and elated voice whisper the child’s name.
“Thomas.”
Tears sprang to my eyes.
Silently, I prayed. Thank you for saving us.
Chapter 23
Such joyful events are often followed by tragic ones. I had almost never heard of a birth without the news of a death in the same month. And so it was with us. Sechele’s baptism came with the drought. My personal success at the school came with the lion attack. Now Thomas’s birth came with battle.
I got to see the babe only once before the calamity began, the morning after his birth. Sechele and Selemeng had returned home, exhausted by the stress. Mary was sleeping away the effects of childbirth, and David was walking around the small house with his new son. He came wandering into the children’s and my room with his arms full, seeming as if he did not see anyone other than his child. His eyes were full of wonder and reverence, and his arms were immovable under the bundle he carried. His attention was soon diverted, however, by his two other children. They tugged at his pant legs and attempted to grab at the blanket that held their little brother captive.
Without a single word, he crouched down to the floor and presented to the children a person they would spend the rest of their lives with. The baby’s eyes were closed, softly sleeping. Robert and Agnes looked at him with the same eyes full of wonder that their father wore. Robert softly moved his hand to caress Thomas’s downy hair. Agnes reached out, unconventionally silent, to clasp the baby’s hand in hers. David took his time to look upon each of his children individually, his emotions clear on his face.
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