Evening Primrose
Page 9
I wasn’t sure if I agreed with the word “fortunate,” but he was such a nice man, such a godly man, I didn’t want to upset him with my ambivalence toward the new life that I would, in less than twenty-four hours, be bringing into the world.
He explained that they would have to deliver the baby early via cesarean section, due to the risk of uterine rupture. I had been added to the operating list for that evening. A nurse would soon be with me to prepare me for surgery, and all I needed to do was rest, relax, and let them take care of everything.
I don’t remember feeling anything. Not in my body, not in my heart. Everything was numb—my toes, my legs, my soul. When the nurse handed her to me, I was afraid to look at her face. What if it was like the face of the one who bit my tongue, or the one who laughed when I started to cry . . . ?
But she looked like nothing, like a blank page, like a fresh start. My fresh start.
❖
I was happy she was light in complexion. At least God had given her that. Being dark on top of everything else (a child of rape) would have been too much.
But Ma had to take that away from us, too. She couldn’t just be silent and enjoy the unexpected fairness of her complexion.
“You can see by the ears that she’ll be as black as night. The ears always tell you the true complexion. The lightness won’t last.”
❖
I wondered which of the three was her father. The one who ejaculated before he could put his penis in, or the one who shouted, “Where are your kwere-kwere friends now?” Or maybe it was the one whose belly protruded beneath his striped T-shirt?
Or was it all of them? Is that possible? Could all of them be her father?
Is it possible that some goodness in them (because surely there’s goodness in all of us?) came together to form her, despite their evil intentions, in spite of their evil intentions, to spite their evil intentions?
Is that possible?
❖
“Do not worry,” I told her. “Don’t you worry about a thing.” I’ve spent my whole life worried. I worried in Grade One that I’d never be able to read. Then I worried I’d never make friends. Later I worried about bleeding to death. Not a day ever passed when I didn’t worry. Would I ever learn to drive? Would I ever fall in love? Would a man ever love me? Would I ever be happy again?
When the midwife asked if there was anything I wanted to tell my baby before they took her to the neonatal ICU, I told her, “Don’t worry. Don’t worry about a thing.”
❖
Will I tell her about her father(s)? I don’t know. How do I explain the violence? That she was born of violation yet wanted still? That she was both the worst and the best thing to have happened to my life? That because of her conception I wanted to die, but that it was her life that forced me to live?
❖
I named her Mpho because that is what she is, because it’s not her fault, because she doesn’t deserve to have this stain on her future, because I refuse to allow anyone to tell her, or me, otherwise. She’s my Mpho, my gift.
❖
I would have liked to introduce Mpho to Nyasha. She’s a fighter, just like Nyasha. But after I went on maternity leave, Nyasha and I stopped speaking completely. Ma didn’t invite Nyasha to the baby shower. And after the birth, well, I was just so busy, just so busy all the time. I guess I expected her to call, even text maybe. I wasn’t angry. I understood that people didn’t know how to react, whether to send congratulations or condolences. And then the time just went, cementing open the crack that had already split the ground between us.
When I went back to work after my maternity leave, Sister Agnes told me Nyasha had relocated to Canada. After qualifying she’d joined an agency and was doing locums there. The money was good and there was a chance she’d get a full-time position after doing some clinical time.
“Canada?”
“You know mos how hard it is for these foreigners here in South Africa, Doctor. I think all this xenophobia nonsense gets too much for them. Didn’t she tell you?”
I couldn’t hide my hurt, and Sister Agnes could see. A whole other country without even saying goodbye? Sister Agnes said I shouldn’t be so hard on her, said we all knew how difficult it was for foreign doctors to get posts, that maybe she grew tired of South Africans accusing them of stealing their jobs.
“You know mos how things are, Doctor.”
“Canada?”
“I’m sure she was just in a rush, Doctor. I’m sure she’ll call you. Yoh, moving is hectic. And moving overseas! I remember when I moved to Saudi, in all that excitement, I didn’t call my son for two weeks. My only son! Two weeks and I didn’t phone him.”
“But, Canada?”
“She will call, Doctor.”
Nyasha is unbelievable. After everything, she leaves without saying goodbye? Not just to Nigeria or Kenya or even back home to Zim. But to an us-less place, where she will slip into the brain-drain statistics and live an anonymous life. Canada? All I know about Canada is that it gets so cold that when children wait outside for their school bus, their eyelashes freeze closed.
Why didn’t she take a break if she was tired? Go on holiday to Canada and come back? Or if she was scared, why didn’t she stay home for a couple of days, even weeks? Take unpaid leave. We all know this xenophobia thing will blow over. It won’t last. Yes, from time to time there’s an incident here and there, but it’s definitely on the decline. Things are getting better.
Canada?
What will you find in a place where people don’t hurt, don’t suffer, don’t fear, don’t cry, don’t die and rot? What will you discuss with people whose nails are clean and whose doors lie open as they sleep at night? How will you connect with so much sterility?
When I told Ma how Nyasha had left, how tired I was of people leaving me, everybody leaving me, nobody loving me enough to stay, Ma exclaimed, “Canada? Aborehwaa! Let her have her Canada! They deserve each other!”
Then the Nyasha stories kept coming. Everybody at work wanted to tell me about her. If it wasn’t that she was in Canada, it was that she’d moved to the UK to be with her mother. Even the porters knew something about Nyasha’s departure. It seemed she’d made time to say goodbye to everybody but me.
“That Dr. Nyasha, she was almost finished specializing, then this opportunity came and she decided to jump at it. You know these foreigners, Doctor. They don’t mind starting from scratch if it’ll get them ahead. They can start from scratch over and over again, they don’t mind. As long as it’ll get them ahead. Like Dr. Ogu, ne? Did you know he was a professor in his country? Why do you think he can do a bone marrow aspiration so fast? They are not like our children, these foreigners. Yoh, our children, Doctor, they are just waiting for the next contract. It’s business idea after business idea, they are out having drinks Monday to Sunday, and they tell you it’s called networking. They drive big cars, you don’t even know where the money comes from. If in the next ten years they tell us the president of the ANC is a Nigerian, you know, I wouldn’t be surprised, Doctor. We are sitting on our hands, us South Africans! Ah! Wena, you just wait and see.”
❖
Even long after Nyasha walked out of my life, got on a plane and disappeared like we’d never existed, I still dreamed of her, thought I spotted her in malls, parking lots, traffic jams. I wonder what she’d say if she saw me now, as a mother. Sometimes I still seek her approval as I dress, plan, dream.
But she never loved me, Nyasha. Not like I loved her. I was always too South African, too Christian, too Westernized, too brainwashed, too weak, too afraid for the big thing she was.
❖
Sometimes I think it might have been better for Mpho to have stayed in the womb. In there she could tumble and spin, lick her fingers and rub her eyes and not worry about failure, disease, disappointment, heartbreak, loneliness, and unanswered prayers. In there she was safe and perfectly protected.
But she had to come out. Even that safe place would have turned again
st her after nine months, turned into hard, hostile rock. She had to come out, as we all did. To face what we all have to face.
❖
Sometimes at work, someone who has heard will work up the courage to ask how I’m coping with what’s happened. Some really try to be sympathetic, but others are only trying to comfort their own fears. They ask me questions like why the security guards didn’t come to my aid that night, or whether I think the “attack” was related to the petition I started. It’s not me they’re worried about, it’s themselves. They want to be reassured that there was something unique about me—my story, my poor choices—that landed me in this situation. They want me to soothe them. “No, it was my fault,” they want to hear, so they can feel safe from the same fate.
I’ve grown a little bit; I’m empathetic to their fears, so I tell them the lies they want to hear so they’ll leave me alone. Leave me to go home and be with my Mpho.
She’s beautiful, Mpho. Sometimes I find myself losing whole hours of a day because of all the time I spend just staring at her. Staring at her for no reason at all, other than just that she’s so painfully beautiful. Those big, loving, forgiving, shiny black eyes. That toothless smile. I don’t think I’ve ever known anything like her in my life.
I don’t even write in this journal as much as I used to. I don’t need to, I suppose. For once in my life, my heart is still.
I asked Ma how something so perfect, so magnificent, could come from so much darkness. Ma said it’s because Mpho is like those flowers, those nighttime flowers that only bloom when the sun is long forgotten, like the evening primrose with all its healing powers.
Sometimes Ma can be so annoying, but sometimes she says the nicest things.
❖
Today I am taking Mpho to get her immunizations. This morning she woke up all smiles, laughing and cooing. When I sang to her she kicked her arms and legs in delight. She hasn’t a care in the world. But I’ve been carrying her around all morning with a heaviness in my heart, nervous about the pain the nurse will inflict on her later in the day. A necessary pain. One that will save her, protect her, spare her from suffering in the future. One day she’ll thank me. But I feel bad nevertheless. No mother can bear to watch her child get hurt. As she happily bats at the little creatures hanging from her playpen, I prepare her diaper bag for the clinic visit. I dress appropriately. My shirt has buttons that slip open easily, so I can soothe her at the breast after the injections. I pack a change of clothes for her in case, like last time, she cries so frantically that she brings up her breakfast.
If I was to explain to her what awaits her, she would not understand. She is too young, and, anyway, to what end? The deed must be done, the jab must be given. Why spoil her morning with stressful information, when I will be right there by her side to comfort her when it is all over?