by Fisayo Eko-Davies
My legs were too weak to carry me. The day had come and at the last minutes, death felt really close. Only God could help me through the pain. Grandma told me I was going to make it through. She blessed the water she sprinkled on me.
In the last few days that you were inside me, our connection became more intense. I told you all of the fears I masked with smiles. I was both happy and scared; I wondered what you would look like and I prayed about both serious and mundane things.
My vain self sent a note out to my sisters about how I wanted you to look; I wrote in details my naive vain wishes. I wanted you to have eyes like mine; dreamy and wide. I asked the Lord for your daddy’s lips. I can’t explain to your innocent self but those lips played a large part in making you *mischievous grin*.
My complexion would have been nice on you though, but yours would have looked better ‘cause I was so faithful to my vitamins (God knows I even stayed faithful to taking a gallon of water per day). I told myself you would come out with skin looking bright and beautiful like the sun. I asked myself a million times over if my strength was enough to rely on to bring you forth. I played with different scenarios on how your entry into the world would be. You stirred inside me sometimes in reply to some of my thoughts; I guessed it was your way of telling me ‘You got this mum’.
I wanted you to stay inside me my love, something kept telling me I wasn’t ready for you. I once caught myself selfishly thinking how I was going to miss out on some things when you finally get here. I also wanted you to stay where it’s safe and warm. I wanted to keep you away from the ills of this world we live in but I braced myself for your arrival all the same.
I asked if there were special prayers to be said, if there were special ways to act. I wondered if I was supposed to walk around with spring in my steps or just be my normal happy-go-lucky-got-no-care-in-the-world self (smiles).
I dared to glow with the extra flesh I added, carrying you helped me stay in touch with my feminine side. I felt like I was on a journey that was embarked on by a chosen few. I remember the day I felt the first kick, I couldn’t believe you were really growing inside me. I told your dad and I remembered how he got so excited. We both planned to make sacrifices to make sure we make your arrival to the world beautiful.
Do you know I cried when I was told by the doctor you were a girl? My
insides stirred and I named you from then. I called you Ayokunnumi (which literally means my insides are filled with joy), the joy I felt knew no bounds. I felt a deeper connection with you, like you were more alive. My, ‘it’ is a ‘she’, I told my closest friend in a cracked voice.
You probably think it’s all cream and sugar carrying you inside me from the picture I have been painting. Well, it wasn’t. There were times I got so depressed for no cause at all that I needed extra motivation to get out of bed in the mornings. It all feels like yesterday now.
I could hear the siren of the ambulance I had called. It was 4:30am. My legs were too weak to carry me. The day had come and at the last minutes, death felt really close. Only God could help me through the pain. Grandma told me I was going to make it through. She blessed the water she sprinkled on me.
The different beeps from the machines that were plugged to my body sounded so distant. I was drained, I knew I needed God more than ever, I said sincere prayers then. You can tell my prayers were answered since you are reading this (Okay, that’s not entirely true but I’m reading to you and I know you understand by the way your eyes are following the movement of my mouth).
Nothing’s as relieving as the sound of your cries; it was like music to my ears. The doctors said I did very well. One of them placed you in my hands and in that moment, I had an epiphany. I was both wiser and older in the moment. All my doubts were gone in a flash; I knew I was going to be a great mum. I would love you with every breathe. I was born all over again.
Your birth, little, is what I love to call fulfilment of purpose.
This morning, I yawned and you yawned too, you looked at me with your lips curved to the side in what I have recognised as your smile, staring into my face like there were answers to the questions I imagined are in your head. You are nature’s gift to me, I feel so undeserving.
Good morning my dear.
I remain your humble mum, my breasts are at your service as always.
Op-ed pieces and contributions are the opinions of the writers only and do not represent the opinions of Y!/YNaija.