A Thousand Sisters_ My Journey Into the Worst Place on Earth to Be a Woman - Lisa Shannon [48]
“My husband was suffering malnutrition; he couldn’t walk. But the doctor took care of him. He started standing up. I regained hope, little by little.
“My husband developed a friendship with the doctor. My husband told them we would take the baby home, but we didn’t have the means. The nun told me I would only have to help with breastfeeding, but on all the other counts she could be responsible. They even gave me baby clothes. Everything for the baby came with us when we left the hospital.
“I was careless with the baby. I left the baby to the father. When I had babies before, he wouldn’t touch them. He said he didn’t know how to take care of them, but this one, he was taking it each time she cried. Of my children, that was the one my husband loved the most. He couldn’t accept the baby crying.
“My husband loves me so much. He is sad when he finds me unhappy. He said he would never separate with his wife. But even if I were to be infected [with HIV], he would rather be infected with me so we can die together or live. He said only death will separate us.”
“How do you feel about your husband?” I ask her.
“I love him so much,” Wandolyn says. “When I’m angry and I quarrel with my husband, he keeps quiet and asks me to cool down. He never speaks when I’m angry. He is grateful because I suffered in order to take care of him, and I didn’t tell anyone we were living separate lives because of his health.” “How do you feel about the baby?” I say.
“He loved the baby so much. He tells me the baby is my own blood and I have no right not to love the baby. He was even angry because I told the doctor the baby is not his. He needed me to tell everyone it is his. With his support, I love the baby, because I love him so much. Even today, he never once speaks about the event that led to the baby. I didn’t choose to have this baby, but the baby is mine. The baby is the profit of our misfortune.”
Hortense says, “You must give her something to care for the child.”
It’s not a suggestion. It’s mandatory. I scrounge around my bag and pull out US$40, slipping it to Wandolyn with the uneasy feeling I’ve just paid her to relive all that.
Wandolyn’s husband joins us later. I speak to him privately and ask him about the event. “How did you feel when Wandolyn came home with injuries?”
“I prayed to God for her to heal,” he says. “My father advised me to take another woman, but I said it won’t be possible.” He wags his finger. “I made a vow to live with her in good and evil, only death would separate us.”
“What would you say to men who want to reject their wives?” I ask.
“I can advise them about mutual forgiveness, show them it didn’t happen willingly,” he says. “We were faithful; we were living a Christian life. That’s when the event happened. I kept it a secret. I wouldn’t reject her because we were faithful to each other. We have mutual acceptance. We share everything. She loves me. She hides me nothing. She respects me. And I feel she makes me happy.”
Wandolyn and I sit outside a church compound, in the shade under some trees. Nshobole perches on her mom’s knee. I snap a photo. The mother, with her child, looks like a living religious icon. An African Madonna.
I give the baby a sheet of sparkly heart stickers. The little girl is mesmerized. Wandolyn peels off stickers and sticks them on Nshobole’s wrists and arms. Nshobole pulls one off, then she reaches back and sticks the sparkly heart on her mother’s cheek.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Generose
OF ALL MY sisters in Congo, the one I’ve most been looking forward to meeting is Generose. Her letter describing the way her leg was cut off, though it was only a brief sketch, was the most awful incident any sister had written about. Her photo intimidates me, for sure—she looks so shell-shocked, even angry. But I felt we were working as a tag team