A Thousand Sisters_ My Journey Into the Worst Place on Earth to Be a Woman - Lisa Shannon [67]
We follow a narrow path away from the road. I’m already sure this place isn’t going to work—Generose can’t navigate the path on crutches, especially the footbridge made of tree branches and tire rubber. But we will at least look for the sake of comparison shopping.
The little house with blue shutters sits in a tidy enclave of mud huts surrounded with gardens. We greet the owner, a woman about my age who’s surrounded by a flock of young children who are just different enough in size to make me imagine this Mama has been nonstop pregnant for the past ten years. Maurice says, “They are selling because they do not have the means to survive.”
We duck inside and tour the dark, smoky cottage. In the living room, wood-framed couches draped with crocheted orange doilies, photo displays, and a tattered buffet give the place a make-do dignity that would make any Midwestern homemaker proud. The kitchen is filled with smoky pots and piles of ash. The bedrooms are simple.
When I peek my head in the bedroom door, I barely notice a bundle of rags resting on the bed and a skinny, pale baby swaddled in them. I move to get a closer look at him. He’s awake and quiet. Frail. But I know the look in his eyes, the way he’s floating in and out; it’s the familiar half-light of someone who is dying.
I feel the pull back to business, back to the hallway to talk with Mama about the house, to continue with the task of the day. It’s sad, but it’s not my problem. I’m busy enough today.
I look back at the baby.
It’s like seeing a dog panting, sick and desperate, inside a sweltering car with the windows closed tight. You can look in at him and think, Well, it’s none of my business . . . the owner will probably be back in a minute.
He’s dying.
You can’t save every baby in Africa.
Yeah, well, I’m not in the room with every baby in Africa. I’m in the room with this baby.
I have plans today.
I picture the identical scene playing out in suburban Minneapolis or Salt Lake City or San Diego, with a family going about their daily business unfazed while a baby is dying in the back bedroom. Unacceptable. Emergency.
But this is not the suburbs. It’s Africa. It’s the way things are, right?
I have plans.
I walk into the hallway and ask Mama, “Are you worried about the baby?”
“No, it’s only the problem of illness.”
“What did the doctor say about the baby being so small?”
“The doctor didn’t say anything.”
“That’s a surprise,” I say. “Is it normal for Congolese babies to be that small?”
Maurice jumps in. “It is not normal.”
We move into the living room. His name is Bonjour. I rest him in my lap. He sweats, wearing a little polar fleece tracksuit. “Don’t you think he’s hot?” I ask Mama. Without waiting for permission, I peel off his pants, then his sweatshirt. It gets stuck on his head.
I say, “You can tell I’m not a mother.”
Mama helps me pull it off. She looks stressed that I’ve taken such a keen interest in her son. I stare at his delicate little body, his bony legs, his pale little ribs poking out. He starts to cry. I’ve never heard a child’s voice sound like this before. Not the pushy, insistent cry for a mother’s attention, but slow. Thin. Desperate.
“Please don’t cry,” I say. Uh-oh. I feel it coming on. He pees. I grasp for something to absorb it, a towel a cloth, a doily, anything. “Oh, man! Right where it counts, too!”
“A real Mama!” Maurice bursts out laughing, “Like you are christened! You are really Mama Congo!”
I sit for a moment, shaking my head. Anyway. . . .
His mama takes him. She cradles his naked body while he nurses.
I’m tense, but I say, “I would like to take the baby to see a different doctor.