Abebi was old. Abebi was tired. Abebi was
weak. Abebi was sad. Abebi was bitter. And
she was pregnant. Again. Unlike her first
two pregnancies, Abebi was unethusiastic
about this one. She held no hopes, no
excitements about motherhood. She didn’t
think of beautiful names for her baby, she
didn’t think of pretty clothes to dress her
child in. In fact, she tried not to think about
the baby at all.
12 years earlier, Abebi was a young, vibrant,
strong, happy and cheerful 18 year old. She
was full of love and life, and she was head
over heels in love with Akinwande her
husband. Their wedding ceremony was a
joyous affair, a two day carnival where
there was plenty to eat and the whole town
made merry.
Exactly nine months later, she was delivered
of a bouncing baby boy. He didn’t live for
more than three days. Family and friends
consoled her, “you’ll have another, many
more even. The water spilled, but the pot
isn’t broken” they said. And have another
did she. She had a beautiful girl with the
cutest nose ever, the child lived long
enough to die during the naming
ceremony. Once again she was consoled.
Once there’s life there’s hope…
There was hope and Abebi had another
child. And another. And another. And
another. And they all died in infancy. Abebi
was plagued by the Abiku. A spirit child
who had no mercy for his mother. He
would be born only to die and be reborn to
die yet again in a vicious cycle of blood,
pain, sweat and tears.
Abebi’s breast milk was sour. She had aged
more than her years. Her vagina was
already slack from pushing out children
year after year. Children who didn’t stay.
Children? No, the same child who had
chosen to torment her. Abebi had stopped
hoping for a child to send on errands, to
look after her when she was old with each
pregnancy. Instead, she was resigned to
the fate that she was going to more likely
than not bury the child.
“In vain your bangles cast. Charmed circles
at my feet. I am Abiku, calling for the first.
And the repeated time.”
They had tried to appease the spirit child,
sacrifices of palm oil, cowries, corn meal
and chicken were made. Yet Abiku did not
stay. Why did he keep coming and going.
Why? Abebi didn’t understand why this was
happening to her. If Abiku liked the real
world, he should stay, if not then he
shouldn’t even bother to come!
“Follow where you please your kindred
spirits if indoors is not enough for you. No
longer then bestride the threshold”
Then Abebi met The Shepherd who told her
to leave the Babalawo. “Come to church” he
said, “and all your problems will be solved”.
The people in the church wore long white
robes and colourful belts and sashes of
shiny material, they rang bells and they
spoke in strange languages. They danced
and sang with infectious vigour and
passion. They stamped their feet as they
prayed in a circle while Abebi knelt down in
the middle.
They were not going to beg Abiku to stay,
they were going to force him to. So when
Abebi was delivered of her previous
pregnancy and the baby died again as
usual, his feet were burnt with fire upon
which incense had been sprinkled. His ears
were nicked, and they drew crisscross lines
with a fresh razor on his back. Mutilated
and scarred, Abiku would not want to come
back again, for if he was reborn, he would
be born with those scars again. The shame
of looking hideous would make him not
come again.
Therefore this pregnancy Abebi was
carrying was expected to be a new baby.
Not the same child she’d been giving birth
to over and over for the past 12 years.
When she put to bed, if it was a baby with
those same scars, then Abiku had come
back yet again. If not, she had finally
overcome him and had a real child. For the
first time in about a decade, Abebi saw a
glimmer of home, a tiny ray of light, but she
was reluctant to hold on to it strongly.
She didn’t need much help, she knew how
to open her legs wide and push. Abebi
didn’t scream with terror and panic like
new mothers. The midwife in the church
widened her parted thighs “one more
push”. With sweat beaded on her forehead,
face masked with pain, Abebi heaved and
the baby slipped out.
She was scared to look at it. Did she dare
hope that Abiku had finally left her. She
gestured at the midwife to bring the
squirming bundle close. Abebi moved the
shawl aside and looked at the tiny creature
wrapped inside. One look was enough.
“So when the snail is burnt in it’s shell. With
it’s heated fragments, brand me deeply on
the breast. You must know him when Abiku
calls again”
Abebi was too tired to display any emotion,
she just sank back into the pillows and
closed her eyes.
