Yaoli: 10 Meters Between Life and Death

July 3, 2009

If you ever come to visit the Uuwo Dispensary, you’ll notice that behind the main two-story building, there is a little dirt path that leads to a smaller shack. Most days it sits abandoned and empty. Perhaps a warehouse for tools, you think.

On certain days however, the little shed fills with people and life. More villagers crowd outside its tiny porch than in the whole dispensary. And then you learn that the hut have a name – “mochwari”. Inside, a tomb-like silvery fridge protects the bodies in its frozen dark abyss. Another room showcases a metallic table and cabinets laden with strange and foreign tools. The “Maponyesho” (master of the mortuary) aka Robertson is a friendly energetic man. Thin as a rail but tough like a well-drawn wire coil, he can be seen working on the gardens, helping the nurses wash the bedsheets and blankets, or doing handyman work on days when the mochwari is vacant. But today Robertson is nowhere to be seen in the dispensary. Instead, he has more important work at hand.

Meanwhile, the midwives of the mother and child clinic upstairs at the dispensary are also busily scurrying about. On a different metallic table, a young mother is in the turmoil of labor. She lies struggling on her side; her hands clutch the steel bed-frame in pain. We were following Dr. Raymond on his usual morning rounds downstairs when he was called to assist. The fetus initially was not crowning. Even after midwife Mary managed to rotate the fetus into place, the uterine contractions were still futile – the head was too large. Dr. Raymond assessed the situation rapidly, then reaches for a nearby thermos from which he pours out a molten black liquid. “Black tea, to increase the contractions.” The mother receives the cup with trembling hands and takes a few sips before collapsing again in pain. She alternates between gasps for breath, groans of pain, and prayer.

The contractions are increasingly stronger now and the doctor and midwife doubles their efforts, offering more sips of tea and kneading her swollen belly. They position the mother on her back, bending her knees up towards the ceiling. Her fingers grip her ankles until they were nearly ashen. Mary tug at the vaginal wall and I feel a shiver race down my spine. The head seems impossibly big compared to the already extended aperture. They cannot afford to wait much longer; the fetus’ life is in graver danger with each passing second. During a particularly strong contraction, Mary seizes her opportunity. Her gloved fingers grasp onto the dark matt of hair tenaciously and she pulls with all her strength. The baby’s head pops out and the rest of the body follows, sliding like butter through the vaginal canal and out into the real world. “Asante asante Jesus,” the mother cries in relief.

The baby girl is silent for the first few seconds – perhaps to catch her breath or maybe to recover from the shock of being immersed in a new environment. Does her skin sense the cool air of the delivery room? Does her ears detect new and foreign sounds? Mary wipes the newborn with a washcloth and the baby gives a resounding cry, sealing her assimilation to mankind. We welcome her warmly, enveloping her in a colorful khanga, the first of many that she will wear in her lifetime.