My sister, Babadou, gave birth in late April. I was traveling back to village from Kombo when I received a call from Samba, a friend in village, telling me that she had given birth the night before. I was so excited and so relieved that the delivery was successful and that both she and the baby were healthy. The gelly gelly (bush taxi) dropped me off in Bansang and I rode quickly home on my bike skirting through deep pockets of sand and around the cows blocking the path. Reaching her compound, I jumped off my bike and parked it against the compound fence. I ran into her hut, where she was staying for the week following the birth (Fula tradition: After giving birth, the woman has to stay inside her hut and backyard area until the naming ceremony occurs on the seventh day following the birth. I think it's great because it means a lighter workload for the mother while she is recovering from the birth and more focus on the newborn). I sat with her on the bed as she breastfed her new daughter. I asked her many questions about the birth (how painful and long it was, was there much blood, did she cry or yell, were there any complications). She laughed at my questions and very simply told me that she gave birth in the backyard with my mother and her husband's mother present. And "No," she said, "I did not cry or yell. It was not painful." I looked at her with doubtful eyes. She just smiled and handed me the tight bundle of a baby who was wrapped in many blankets. Her eyelids fluttered as she drifted back into sleep, fingers curled tightly. I tried to express to my sister how brave and incredible she was to give birth without assistance on the dirt floor, but she just laughed again.
This is my sister's daughter at three days old.
Everyday I sat with my sister and her baby (later named Fatoumatta) in her hut, often accompanied by other women in the village. Throughout the week, women carried water for bathing, laundering, and cooking to her compound because she could not leave to go to the pump. They refilled her large clay pots that hold water for drinking and, at mealtimes, they would bring extra food. Many of the older women would come to sit with Babadou in the early mornings asking about her health and Fatoumatta's health. They watched as she breastfed her and offered words of support. Before they left the hut, they would recite short prayers for both the her and Fatoumatta. One or two of the older women would return at dusk to bathe Fatoumatta with soap and water.
Women from every compound brought Babadou pieces of fabric during the week. They brought tattered shirts and skirts and other worn cloth, not having money to buy new material. Babadou layers this fabric under Fatoumatta to cushion and support her when she lays on the bed (see above picture). The layers of fabric also protect the bed sheet from getting spoiled when she goes to the bathroom. Pieces of this collection of fabric are also used to wrap Fatoumatta when Babadough is carrying her or tying her on her back. One day while we were sitting in her hut, she pointed out to me who gave her each piece. She spoke with pride when explaining that these worn but beautiful fabrics now belong to her daughter. This sharing and exchanging of fabric that occurs at each birth symbolizes, to me, the communal raising of children by the village.
