BEING CHIMAMANDA’S DAD PART II
I had no business drinking that night. I should have stayed home, read a book and helped with the baby. It took me a while but I learnt to adjust. I struggled with the diaper a bit but I ultimately got a hang of it. I learnt how to swaddle Chimamanda in a soft blanket. At night, when she got fussy, I rocked her back to sleep. I stepped up my game because I have always wanted to be an available and participating father. Dad.
Also, Mama Chimamanda had a disquieting caesarean wound. We had mastered the rodeo. We drenched that badass in iodine twice a day. We had to pay attention because the doctor cautioned us to watch out for cellulitis.
Cellulitis is a bacterial skin infection. It is nuts; I hear. The wound reddens, swells and has this devilish warmness. The kind of warmness you get when you have mustered your full energy into shutting a car door only to learn your thumb was in the way. Only that the pain is much worse. A fever follows. If untreated — sepsis.
What do you think? I had to google this shit! Afterall, doctors tend to get headaches and a bad back when they use simple words. So, they opt for Cellulitis. It is an awful condition they suffer from. Doctors, not women. They catch it in the first year of med school and it follows them to their death longer than a woman’s cellulitis itself.
Sorry, I digressed. That day, I should have stayed home and made sure Mama Chimamanda was not tempted to bend or lift something that would affect her wound. I should have been home to make sure she did not descend into depression, anesthesia-related problems or any other postpartum complications that a first-time mother is supposed to dread. I read extensively and thoroughly. I knew what to expect. But, I still went out for a drink.
To my defense, I did not plan on the drink — not in an ordinary sense. I went to drink because we were mounting an intervention for a friend. For the same of the comfort of the story, let us call this friend Fumbani. Fumbani had found himself in a little snag. Fumbani was dating one lady and had another lady on the side that he was “semi-dating”. There was also another beauty he talked to who misinterpreted his intentions. And, there was another lady that was obsessed with him. Do you see why each one of these ladies could send a gift to Fumbani — especially if it’s his birthday? And, yes, the ladies did. They all did. Fumbani’s birthday was at my place and his woman was there.
We, the boys, did not permit a crisis to unfold. We would have lost our arms and offered our balls as a bonus before we allowed that to happen. We intercepted the gifts, called for a caucus, sorted through them and chose just one cake based on two merits: It was the only cake that was devoid of words of romantic affirmation and it did not smell of sexual ambition. We presented it to the party and feasted on that badass.
We did not speak about it until Dawn called me two days later. Dawn is not his real name. When he was born, his parents christened him ‘Chikondi.’ His childhood friends, pastor and teachers started to called him that. His notebooks, certificates and his national ID carry that name but not his passport because it does not exist. If it did, we would have known. If just one of his overgrown fingernails had crossed Mchinji boarder and touched Zambian air we would have known. We, the boys, know him that well. The day he got his license, he called us to inform us that he was making ‘moves’ and the door to success was swinging open right before his eyes.
When we met in college and he told us his name was Chikondi, we were embarrassed on his behalf. We could not bring ourselves to call him that. We started to call him by his surname — Kadzombe. It was heavy on the tongue. Later we shortened it to Dzombe but Dzombe sounded as terrible as his first name was. By happenstance or silent consensus, we resolved to call him Dawn after his painful attempt at rap when he embarrassingly screamed on a song ‘Dawn Music!’ To us he shall remain Dawn, the world can call him what it wants. It can call him Grasshopper for all it cares, we will not give a hoot!
Dawn called. It was a Whatsapp Voice Call and I hate Whatsapp Voice Calls. I have no patience for voice delays. I hung up and made a normal phone call.
“Tuntu, walandira message?” Dawn did not bother with pleasantries.
“What message?”
“Aise, koma atisambwaza.”
“Ndani?”
“Akuti ndife ma motherfuckers.”
“Ndani?”
“Akuti atiphika.”
“Ndani?” This time it was more of a scream that a question.
“Cynthia.”
“Which Cynthia?”
“Cynthia yemweyu, Tuntu. Nkazi wa Fumbani.”
“Tatani?”
“Waziwa zinachitika pa birthday zija.”
Damn!
Cynthia had sent a message to each one of my boys but me. The boys threw the screenshots on our Whatsapp group. We deliberated a little and made a pact, “aliyense asayankhe.” We could locate our blame but we did not know anything about this before the birthday. On the other hand, she accused us of knowing that she was being played all along. She vowed to beat us all [we laughed and made jokes about this]. We agreed, this was not our issue to address, we shall work on talking to Fumbani not her. She was not our responsibility. Our responsibility was to guide Fumbani — to discipline him. And, boys, never discipline each other without a bottle of gin. That was why I was drinking on the night I was supposed to stay home, read a book and help with the baby.
I was coming from the intervention with Fumbai when a police officer flagged me down. I remember this police officer. He had stopped me the day Chimamanda was born as I was rushing to the hospital, it was just two weeks ago and he remembered me.
The day Chimamanda was born, he asked for my license, I told him I had forgotten it in the office. My daughter was on her way.
“See the message from her mother. It says she is not ready for this — childbirth. It was just a routine checkup and it is now an emergency caesarian. I am going at Likuni Hospital.” I told the police officer but he was not taking shit from me;
“Bring your car keys.”
“Zosatheka,” I was not taking shit either.
We had a heavy exchange of words. A group of people stopped and circled around us. Traffic was affected. The crowd screamed, ‘asiyeni.’ It is either he was going to let me through, there was going to be a police chase or he was going to lock me. I was ready. I was going to be present at my daughter’s birth. A nation and its goddamn laws were not gonna get in the way of that. The policeman saw resolve on my face but it was his colleague, a heavyset woman, who said ‘asiyeni azipita’ and I went. The crowd cheered.
But, there was no crowd when I got at Likuni hospital — just me and the expectation of fatherhood. Just me and a nurse who wanted to stop me from going into the theatre. She said it was against hospital policy and I was like policy my foot!
I felt blood rushing in my ear. My mind raced to what could be what could not be. I felt my feet shaking and in between my toes sweating. For a moment the world whirled around me, and everything became hazy. I leaned forward and questioned the nurse, “Where is the theater?” out of desperation as my urge to breathe freely suddenly increased. I saw the sign before she could respond and I started walking in that direction. The nurse run in front of me and said, “Wait.”
For a moment, she became a mother and a teacher, educating me about the dangers of walking into the theatre in the middle of a procedure. I saw my mother in a moment as she spoke. My mother was both a teacher and she was extremely motherly. It was at this moment that some weight was lifted off my chest. The nurse directed me to a room in the private ward where I found our friend, Vero, waiting. Immediately she saw me she told me she was going to drive back home to collect the overnight bags. It was at this moment it dawned on me that I was so disoriented that I forgot the most important things.
I sat there for 15 minutes before Sue came. Sue is Henrie’s wife. Henrie is my boy. He knowns where all dead bodies are buried.
It was the same nurse who brought my daughter. She handed her like she would hand over a trophy. This was not a trophy I deserved. I could not believe that I had created a human being. I could not believe that God had trusted my clumsy hands with a daughter. Not me. I can’t even keep a vehicle straight when driving. How could I parent this baby girl? Me, of all people, who cannot pee straight. Me, who goes for an hour looking for keys in my hands. Me, who snores and walks naked in the house.
Chimamanda started crying. She was wrapped in a masai cloth when they brought her in. It was my masai cloth. Given the circumstances, that was the only cloth available. Chima cried some more. I started to tear up. It was Sue who got the kid from my arms.
When they wheeled Mama Chimamanda in, I cried. I could not stand seeing how helpless she was. It was at this moment I realized that if I had gotten in the theatre, I would have been a distracting crying mess.
When they wheeled Mama Chimamanda in, I cried. I could not stand seeing how helpless she was. It was at this moment I realized that if I had gotten in the theatre, I would have been a distracting crying mess.
Her ceasarean wound took some time to heal but before that, the police officer who stopped me the day Chimamanda was born would stop me again and ask me, “Do you have your license on me?”
“No.”
“Okay, do you drink, sir?”
“Sometimes.”
“I think you have been drinking. Come here!”
