I explained that I didn’t know, didn’t think, hadn’t realized it was even possible, because I’d bled so much, and had had an endometrial ablation in my late teens. He put a soft hand on my arm and said it was okay. It was so reassuring, it made me weep.
I explained that the baby was conceived through sexual assault, that I was on call when it happened, and had been too scared to tell anyone, other than my roommate, who I then stabbed. So I was put on antipsychotics and antidepressants. I explained that I had prescribed the post-exposure prophylaxis myself, using a page in one of my patient’s files, which I later tore out after the medication was dispensed. I was no longer sure whether I’d taken the morning-after pill, if I’d prescribed it or forgotten, or taken it and vomited it up, or taken it and it simply failed. I was too sick those first few days, mentally and physically. I could remember so little. So much still didn’t make sense, and anyway, with no lining in my womb, was it even possible?
He said I shouldn’t be so hard on myself, or feel guilty. As doctors we aren’t trained to take care of ourselves, only to care for others. The system had failed me that night. Someone should have noticed. Someone should have picked up that I wasn’t okay.
He said some bleeding in early pregnancy wasn’t uncommon, even for a normal, healthy uterus, but with my history of endometrial ablation I was at greater risk of recurrent bleeds during pregnancy, and was fortunate to have carried successfully so far.
I wasn’t sure if I agreed with the word “fortunate,” but he was such a nice man, such a godly man, I didn’t want to upset him with my ambivalence toward the new life that I would, in less than twenty-four hours, be bringing into the world.
He explained that they would have to deliver the baby early via cesarean section, due to the risk of uterine rupture. I had been added to the operating list for that evening. A nurse would soon be with me to prepare me for surgery, and all I needed to do was rest, relax, and let them take care of everything.
I don’t remember feeling anything. Not in my body, not in my heart. Everything was numb—my toes, my legs, my soul. When the nurse handed her to me, I was afraid to look at her face. What if it was like the face of the one who bit my tongue, or the one who laughed when I started to cry . . . ?
But she looked like nothing, like a blank page, like a fresh start. My fresh start.
❖
I was happy she was light in complexion. At least God had given her that. Being dark on top of everything else (a child of rape) would have been too much.
But Ma had to take that away from us, too. She couldn’t just be silent and enjoy the unexpected fairness of her complexion.
“You can see by the ears that she’ll be as black as night. The ears always tell you the true complexion. The lightness won’t last.”
❖
I wondered which of the three was her father. The one who ejaculated before he could put his penis in, or the one who shouted, “Where are your kwere-kwere friends now?” Or maybe it was the one whose belly protruded beneath his striped T-shirt?
Or was it all of them? Is that possible? Could all of them be her father?
Is it possible that some goodness in them (because surely there’s goodness in all of us?) came together to form her, despite their evil intentions, in spite of their evil intentions, to spite their evil intentions?
Is that possible?
❖
“Do not worry,” I told her. “Don’t you worry about a thing.” I’ve spent my whole life worried. I worried in Grade One that I’d never be able to read. Then I worried I’d never make friends. Later I worried about bleeding to death. Not a day ever passed when I didn’t worry. Would I ever learn to drive? Would I ever fall in love? Would a man ever love me? Would I ever be happy again?
When the midwife asked if there was anything I wanted to tell my baby before they took her to the neonatal ICU, I told her, “Don’t worry. Don’t worry about a thing.”
❖
Will I tell her about her father(s)? I don’t know. How do I explain the violence? That she was born of violation yet wanted still? That she was both the worst and the best thing to have happened to my life? That because of her conception I wanted to die, but that it was her life that forced me to live?
❖
I named her Mpho because that is what she is, because it’s not her fault, because she doesn’t deserve to have this stain on her future, because I refuse to allow anyone to tell her, or me, otherwise. She’s my Mpho, my gift.
❖
I would have liked to introduce Mpho to Nyasha. She’s a fighter, just like Nyasha. But after I went on maternity leave, Nyasha and I stopped speaking completely. Ma didn’t invite Nyasha to the baby shower. And after the birth, well, I was just so busy, just so busy all the time. I guess I expected her to call, even text maybe. I wasn’t angry. I understood that people didn’t know how to react, whether to send congratulations or condolences. And then the time just went, cementing open the crack that had already split the ground
