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Reflections

For Women Who Are Difficult To Love

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For Women Who Are Difficult To Love
Photo: Melody Jacob on Unsplash

This ‘Brazen: Reflections’ series was born out of a desire to continue the conversations springing out of the ‘Too Early For Birds: Brazen’ theatre performance in Nairobi in July 2018. TEFB-Brazen was a mix of straight-up scripted theatre, narration, poetry, music and dance that featured the little-known stories of six fearless women in Kenya’s history – freedom fighters like Field Marshall Muthoni wa Kirima, Mekatilili wa Menza and Wangu wa Makeri; democracy activists Philomena Chelagat Mutai and Zarina Patel and even one iconoclastic yet nameless woman warrior who brought down Lwanda Magere, the legendary ‘Man of Stone’ in Kenyan folklore. The story of each hero was narrated by a corresponding mirror character on stage. The ‘Brazen: Reflections’ series seeks to explore the idea of brazenness, what it means in our daily lives, whom the idea of brazenness privileges or erases, and the place that brazenness has in imagining freedom.

 

Watching TEFB – Brazen, I was drawn most to the story of Wangu wa Makeri (c. 1856–1915) a Kikuyu chief, known as a headman, during the British Colonial period in Kenya. She was the only female Kikuyu headman during the period, rising to power by flexing her relationship with the man who had the power to appoint her to the position, Paramount Chief Karuri. Wangu had to resign following a scandal in which she engaged in a Kibata dance, reserved for male warriors.

In the show’s rendering of Wangu, told by Lillian the sex worker (her mirror character on stage) Wangu wa Makeri privileges sensuality, and the power the moment of intimacy can give a woman, that she can use and wield for herself. Hers was one of the stories in Brazen that challenged me the most; I’ve wrestled with Lilian and her Wangu, trying to unpack what they stirred in me.

Given that wife-sharing among men of the same age set was the norm in 1901, Wangu wa Makeri’s relationship with Paramount Chief Karuri was morally and socially acceptable at the time. Nonetheless, Wangu, already a mother of six, appears to have cast quite the spell over Karuri, for he returns often to her. In Lilian’s telling, Wangu is fantastic in bed, and Karuri is not merely keen on his own sexual satisfaction, but is also desperate to know that he is also satisfying Wangu.

It’s already the narrative of my dreams, that even powerful men of old could be invested in the satisfaction of the women they had by right. It suggests a narrative in which women got as much value from wife-sharing as men. Perhaps spouse sharing is the correct term?

Wangu The Boss Bitch

A pivotal moment in Wangu’s career happens in the afterglow of hers and Karuri’s lovemaking, as they discuss her husband’s disinterest in an open chieftain seat. Wangu, disgusted with her husband’s lack of ambition, stakes her claim, convincing Karuri to make her the first female chief of the Kikuyu in the colonial era.

She becomes a “boss bitch,” inclusive of Rihanna’s Bitch better have my Money on loudspeaker. Fully capable of cruelty, Wangu raises taxes on a whim, and makes men who dare test her literal footstool. She is no Mutumia – her lips are absolutely not sealed, she is not ‘soft’ in the way we in the present might expect of women. She takes what she will, demands her respect, and never asks politely.

A few weeks ago, Serena Williams lost the US Open final to Naomi Osaka. Everyone had an opinion about Williams’ behavior. One camp, which arguably includes the umpire of the match, seemed to suggest Williams should have been a gentle docile creature on the court, offering perfect slender smiles in even the most trying of circumstances. She received a $17,000 fine.

For Women Who Are Difficult To Love

Read also: The Brazen Edition

Lilian paints Wangu wa Makeri’s fall from power in similar terms, as tied to inequalities around the rules of what was permissible for women as opposed to men. As a chief, Wangu forced her subjects and fellow chiefs to treat her with the respect her office demanded. Lillian’s defense of Wangu could easily apply to Serena: “She did exactly what she needed to do to be heard.”

Wangu served as chief until a meeting in 1909. A dance was arranged ahead of the meeting: the Kibata dance was a crowd puller used to bring the people together. The dance was reserved for (male) warriors, inclusive of chiefs, but Wangu got up to dance. Just like that she overstepped the freedom and power the men were willing to allow her. Some say her skirt rose up and exposed her as she danced, but perhaps it was sabotage, that a man deliberately cut the strings of her skirt, exposing her. Later, in stellar betrayal, Karuri confronted Wangu to answer the charge of dancing naked. She chose to resign her position.

The Most Powerful Part of Sex
Karuri’s betrayal may seem even more stark given Lilian’s suggestion that Wangu’s power came not only from what she achieved for herself but how she also nurtured Karuri, even “made him:”

LILIAN: “…the most important thing is the conversation. I can’t imagine how many women, lying there before and after the fact, have made men. Made them. I mean giving them business advice, being the shoulder to cry on, worked out every little issue that allows them to go out there and ‘BE MEN’. [Wangu] was smart, tough and unapologetic. That woman made him and he recognized it.”

This idea is reminiscent of a similar thought by Sue Maisha, who some may remember from her blog Nairobi Nights active in 2011 and 2012. Sue was “the Kenyan prostitute building a brand.” Her Nairobi Nights was compelling for its generosity in narrating Sue’s inner life, and the more instructive parts of the drama she experienced at work. Hers wasn’t the third person NGO summary or pulpit judgement, it was Sabina Joy, grimy mattresses, petty theft and Kanjo as blight and shield.

Sue felt that men return to sex workers not because of the sex itself, but because of mental, emotional and, she argued, spiritual issues they needed to work out:

 “Men come to us possessed by stress, frustrations, mid-life crisis, career stagnation, work challenges and we exorcise them in a more pleasurable way which doesn’t involve sitting on a pew for hours listening to a man or woman blaming your spiritual afflictions on your refusal to give tithe.”

I’m in a monogamous relationship with a man, so of course I’m paying attention to this bit with at least a small measure of discomfort. The way I see it, I can either reject Lilian’s and Sue’s message outright, or figure out how to up my bedroom game?

Creating Space

Fundamentally Lilian’s character creates a space where women can unearth themselves as sexual beings. In that space Beatrice reveals her Songs of Solomon-inspired wet dreams, Nakagwa, exasperated, confesses her constant state of sexual arousal in her heavy also flatulent moment of pregnancy. Sharing her very private distress, she discovers (no doubt along with some audience members) that it’s totally normal, even learns something new about her anatomy, which restores a little bit more agency in this moment where that tiny life seems to be taking over her body. Lilian’s is a space where women can discover, understand, agree and disagree about different aspects of their sexuality based on their individual and shared experiences as women. Sometimes it is for their own benefit, sometimes it is instructive in their relationships with men.

To the authors’ credit, the physical space Lilian speaks into: that is, those present in Cucu’s living room are religiously, racially and socio-economically diverse. They represent multiple generations, and go beyond heteronormative perspectives. It’s not often that I have such deep conversations with as wide an array of people.

I would certainly hope and expect that theatre audiences who watch Brazen mirror and exceed the diversity we witness on stage. Experiencing this public performance together with others indeed extended Lilian’s open space to me as an audience member. It’s what enables me to speak now.

Yet it’s a thought I find both terrifying and exciting: could I watch Lilian’s Brazen with my mother, my aunties, their church friends (to say nothing of their male counterparts)? Could we talk about it (honestly) after? Would I be the one to invite them? I’m not sure.

You are terrifying
and strange and beautiful
something not everyone knows how to love.

– Warsan Shire “For Women Who Are Difficult To Love.”

A Hero?

NAKAGWA: You could also see Wangu as a betrayer. She was a headman in the 1900’s. She betrayed her own people, oppressing them for the sake of the British…This woman wasn’t a hero. Was she? Like, where does she fall?”

Like many in the audience, some of the women on stage struggled to figure out a way to read Wangu. Should we see her as a sex-positive woman, a headman (and betrayer of her own), as a victim betrayed by the very man with whom she had been most intimate?

Was she Icarus who flew too close to the sun? One would have to believe that she, like Icarus, had only built a set of wings, that she did not possess an innate ability to fly.

But can we read Wangu as a hero? In recent years television has taken an interest in more morally ambiguous characters. Centering these types of characters – think Breaking Bad’s Walter White, or more recently Killing Eve’s Villanelle – has demanded that the story unearth their motivation, perhaps root for them, at the very least we’re unable to look away.

Cucu offers a Solomonic answer: “Everyone deserves to live a life as complex as your own. Betrayal is just a matter of perspective.”

In the recently ended season of The Americans [Spoiler Alert!], a show about parents trying to raise a family while being Russian spies, a daughter confronts her mother about sleeping with men in the course of her spy work. Here’s a little bit from the end of that explosive scene:

PAIGE:
How many times? How many men? Were you doing this when I was a baby? You’re a whore! Does Dad know he married a whore?

MOM:
Stop it.

PAIGE:
Why? You want to know the truth? The truth is that moment you told me who you really are I should have done what Henry did, get as far away from you as possible.

MOM:
That’s enough. It doesn’t mean anything to me. I wasn’t brought up like you were. I had to fight. Always. For everything. People were killed, they died, all around me. If I had to give everything so that my country would survive, so that it would never happen again, I would do it gladly. We were proud to do whatever we could. Sex? [scoffs] What was sex? Nobody cared. Including your father.

It’s a crucial conversation that reveals the psychic distance between mother and child. One the mother created in choosing to protect her child from anything to do with the life she lived.

In my limited experience, a conversation between mother and daughter about sex is necessarily going to be fraught before anyone imagines any concrete reason for a gulf. The conversation would be fraught largely because it’s already weighed down by so much silence, which isn’t particular to my mother and I.

Where are those songs
my mother and yours
always sang
fitting rhythms
to the whole
vast span of life?

– Micere Mugo “Where Are Those Songs”

I’ve internalized a version of the place of women in Kenya from reading and re-reading Wambui Mwangi’s “Silence is a Woman” layered with Yvonne Owuor’s Kenya as depicted in her novel, Dust: “Kenya has three official languages: English, Kiswahili and Silence.” More truthfully, it’s internalized from living in Kenya much of my life. Although it was absolutely not the intention of these texts, I may have managed to use them to build the very thing they protest, to normalize silence in my life, and with it judgement fear. While scrolling through Instagram I see that Huddah Monroe has pivoted from socialite to business woman with a cosmetics line. I spot a lovely shade, then I catch myself wanting to ask along with Nakagwa – is she a hero? Everyone deserves to live a life as complex as my own.

Perhaps because Brazen is a live show, because it never enacts women performing silence (those who remember Bosi will nod furiously here), it creates space for chatter and song, flooding many cavernous silences. In Brazen women speak about important ideas and frivolous things, we use our bodies for pleasure and work, we create safety in each other’ presence, we do not have to be good. It’s instructive and demonstrative, something I need to practice.

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Ngwatilo Mawiyoo is an acclaimed poet, writer and performing artist based in Nairobi, Kenya.

Reflections

Just Do It!

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Just Do It!
Photo: Joanna Nix on Unsplash

This ‘Brazen: Reflections’ series was born out of a desire to continue the conversations springing out of the ‘Too Early For Birds: Brazen’ theatre performance in Nairobi in July 2018. TEFB-Brazen was a mix of straight-up scripted theatre, narration, poetry, music and dance that featured the little-known stories of six fearless women in Kenya’s history – freedom fighters like Field Marshall Muthoni wa Kirima, Mekatilili wa Menza and Wangu wa Makeri; democracy activists Philomena Chelagat Mutai and Zarina Patel and even one iconoclastic yet nameless woman warrior who brought down Lwanda Magere, the legendary ‘Man of Stone’ in Kenyan folklore. The story of each hero was narrated by a corresponding mirror character on stage. The ‘Brazen: Reflections’ series seeks to explore the idea of brazenness, what it means in our daily lives, whom the idea of brazenness privileges or erases, and the place that brazenness has in imagining freedom. 

 

* As told to Christine Mungai

 

A few months before Too Early For Birds: Brazen was due to be performed, the writers of the show – Aleya Kassam, Laura Ekumbo and Anne Moraa – invited a number of women for a pre-show reading of the script, to see how it landed and what could be improved. I attended the reading, and brought my mother along.

The reading got underway, evoking frank conversations about the struggles that women face – at home, at work, everywhere really, as we fight to stay alive and sane in a society that constantly works to degrade and diminish us. My mother listened, patiently as she always does, and then said something that surprised the group – that she was struck by the fact that women in 2018 were facing the very same struggles that she was battling forty years ago.

My mother, Lucy Wanjiru, is now is her 70s. She told the group how she raised my four siblings and I as a divorced woman in the 1970s. Which, as she pointed out was not the kind of thing done at the time. But she was different. She’s the kind of mother that had the “sex talk” with us openly, and answered all our questions as best she could. She was the first to take me out, to teach me what alcohol did to my body, and how to handle it. She bought me my first miniskirt.

Someone asked my mum whether she knew any gay people “those days”. She said yes, we knew men who did “women things”. And that there were girls who “disappeared into some corners with other girls”.

Was there a backlash? Were they ostracized? Was there the same stigma as today?

“Not really,” she said. “It was understood that those girls were not ‘for marriage’.”

And then my friend Nini asked my mother, “Did it occur to you that you could be in a relationship with a woman?” She answered: “Unfortunately I’ve never been attracted to women, but if I was, it would have been a great arrangement.” That blew everyone’s mind, and they all burst out laughing. But my mother meant it.

For Women Who Are Difficult To Love

Read also: The Brazen Edition

I’ve been thinking about that conversation in the weeks after TEF Brazen, about the things that time changes, and what it doesn’t change. My mother sharing her experiences from forty years ago mattered to the people present that day – it reassured them that they were not alone, that others have passed this way before. But it was also a reminder that the forces against us as women are resilient, frequently shape-shifting into more modern versions of the same old oppressions.

I ended up watching Brazen with my mother, as well as Martha Karua, who’s had a distinguished career in public service, Justice Martha Koome, judge at the court of appeal and Marilyn Kamuru, advocate fighting for the implementation of the two-thirds gender rule. It was a veritable cross-section of women representing different generations of Kenyan brazenness.

It made me realize that we need those cross-generational spaces that allow us to access those memories, that let us know that this too shall pass. And for those who have gone before us, it matters that someone is listening. That someone will read the Hansard and retrieve what you said, like they did for Chelagat Mutai in the performance. That someone will quote you, will re-tell your story to little ones one day.

At what point does a girl become a woman in her mother’s eyes? I was lucky that my mother spoke frankly to us, gave us an anchor to hold on to, and helped us find a way to make sense of the world. For too many women however, it is happens too late, too abruptly, or too tainted by the contradictions of life.

I asked my mother that day, “At age 35, you were running a business, running a home, and raising five children by yourself. With all of society’s forces against you, how did you do it?”

She said: “You just close your eyes and get your work done.”

That’s Brazen.

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Reflections

Gonna know we were here

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Gonna know we were here
Photo: Eloise Ambursley on Unsplash

This ‘Brazen: Reflections’ series was born out of a desire to continue the conversations springing out of the ‘Too Early For Birds: Brazen’ theatre performance in Nairobi in July 2018. TEFB-Brazen was a mix of straight-up scripted theatre, narration, poetry, music and dance that featured the little-known stories of six fearless women in Kenya’s history – freedom fighters like Field Marshall Muthoni wa Kirima, Mekatilili wa Menza and Wangu wa Makeri; democracy activists Philomena Chelagat Mutai and Zarina Patel and even one iconoclastic yet nameless woman warrior who brought down Lwanda Magere, the legendary ‘Man of Stone’ in Kenyan folklore. The story of each hero was narrated by a corresponding mirror character on stage. The ‘Brazen: Reflections’ series seeks to explore the idea of brazenness, what it means in our daily lives, whom the idea of brazenness privileges or erases, and the place that brazenness has in imagining freedom

 

I recently found myself in a room with the mother of my auntie’s husband who we all call Cucu. Having lost my biological grandparents, this sweet lady—who, at 98, has always been old to me—was fascinating to observe. Cucu sat in a corner, singing gospel songs with her feet elevated. She was snug and warm and aged in that good way; seen the world and sure of her bedtime.

I thought about the Kenya she met in 1920. A colony filled with fear, hunger and violence. Though I can almost hear Ciru’s character in TEFBrazen chime in, “kinda like now”, I wonder what uncertainties coiled in the belly of Cucu’s mother as she looked down at her daughter. As a woman, I feel certain the same dread extends across each generation facing a hostile world that needs unmaking: Will they survive? Will they thrive?

Not enough to make it.

This is where we need the radicals and their rage.

They find the words, the exact colour and stroke, the perfect verse and tempo, the opening, the safety, the fearlessness, the cunning, the voice needed to challenge the world. March 16th, 1922 was Mary Muthoni Nyanjiru’s time to be Brazen. She rallied a crowd of 7,000 agitating for the release of Harry Thuku, a political activist fighting against the colonial government.

They say that right there, outside Central Police station, Nyanjiru stripped naked, faced down the bayonets and yelled, “Take my dress and give me trousers! You men are cowards! What are you waiting for? Our leader is in there. Let’s go get him!”

For author Grace Ogot, being Brazen was deciding to publish work in both Luo and English when she realized there was a dearth in work by East African women writers at the 1962 African Writers Conference. Her fellow attendee, Rebeka Njau went on to write a one-act drama that unequivocally condemned female genital mutilation. The Scar was published in 1965 and is the first ever play written by a Kenyan woman.

A decade later Rebeka would rewrite her award-winning debut novel Alone with the Fig Tree into Ripples in the Pool with a queer protagonist, Selina, a married woman who falls for her husband’s sister. In a moment of reflection Selina reveals her motivation: “I have discovered that a woman must fight her way in this cruel man’s world. This is what I’m doing now.”

And women needn’t be pioneers to shake things up. Daring to be different and refusing to be cowed or shamed is just as empowering. It is evident in how musician Akothee, the self-proclaimed ‘president of single mothers’, has made her Instagram account an island of ungovernability. That honesty with which socialites such as Bridget Achieng – featured on a recent BBC Africa Eye documentary – speak candidly about their lives and the cost of choices they make.

Brazenness is in the very bones of the Bar Hostess Empowerment & Support Programme. This organization is a haven for Kenyan sex workers. It also incorporates women who have sex with women (WSW), women using drugs and, bar hostesses. What’s fantastic is that they offer training to sex workers as paralegals which helps them in defending themselves on the streets, in the back of the council vans, and in the courts.

When women refuse to be made invisible, they are able to question status quo. It is a struggle but there is glory in being alive this way. When transwoman Audrey Mbugua challenged the Kenya National Examinations Council to change the name on her certificate, she demanded to be seen for who she was. She won.

For Women Who Are Difficult To Love

Read also: The Brazen Edition

When filmmaker Wanuri Kahiu took the Kenya Film Classification Board to court for banning her film Rafiki, she wanted to give Kenyans a chance to see two young people—who happened to be female—fall in love. She won and made over three million shillings to boot.

But it isn’t about winning. It’s about having the audacity to point out an injustice and not back down. In 2016, lawyers Marilyn Kamuru and Daisy Jerop together with the Center for Rights Education and Awareness led a petition against the Chief Justice and the National Assembly to dissolve Parliament. The Constitution is clear. Everyone ought to be sent home for non-compliance with the two-thirds gender rule. The petitioners openly declared “there is no democracy without women’s meaningful representation in the national legislature.”

How powerful is that?

Yet and still, not enough make it.

Nyanjiru was the first to be felled by bullets that day.

*Liz was gang-raped on her way home from her grandfather’s funeral.

Jackline Mwende’s husband chopped off her arms.

This is still the world we live in. Where our bodies are viewed as disposable, our fate inevitable and our triumphs erasable. That is why I enjoyed Too Early for Birds – The Brazen Edition so much. It hit all the right notes: truth, homage and genius. We need this kind of inspiration. We need our joys and pains documented. We need to grieve. We need to imagine new ways to be free. This is how we survive. This is how we thrive.

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Reflections

EMPTY ARMS: The story of Kenya’s broken maternal health system

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EMPTY ARMS: The story of Kenya’s broken maternal health system

This ‘Brazen: Reflections’ series was born out of a desire to continue the conversations springing out of the ‘Too Early For Birds: Brazen’ theatre performance in Nairobi in July 2018. TEFB-Brazen was a mix of straight-up scripted theatre, narration, poetry, music and dance that featured the little-known stories of six fearless women in Kenya’s history – freedom fighters like Field Marshall Muthoni wa Kirima, Mekatilili wa Menza and Wangu wa Makeri; democracy activists Philomena Chelagat Mutai and Zarina Patel and even one iconoclastic yet nameless woman warrior who brought down Lwanda Magere, the legendary ‘Man of Stone’ in Kenyan folklore. The story of each hero was narrated by a corresponding mirror character on stage. The ‘Brazen: Reflections’ series seeks to explore the idea of brazenness, what it means in our daily lives, whom the idea of brazenness privileges or erases, and the place that brazenness has in imagining freedom. 

 

The pain

The morning of 3rd November 2013 is still so clear to me, almost five years later. I remember waking up at 2:11 a.m. in so much pain I could barely stand. I remember waking my husband who was sleeping next to me. I remember how calm his voice when he said, “dress up, let’s go to the hospital”. I remember what I wore – a green dress with black floral patterns. I remember touching my belly and wondering why it felt so hard. I remember my husband driving like a crazy person, ignoring every red light on the way to Nairobi Hospital. I remember how the emergency area of the hospital looked dreary and depressing. I remember the relief I felt when I heard my daughter’s heartbeat but then a twinge of anxiety when the sonographer said her heart rate was higher than it should. I remember the next nine hours clearly, up until noon, when my water broke and I pushed my baby girl into the world. I remember seeing her tiny body on a tray and hearing the doctor say “I am so sorry she didn’t make it”. Then everything from there is a blur.

The people that came to visit us in hospital were very kind, but for the life of me I cannot remember any of the conversations we had. A few pastor friends stopped by and prayed. I had trouble closing my eyes though. I was sure if I closed them, the darkness in my heart would overwhelm me. The only thing I remember about the days that followed is my first shower. I stepped out of my bed, legs shaking and eventually made it to the shower. And I touched my belly and there was nothing where my baby bump had been. And I sobbed in the shower, wishing I could die. But I didn’t. And at first, I was deeply disappointed with God for letting me live. But I went home and experienced so much love from friends and family. I remember Timo and Lo (a couple who lived near us) coming to our house with food. That was the first night I laughed since my daughter died. And my journey of healing began.

Seeing in colour

A month after coming from hospital I wrote about losing our daughter on my blog. I had resigned from my job. So here I was, unemployed, with no baby to look after. The blogpost was my way of trying to understand what had happened to me. Then, I felt, if I just wrote it down, it would stop having so much power over me. And the writing helped. I felt lighter – the kind you feel after a good cry. But soon after I received numerous calls, emails and messages from people who had lost a baby or knew someone who had. I don’t know why I did it but I reached out to these people. Here I was, still raw from pain, listening to other devastating stories of loss. For some reason, holding hands with these parents, crying together and encouraging each other started me on my healing journey. Somewhere along the way my heart was strengthened. At some point I started to see in colour again. And though some nights were long and teary, there was a new hope in my life.

I started Still A Mum officially in October of 2015. It is a not for profit that provides psychosocial support to parents who have gone through miscarriages, stillbirth and infant loss. In the three years I have been doing this I have met over 850 men and women beaten down by the death of their baby. Broken by the lack of support from their family. Angry because of the myths their neighbours have about why the baby died. I have met couples that have lost an eight-week pregnancy and people dismissed their loss and called their baby a “mass of cells” not knowing that they had been trying to get pregnant for six years. I have met university students who were terrified when they found out they were pregnant, and even considered abortion, but decided to keep the baby. Then sadly lost the baby. And this baby, not wanted at the beginning, but loved over time brought them such sadness when they were no more. Every year we plant trees to mark Pregnancy and Infant Loss Day in October and my heart is so full to hear a man tell me, “Thank you for giving us a chance to plant this tree in memory of our baby. This is the first we are speaking about our son since he died.”

For Women Who Are Difficult To Love

Read also: The Brazen Edition

Sure, my life took a detour I am so grateful for – from a career in tech to running Still A Mum. Half the time I feel like I have been thrown to the deep end because I am not a counsellor, yet I am here to offer comfort to grieving parents. Of course, I often feel boggled down by the high numbers of pregnancy and infant loss. We are barely scratching the surface and it breaks my heart to know there’s a woman who has lost a baby and has no one to walk with her. Yes, I have missed the glamour of employment life, and the security of a paycheck. But that passes when I meet a mother I have counselled and she’s laughing again. When I run into a mum who tells me that they have recovered from a loss and are even thinking of having a baby again, I get overwhelmed with joy. That’s being Brazen.

***********

The broken health care system

That being said, every day I come face to face with Kenya’s broken health system. Perennially, I see how much more work needs to be done. Did you know that Kenya has 23 stillbirths for every 1000 live births (the rate is 10 for Mauritius and Seychelles, the safest places to have a baby in Africa, and just ten in the US and UK)? Did you know that in Kenya we define stillbirth as the loss of a pregnancy from 28 weeks while developed countries it is from 20 weeks? That means that in those countries a baby born at 21 weeks can make it?

Do you know how many hospitals in Kenya can handle a birth emergency? How many health centers have incubators? Or even a theatre for a basic caesarian section birth? Did you read about the mother who lost quintuplets in Kenya last year? I went to visit her in Oyugis and saw how devastated she was to bury five babies. Five babies! And why? Because she could not go for antenatal clinics because the nurses were on strike, and so assumed she was pregnant with only one baby. On the day when labour started she thought she could handle the birth at home, with a midwife. Until she delivered two babies and the midwife saw there were more. And she was rushed to a hospital in Oyugis where she delivered the other three. Who had to be moved to a hospital in Kisii because the first hospital did not have incubators for the preemies. Eventually because of the movement and the cold the three babies died. And just like that a woman lost five children! That is our health care system.

But that is not what riles me most. I am most angry about how Kenyan hospital staff treats mothers and fathers after the loss of their baby. During the support group sessions I have heard some of the most devastating stories I’ve heard in my life.

I went into labor when I was 23 weeks pregnant. The nurse that came to my bed said “mama, huyu mtoto akizaliwa atakufa tu”. She said that because the baby was too young their chances of survival are almost nil. All I could hear was that “atakufa tu” statement. It was so callous. I didn’t know I would be experiencing a lot worse. As soon as I pushed the baby out, the midwife lifted my son and threw him in the trash can as I watched. Soon after, I started to throw up because my blood pressure was really high. Without missing a beat, the midwife handed me the trash can she’d put my baby in so I “stop messing her floor”. Can you imagine how I felt throwing up on my baby?! I had nightmares for months. – Joan*

I lost my baby at 36 weeks of pregnancy. My daughter died in my womb about 24 hours before I came into hospital. “Mama, hapa hakuna heartbeat” The sonographer said while staring at the monitor. Then I was sent to the maternity ward and nobody explained anything. I just saw nurses setting up the drip and putting it in my hand. A few hours later I went into labor. After delivery when I asked if I could see my girl I was asked why I would want to see a dead child. Then I spent the night in the maternity ward – I could not sleep hearing all the babies crying yet mine was dead. It was the most traumatizing thing I’ve ever gone through. I demanded to be discharged the very next day. – Ruth*

I stayed in Newborn ICU (NICU) with my son for 6 weeks. Every day was fighting a new battle. Some days were good, some were tough. One day he’d be doing well the next he’d be fighting a new infection. Because of the bill that had already accumulated my husband and I had decided I would be commuting instead of sleeping in the ward. Most days I just slept in the car. Six weeks in I was exhausted both physically and mentally. I had cried until I didn’t think I had more tears. I had prayed, desperately asking God to take my life instead and spare my son. I didn’t know if I could take more bad news. Then on Thursday May 4th 2017 I walked into NICU and saw a group of doctors and nurses surrounding my baby trying to resuscitate him. Not more than five minutes after I walked in, the machine stopped beeping. Immediately they set my son aside and put another baby into the incubator. They didn’t even wrap him up. They just left him there naked and cold. – Cynthia*

I hear these stories so often and each time it breaks my heart. I meet women who doctors have ignored their calls for help, or the midwife disregarded information they gave that would have saved their baby’s life. I listen as fathers narrate how they paced the corridors outside the theatre only to be told their babies died. And how painful it was for them to break the news to their wives. Our bereavement care is almost non-existent. Our health care is totally devoid of compassion. Medical practitioners leave medical school knowing how to diagnose a patient’s illness and prescribe medicine. They know how to conduct difficult surgical operations. But they are caught flatfooted when they have to break bad news to a patient. They are devoid of empathy. And I understand that most are overworked and already doing more than is required, but a little compassion is required. Saying “I am so sorry for your loss” goes a long way.

I know we can do better. The situation definitely feels bleak but we can start to fix it. Every day we can change systems that don’t work and introduce some new ones that do. Every day we can get feedback from patients and see ways to improve. We don’t have to have world-class facilities to start seeing change – we can be more compassionate and humane and not belittle the loss of a baby. We can start where we are and visit a bereaved parent. And hug them. That’s Brazen.

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