Another rock for my sling. My parenting journey.
There is always that life-changing moment that alters your life in so many subtle ways.
Mine was when I held my son for the first time.
Men aren’t supposed to cry! African men at least. Well, I didn’t cry… almost. I might have sniffled, but technically that’s not crying, right?
The birth of a baby is a momentous occasion. A joyful experience, a reason to celebrate and make merry. As Africans, we equate children to wealth, prestige, and virility.
Siring a child grants one a seat at the high table of men.
It was a fine summer day. The birds were chirping and the sun was shining ever so brightly. The date was 15/11/2016.
As usual, I was at work In the Industrial area, Nairobi. I worked as a chemical Engineer for an Indian firm. I had left my very pregnant wife earlier that day in an upbeat mood.
At around 9 am I received her call. She was panicky. This must be the D-Day I mused to myself.
“Babe, I can see water pooling under my legs. Do you think it’s the baby?” she frantically asked. I didn’t have the answer to these questions, I am an Engineer, not a doctor after all.
You see am a first-time father (well legally that is, though rumor has it otherwise). I had extensively googled about childbirth and I knew that breaking of the water was the onset of labor. I quickly called her gynecologist who told me to rush her to the hospital.
I vividly remember calling my good friend Pinchez. He owned an uber, I didn’t trust my driving skills at that moment. We flew back to my house. Everything was ready. The baby’s bag had been packed months prior in anticipation of this day.
We were soon speeding through Jogoo road past Doonholm on our way to Komarock. Our hospital of choice was Komarock Modern Hospital. I had scoured the Internet looking for the best hospital within my price range.
At the hospital, we quickly dispensed through the formalities as my wife was technically in clinical labor.
The predelivery room was warm and beautifully decorated with murals of smiling toddlers adorning the walls. This seemed to auger well with the missus as she was all smiley and chatty with the nurses.
The place had a surreal feel. Not like your typical hospital with a strong disinfectant smell and never-ending hustle and bustle. This place was warm, quiet, and cozy.
All this time my better half was smiling. The Intense labor pains had not kicked in. This was the calm before the storm.
All hell broke loose shortly after. A woman in labor goes back to base Instincts. You see at the core we are all animals and nothing brings out the animals in humans like extreme pain.
It started innocently enough with complaints of back pains. Very soon, she was howling like a banshee in a full moon.
Have you ever felt helpless? Here is the woman you love crying out your name, Imploring you to save her but you can’t. There was nothing I could do. I rubbed her back, urging her to push on.
Soon It was time, my wife had dilated to the required measurement. The midwife asked me if I wanted to be in the delivery room. That was a tough one. My courage deserted me and I declined. Seeing my woman in pain had taken a toll on me.
I remained outside the delivery room pacing like a vulture on a carcass. Seconds felt like minutes, minutes like hours and hours like days.
Thankfully, the delivery was relatively short and without complications. Soon the short, dark midwife came out smiling. “Mr. Mugo” she called “congratulations, you have a healthy baby boy.”
Words can’t do justice to the mix of emotions I had at that moment. Joy, happiness, trepidation all coursed through my body.
The good news spread rapidly like wildfire. My sister, aunties, brother in law, friends all came trooping in. Bear hugs, high fives, and back thumps were the order of the day.
Traditional millet porridge, milky tea, fruits, and sweets were the spoils of war for the heroine, my wife. Everybody oohed and aahed at how beautiful the baby was.
Well, I didn’t see it that way but was wise enough to keep my trap shut and reserve my comments. Minute old babies are pink, puffed up, and have distorted features.
My relative’s presence there was a two-pronged mission. First, of course, was to welcome the baby and the mother (as usual, the father is excluded in such matters. It’s Unafrican after all), and secondly and more Importantly was to verify the paternity of the baby.
Africans have this deep cultural belief that the baby has to Inherit a physical feature from the father. The crooked nose, big eyes, or satellite dish ears. At least he must have a distinguishing feature that will prove beyond Irrefutable doubt that I was the father.
My sisters and aunties all oohed and aahed the baby while Intensely scrutinizing him. Turning him round and round while putting him under an inbuilt visual microscope honed from many years of practice.
I sat there with my head hung low like a prisoner waiting for the sword of Damocles to fall.
Soon the visual inspection was over. I could sense from their body language and demeanor that my minute-old son had passed the first test of many in his life.
Now the real celebration started with ululations and songs of praise for my prowess as a man (like it was rocket science or something to make a baby)
Finally, I was given the honor of holding my son for the first time.
Suffice to say it was an unworldly experience. That stomach clenching, heartwarming, cold-sweat sort of feeling. Where you are excited and scared at the same time. Yes, that feeling.
Its been three full moons since that fateful day in November 2016 and the fairytale keeps getting better.
Trust me nothing beats being a dad. The love in your child’s eyes every time he looks at you is something else. As a parent, you are the only solid rock he knows.
Parenting is a crash course into the nature of God, of life in its very essence. Looking at a baby is akin to seeing the face of God.
From my son, I have learned to love unconditionally, fully trust, and live life to the fullest.
To all parents trying to hold it down for their kids, a royal salute goes out to you. You are the true Kings and Queens.
