A Baby Boy…

(Not for the kiddos.)

I suppose when you live in Africa, you should somehow be prepared for the day when you hold a dying baby in your arms—that day, and all the feelings of utter helplessness and confusion that come with it.

But I wasn’t. Not at all.

One of our schoolteacher friend’s (A.) wives had a baby seven days ago, and I came upon him today to find that the baby was sick. I came upon his house at a most unfortunate time, because the compound was filled with monyemiji who had reportedly just tried their luck at healing him traditionally, by trying to counter the curse that was allegedly put on the little boy. Something about an uncle taking an unfair amount of cows and rousing up the ancestors’ wrath.

I was allowed inside and saw the grieving mother and the frail, twisted frame of a yet unnamed baby boy. And I, even now, some of me wishes I’d never had that moment and the pain, but more of me hopes I never forget it and such times never cease to be so affected. (I’ve talked before about my fear of becoming callous.)

I sat there and held him for a long time and found it hard to pray—an uncertainty of what exactly to pray for. And I looked at the mother, so clearly hurting. I saw her unable to look at him. And I saw her later at first refuse to sit up to put him to her breast. And I saw the tears, though not entirely acceptable in the Lopit culture, and I heard A. shortly tell her again and again, “Don’t cry.”

Ugh.