The Foreign Service Journal, July-August 2004

F O C U S O N F S F I C T I O N 26 F O R E I G N S E R V I C E J O U R N A L / J U LY- A U G U S T 2 0 0 4 A WAKENING he deep, hollow thump, thump of mortar meeting pestle that wakes the sun and brings it from its hori- zon bed has not yet begun. The log fires are not yet lit to make the morn i ng porridge. In this dry savanna village of Africa, where noise and rhythm seem as perpetual as air, it is shocking to witness such stillness. We are awake because we are waiting. My weary head is propped against a concrete pillar, as I look out from the thatch-roofed porch of the maternité. Fifty meters in front of us, the narrow dusty road at the entrance to the village of Marama-Ba lies flat and empty — temporarily relieved of the traffic of callus-footed farmers, flip- flopped schoolchildren, and the worn-smooth rubber tires of second-hand Chinese bicycles. Awa is sitting on the porch steps, her head gen- tly supported by the shoulder of her mother-in-law, Mon. Aminata, the assistant mid- wife, stands watch over us like a soldier at attention. A soft wind picks up, and the trees just beyond the main road that make up the “magic forest” whisper in their movement. It sends shivers down my spine. The villagers of Marama-Ba believe that the spirits of the forest protect them from all harm, and so are reverent and fearful of entering into these trees, lest the spirits be angered. Of course I don’t believe in sorcery, but I have never ventured into them either, unsure whether the comfortable suburban American reality that I know holds true halfway across the globe. I arrived at the maternité early this afternoon, for what we all thought was the immi- nent arrival of Awa’s child. But even now, the infant’s soft head remains firmly wedged between Awa’s too- small pelvic bones. Hours ago, when I sug- gested that Awa needed a doctor, the midwife had said, “The hospital is too far, and she can’t afford to pay.” Instead, the midwife pressed with both hands on Awa’s belly, yelling “Push! Keep pushing!” Then, turning to me she muttered disdainful- ly, “These women are so lazy.” Awa obediently pushed. Her lips pinched together into a pale thin line across her face. Her eyes shut vio- lently, extending wrinkles along her temples. But she never allowed a sound to escape her lips. To bear their pain without sound T A S THE SLOW , CREAKY WHEELS OF AN A FRICAN EMERGENCY TURN , AN A MERICAN HEALTH WORKER COMES TO TERMS WITH THE REALITY OF HER OWN LOSS . B Y R ACHEL H ERR Donald Mulligan