The Foreign Service Journal, July-August 2004

long journey. Mon clambers into the covered bed of the truck. What is Awa thinking? How will she man- age that bumpy ride with her infant still wedged between her thighs? Are these spirits with her, too? “It will be fine,” I say. “Insha’Allah,” Aminata says. The next day the men go to the fields. The women sweep their dirt floors, rhythmically pound the husks off rice, cook breakfast over open fires and soothe sleepy infants tied to their backs, oblivious to the slow drama of the night before. For Marama-Ba, it has been an ordi- nary night. Despite the blazing sun and swirling dust, I hop onto my bike and head to town toward the hospital. I arrive covered in sweat and dust. Mon is at the door of the maternity ward and looks surprised to see me. “Bintou!” she calls brightly, despite her obvious exhaustion. She leads me into the large recovery room, where three rows of narrow cots are lined up in the dingy white-tiled hall. Three dusty ceiling fans turn lazily at the lowest speed; one, I notice, is dragging a cobweb through the air. The room is noisy and bright with families and new mothers and the wailing of new- borns. Mon grabs my wrist in her firm hand and leads me to a thin cot where a tiny infant lies alone, swaddled in Awa’s colorful print shawl. A lump rises in my throat. Fear and disbelief melt into my bones. My legs feel weak when I whisper, “Where is Awa?” “With God,” Mon answers solemnly. I can no longer see. A hazy curtain of color and sound is drawn around me. Tears track down my dusty cheeks. My throat is so swollen that even mouth agape, only a strangled, high-pitched groan emerges. Mon lifts the infant from the bed. She turns to face me, her own face long with sadness. “Bintou, please…” she stretches out her weathered arms, offering me the infant on her two open hands. As though guided, my own arms open to accept the child, and as I fold Awa’s tiny infant against my chest, the noise and motion of the world slip away. I feel only the peaceful thump, thump of this small heart alongside mine. F O C U S J U LY- A U G U S T 2 0 0 4 / F O R E I G N S E R V I C E J O U R N A L 31