Voice of America (14 page)

“Everybody who needs a baby in Lagos comes here to patronize them, and there has never been any complaint concerning them,” her mother-in-law replied.

“But Mama, for these people it is only a business, and a baby should be conceived in love. A child is not a commodity, you know.”

“It is you who will give the baby love when he is born, not these people,” her mother-in-law replied with her sometimes impeccable logic. But Ijeoma had not been convinced. She suggested that she needed time to think things over and promised that they could return the next week when she had thought sufficiently about it.

“My daughter, it is because I want to carry your baby on my knees before I die—this is why I am doing all of these things. Don’t forget that I am getting old and I cannot be with you forever,” she said to Ijeoma in a tone that sounded woebegone but wheedling.

By the time they went back to the Baby Market a week later, the place had been raided by the police. There were reports that some Lagos women were using the babies they bought from the place for moneymaking
juju
rituals. A few months later, the Baby Market resurfaced in a new location and was said to have
grown even bigger. It now had the police on its payroll and was receiving police protection. All that had happened during her last visit, and this time she was hoping things would be different. She had no wish to return to the Baby Market.

The weekend after Ijeoma arrived, her mother-in-law chartered a taxi to take them to a church in Badagry, on the outskirts of Lagos, where the prophet’s church was located. Badagry used to be the center of a famous slave market in the days of slavery, which housed the place that used to be known as the “point of no return.” It was said that once a captured slave reached this spot, he had no chance of ever going back. It was said that to this day, the slaves’ voices could still be heard, crying out that they did not want to leave their fatherland. It was now a tourist destination; there was also a Museum of Slavery that housed chains, shackles, and other paraphernalia of that infamous trade in black people.

The prophet’s church was a large white hall surrounded by canopies and tents. Behind it were little shacks made out of palm fronds. Members of the church and supplicants who had traveled from afar wore white flowing gowns and walked about on bare feet; the prophet had designated the location of his church a holy ground, and no shoes were allowed. All around women and children in dirty white soutanes sat waiting. Some of the children played in the sand, while a few played in puddles of urine. There were flies everywhere, and the heat was stifling. The majority of those waiting had apparently been fasting, and their lips appeared to be coated in a white film. Big cooking pots were boiling atop large fires, and the smell of boiling beef and rice filled the air. According to a brochure that Ijeoma bought at the entrance to the church, the prophet had started out as a
carpenter and coffin maker. One day while he was in the bush, cutting wood, a little black bird had called out his name. As he stood still listening to the voice of the bird, he had fallen into a deep trance, and when he woke up, a voice had spoken to him and told him that from that day onward he would become a giver of life, rather than a taker who built coffins with which people were buried.

Ijeoma and her mother-in-law were given round plastic numbered disks and sat on white plastic chairs awaiting their turn. The inside of the church smelled of burning incense, candles, and unwashed bodies.

After a while, a female usher called their number, took them in to the presence of the prophet, and commanded them to kneel. The prophet laid a moist warm palm on Ijeoma’s head and began to intone in a voice that had the raspiness of an angry night masquerade.

“You have traveled far, woman; you have crossed many waters to come to me. Ah, you have many powerful enemies, and their wish is to make your life akin to that of a barren she-goat, cursed to be always wandering and never finding rest. They locked your womb with a padlock, melted the key, and threw it into the bottom of the ocean; their one wish is that your womb will never be unlocked. But you have a powerful prayer warrior in the person of your mother-in-law here. We shall find that key and unlock your womb, and you shall be a mother not just once but seven times, yes, seven times you shall be a mother.”

The prophet began to twirl around and move jerkily on his feet, his face and white soutane quickly becoming damp with sweat. He began to scream in a strange language that was an admixture of French, Greek, and his native Egun language. When
he stopped, he took Ijeoma by the hand and led her to a pond behind the church. The water on the pond was clear and tinged with a touch of light blue; the sight made Ijeoma feel a bit cooler. Ijeoma could see many small fish swimming in the water. Pointing at the fish in the pond, the prophet spoke to Ijeoma.

“These are all children; these are all babies waiting to be born. Look closely, and tell me the one that you like.”

Ijeoma was confused for a moment; all she could see were fish swimming in the clear water. Her mother-in-law nudged her, and she bent her neck and peered closely at the fishpond. She saw a tiny white fish with a little black stripe on its side. She pointed at it. The prophet smiled.

“You have chosen very well; that is a beautiful baby girl that you have picked.”

He took them back inside. Ijeoma was already beginning to feel dizzy from the sun, the heat, the smell of incense, and peering at the clear water of the pond.

“We cannot thank you enough, man of God; so what can we give you as offering?” Ijeoma’s mother-in-law asked.

“Some people choose to buy me cars—I have more cars than I can count, I have even given out many to my assistants. Some people build me houses, but I can only sleep in one house at a time. An important man that I prayed for even wanted to pull down this church and promised to build a new one in its place within seven days, but I told him not to worry, for it is not the size of the building that matters but the power of the anointing. So what I am saying is that it is up to you to give whatever you want to as a love offering—yes, that is what it is, a love offering, because you cannot buy or pay for the anointing. I see that you have crossed many seas to come here, so give us whatever it is
that you people eat in that part of the world that you live in,” the prophet said, rubbing his sweaty palms together.

Ijeoma dipped her hand in her bag and brought out five hundred dollars in hundred-dollar bills. The prophet took it, looked at it, and smiled.

“This is very good money. I like its color and the way it smells; it has traveled far to come and meet me, and I thank you for it. I demand nothing, only that you bring your baby here when you deliver so I can anoint her with holy water and olive oil to protect her from the eyes of the wicked, that is all I ask,” he said, smiling. He rang a bell, and an usher came and led them out back to their waiting taxi.

On the ride back, Ijeoma began to think of asking her mother-in-law questions about what had happened at the prophet’s. She was tired and weary, and something inside her had recoiled at the prophet’s reference to the little fishes in the pond as children. She knew that this was probably the last time she would be coming to Nigeria in search of a solution to her childlessness to please her mother-in-law. She loved her mother-in-law and did not want to hurt her, but had decided that she would convince Juwah to bring her over to come and live with them in New York. But she had also heard that there were Nigerian white-garment churches and
babalawos
in parts of Brooklyn. She wondered whether her mother-in-law would go searching for them, but also realized that her mother-in-law might not be able to navigate the confusing subway system in New York City.

The traffic began to crawl; they had been caught up in a “go-slow,” a typical Lagos traffic jam. All around them were vendors selling iced water in plastic bags, DVDs, videotapes, and all kinds of imported Chinese plastic toys.

A woman whose shriveled breasts were exposed, and who carried a very young baby with kohl-lined eyes, knocked on the window of the cab. She gestured with her hand to her mouth, apparently asking for money to feed herself and the baby. Ijeoma began fumbling with her purse, searching for loose change, but her mother-in-law stopped her.

“Don’t give her anything—they are all tricksters. The baby is not hers. She hired the baby from the real mother. She knows that with a baby in her arms she’s likely to get more sympathy and receive more alms. Whatever she gets at the end of the day, she’ll share with the child’s real mother.”

“You mean a woman would loan out her baby to be used for begging in the hot sun?”

“Of course—they do it all the time. The real mother of the baby probably has more than ten children and not enough money to feed them. As our people say, ‘A headless man often owns many caps.’”

As the traffic began to ease up, Ijeoma threw a few notes out of the window to the beggar woman, who picked up the notes, touched them to her face, and began to pray for Ijeoma. As they drove away, Ijeoma waved at the woman, and her mother-in-law hissed.

“If you give money to all the beggars on the roads of Lagos, you’ll become a beggar soon yourself,” she said to Ijeoma.

“I was thinking you’ll come and live with us in America. Juwah will be very happy to have you live with us,” Ijeoma said to her mother-in-law, trying to change the subject.

“Me live in America—God forbid. I have heard all sorts of things about the place. I don’t think it is a place for people of my age. I think the cold will kill me, and besides, how can I live
in a place where I hear some people will have dogs rather than children?”

“Haba,
Mama, people also have children in America. Those who want children go to great lengths to have children—there are fertility clinics where people go for treatment. People even donate eggs and sperm so those who do not have can receive them and get pregnant.”

“Tufiakwa,
that is not the will of God; the best thing is to beg God for children. I am glad that you chose to listen to me and come back home to find a homegrown solution to your problem and not go to those fertility clinics,” Ijeoma’s mother-in-law said.

“But Mama, promise you’ll at least come to visit us. You may find out you like the place.”

“When you have your baby, I will definitely come to help you bathe and carry the baby. It will be worth the trip, and I look forward to that,” her mother-in-law replied.

Shortly after Ijeoma got back to the United States, she discovered she was pregnant. At first she didn’t believe it, but after two further tests, the result was the same. She was indeed pregnant. Juwah was excited and began to spend time away from the computer screen. Ijeoma would sometimes tell him to touch her stomach and feel the baby’s movement. He would touch and squeal in delight like a child. They soon had a sonogram and found out it was going to be a baby girl. Both were delighted. They agreed that the baby’s name would be Nnneka—“Mother Is Supreme.”

When the baby was born, she was very fair, and a black birthmark almost covered one side of her rib cage. Ijeoma’s mind went back to the little white fish with the black stripe. The
doctor reassured her that the birthmark might fade away within a short time. The day after the baby was born, her color began to change to ink blue. She was having difficulty breathing. They hooked her up to an oxygen machine, but the baby did not get better, and later that night she died. An autopsy showed that the baby had been born with very underdeveloped, weak lungs.

Ijeoma called her mother-in-law and narrated the story of the death of Nnneka—Juwah’s name for the baby, meaning “Mother Is Supreme”—all the while sobbing, with snot running down her nose. Her mother-in-law’s response surprised her.

“Don’t worry, at least the world now knows that you are not barren. You’ll come home again. We shall return to the prophet’s place. This time you’ll pick a strong black fish, it’ll be a boy, his lungs will be strong….”

Ijeoma dropped the phone.

Y
ou are too slow; the pastor’s wife has been waiting outside for close to ten minutes, we are going to be late for church.”

“Don’t tell me I’m too slow. I have been the one doing all the work, making breakfast and getting
your son
ready, and all you’ve done is lie around, only for you now to tell me I’m too slow, don’t use that word again.”

“Don’t tell me what word to use and what word not to use. So now I’m supposed to start cooking and bathing the child because we are living in America, you stupid woman?”

“It is you who is stupid, not me; if you aren’t stupid, you will not call me stupid.”

“It is your parents that are stupid, you useless and stupid good-for-nothing woman. If you are not careful, we will not go to church this morning. We’ll stay home and dig it out, and by the time I’m done with you, you will regret all the things coming out of your mouth.”

“Let’s not go to church, I don’t care. The only thing I regret
in my life was ever meeting and marrying you, and my worst mistake was coming with you to America. Just look at me, what kind of life is this that I’m living, is this life?”

At this point my father stomped outside and with a tight smile on his face went and told the pastor’s wife, who was waiting to give us a ride to church, that we were not coming. I heard the woman wave to him and drive away in her tomato red Ford truck. My heartbeat accelerated. Now they were truly going to have it out—if church was canceled for this quarrel, then they were going to have a go at it big-time. My heart sank.

“Open that dirty mouth of yours and talk to me again,” Father said as he came back in, banging the door, the tight smile that had been on his face a few moments ago now gone.

“And what will you do if I open my mouth?”

“I will give you a dirty slap that you will never forget,” Father said.

“Slap me, slap me,” Mother screamed again and again, walking toward Father, her face contorted and dark. A gray-brown hue seemed to be floating in the whites of her eyes. And then he slapped her, not once, not twice, but three times, as viciously as I had seen him swat at a mosquito that had perched on him once at a picnic.