THE AMERICAN BABY

You love all American things. It has always been your dream to have
him in America. Your husband is supportive and it is almost a dream
come true. You have told Mmachi, your friend, who recently returned
from Belgium where she had hers, that America is your destination.
Your baby must be an American, no going back. At all cost. Yankee is
sure.

But things begin to fall apart. Those devils at the embassy, heartless
fellow, unsympathetic specie of humans. A people who would never
reason from your angle. A people very determined to truncate your
dreams, to disgrace you and make you a caricature before your friends:
Madam Idowu-A business woman, always recounting her numerous travels
to Brazil. Mmachi; who just had her baby in Belgium. There is Tessy,
your coworker in the office, because she had her honeymoon in Ghana,
she wouldn't have you rest....... You have decided to outshine all of
them. To have your first baby in America. But this embasy's
devil-in-humans are over determined to spifflicate your beautiful
dreams. God will judge them.

Your husband has gone through a lot and he is showing massive signs of
tiredness. God punish devil, your enemies are at work. It is
frustrating, he told you, these people obviously don't want to offer
us the visa. You have seen depression in his eyes, but for he loves
you, he will always try. He endures the grueling and unkindly
processes of getting a visa. The humiliating interviews, the tedious
queuing, the voluminous documents and sometimes, the incessant
"anything for me" he clandestinely drops for that fierce looking
Nigerian fellow behind the glass case.

Your pastor is involve. Repeatedly, he anoints you with a reasonable
dose of olived oil, every Sunday, after service, shouting behind the
close door of his office "Your visa is coming, it is sure, believe
brethren".

Nneka, your junior sister in your village, Umuede, has informed you
about a powerful native doctor; Agwonatumbe. Just present a
rosy-cheeked male fowl, two tubers of yam and five anicteric cola
nuts. That's all. But your husband decline. He doesn't want a
fetishistic approach. He will do it in a Nigerian way.

At long last, the trauma is over. The Nigerian means worked. You
thanked God but sighed, frustrated by your own anger, and angry
because it is almost too late. You are due this month-judging from
your medical report. You are not concerned by the declamatory bribe he
paid. Or by the humiliating pleading he passed through. The visa worth
it. It is a sacrifice. Your husband is a good man and he loves you.

You are fondling with your papers as you wait for the long queue to
get screened. You looked up and observed the serious activeness
attending the airport's waiting room: the measured grateful smiles,
the silence, the exaggerated faux politeness,the anticipation and the
gasps of excitement when someone gets screened and headed to the
boarding terminal.

Ultimately came your time. The screening was quite commendable. It was
smooth, except for that custom official with bad finger, never
smiling, who promptly rejected your gallon of palm oil like a virus.
He didn't even care to know how much it cost, or the strenuous
processes Margaret your beloved mother, underwent at the oil mill. You
conceived a reasonable dislikeness for him and inwardly curse his
ancestors. This airport people are devils.

'Please seats tight, phones off, enjoy the flight'. Came a voice from
the loudspeaker.

The Plane took off.

The atmosphere differs from the airport's room. The conversational
mode of the plane cabinet, very cordial. You glance around: a man in
strong Yoruba accent taking about politics, corruption, bad roads,
poverty and wickedness of life, there is woman in the region of sixty
her face buried in a newspaper, your husband caressing your left palm.
Sitting ten seats ahead- about fifteen white men- presumably
Americans, uninterested in the conversations, only talking with their
eyes. You ponder why they alienated themselves from the rest of the
passengers and realizes that all are first class passengers. You sigh,
interesting people.

The Nigerian passengers are nice, you finally concludes. There is a
woman who asks after your baby in the womb, enquires to know the sex
as though she would cook soup with it.

There is a man who suggests altering the angle of your seat. It helps,
he says with a caring look.

The air hostess are nice too. They serves attractive snacks with a
moving smile. Asks if you need anything. Ask after your husband. All
smiling. You are impressed.
At least something to condole the daunting memory of the airport.

You are not the only expectant mother in the flight. There are many of
your kind but obviously, you are the heaviest of all. Did they
experience the herculean process you and your husband tasted bitterly?
Only if you knew the Nigerian means early enough, this embarrassment
wouldn't have seen you. See how people are staring at you like a
movie. You sigh.

Two hours into the flight, you observe a sudden urge to pee. You try
to hold it but it turns incessant. A stubborn very urge. Increasingly
urging. There is a commencement of cephalalgia in your head, muscles
contraction, excessive pains between your thigh. Pains everywhere.

The enemy has succeed. You couldn't hold anymore and let a scream.

The flight attendants surge towards you. Your husband incoherent. The
women passing encouraging words from their seats, exhortations
resounding in the air but the pain is unbearable. This baby is wicked.

'Seat tight!, we have a medical emergency, we are landing!'. A voice
from the cockpit announcing through the address system.

You wouldn't believe it is happening. The baby is coming mid air. Your
American dreams!.......

In pains, you curse the airport officials and embassy people for
truncating your dreams. You promises all of them whose hands
contributed to your misfortune a tragic end. All of them without
mercy.

The pilot makes an emergency landing. Three medical staff rushes inn
and next you are on a stretcher, languishing in pain, preying by the
eyes of some fellow passengers sending their good wishes and prayers
like it is going out of fashion.

Realizing you landed in Burkina Faso, your heart almost failed you. If
anyone had wish you this, you would welcome him/her with a pepper soup
seasoned with a powerful dose of rat poison. The enemy has won. There
are people who luck are synonymous to, certainly not your kind. If you
didn't know your land lady better, you would suspect that she is a
witchcraft. Or if your parents are dead, you would assume that a
destructive curse was placed on you by them, before joining their
ancestors. Unbelievable!!!.

In a woeful room, you are been urged by six stunt looking personnel in
medical outfits. Two male and four female, all speaking in a strange
language. This is not what you anticipated. Six months until this
moment, you had conceptualize having professional looking white
personnel attending to you in an overwhelming American English, urging
you to push. Now all are mere illusions.

Though this is definitely not what you wanted but you recline to an
evil delight in the sure knowledge that none of your people will know
of this misfortune. Your husband can keep secret. You could still come
back and boast about how lovely the American hospitals are. How
professional it's doctors are. Do a Photo shop, no one will know. Even
those tabloid news media ,industry of gossip, would only end up
publishing headline like "Women went into labour mid flight". This
shouldn't bother you.

As for the baby boy, God knows you did your best trying to get him an
American citizenship. It is not your fault it failed and when he grow
up, he will understand.


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