“Geoffrey asked to leave work and go check on some problem at home. He said he would call if he needs a ride to the hospital,” my wife stated as I rounded the corner of the front porch to walk the yard with our 14 month-old Josiah. We both knew our day guard/gardener’s live-in girlfriend was great with child and due in a couple of weeks, and figured she was heading into early labor. A few minutes later, Geoffrey was on the phone, urging me to meet him on Entebbe road as soon as possible to take his lady to get medical care. My trip to Nsonga Island had already been canceled for the day, and I found myself in the LandCruiser on Entebbe road, Geoffrey running toward me in his long-sleeve collared shirt, slacks and polished black dress shoes.
“I think the baby is coming today,” he said as we bumbled down the long muddy track to his one room house in a nearby neighborhood. “You said you have a friend who is a doctor?” I was surprised the man hadn’t planned ahead when he had a good nine months of prep time for this critical event. I indicated that we would need to go with a facility closer than the 45 minute drive to Mulago, but he was hesitant to take her to the government hospital where so much mistreatment has been common in recent days. His girlfriend (a good foot and 1/2 taller than his 4’10” frame) came out of the unplastered, bare brick home and in great pain settled herself into the front passenger seat while a sister and Geoffrey threw a suitcase in the back. Back on the narrow mud lane, the sister began to give directions to a “good” clinic she knew of in nearby Kitoro as I gingerly veered between waterlogged potholes and pedestrians, noticing this lady was in advanced labor and needed attention quick.
Minutes later, we cut the engine at what looked like the front porch of a decent sized, older home and rushed into the front waiting room to start the delivery process. Just inside, I was struck by the cigarette smoke hanging thick in the air and clinging to the thinly painted filthy yellow walls. Cracked mildewy ceiling plaster, rusted out window screens, and peeling health posters made me a bit hesitant to leave a desperate expecting mother to bring her child into the world. Geoffrey reassured me that this would be a great place for the delivery, and his girlfriend was ushered into the smoke-filled consultation room of the waiting European doctor. I knew it was only the personal loan I had helped Geoffrey with that would enable him to pay for even this terrible place. I wouldn’t want to see the alternative.
No information was given to either Geoffrey or myself as we sat on hard wooden benches nervously looking around the dingy room. An old bumper sticker hung over the reception desk that ironically and hypocritically stated: “Health or Tobacco? Improve your heath, stop smoking.” I asked Geoffrey if he wanted to be in the delivery room with his ladyfriend, but he indicated that men were not allowed. After playing with my phone awhile and chatting briefly about my own limited experience at my son’s birth, I informed my friend I needed to get some things done today and that he could call me if he needed anything or if there were complications. The doctor had just gone back to his office (for a smoke, presumably) so I figured it may be awhile. But only 25 minutes after we arrived, we heard the anguished cries of a newborn wafting down from a dirty room in the hallway. I sat another few minutes, and the doc emerged from his hiding place to announce to “the husband,” “Congratulations, you’ve just had a baby boy!” He chastised Geoffrey for not bringing her sooner, but we were all relieved to hear everyone was healthy and well.
We waited 30 minutes more, assuming they were washing the baby or doing routine checks on his little body, but after some time we got impatient and went to see the little tyke. The new mother lay still on a metal-frame bed in a dark 5’x10’ room just next to another recovering lady. The newborn was too tiny, maybe half the size of my son at birth, snuggled up against his mom, embryonic fluid still clinging to his curly black hair. I congratulated Mom and Dad and disconcertingly walked back to the LandCruiser to pick up some yogurt and cheese for my wife on the way home.
A fellow missionary told me the other day that I was brave to have my own son here in Africa, while he had recently flown back to England to have his own. But I think the real bravery isn’t ours who land in international hospitals and have sterilized delivery tables and OB/GYN’s without cigarettes hanging from their lips. God bless these precious people who somehow survive childbirth and grow up to be someone great.