Olerato
1624 Words
The yard exploded into noise and movement.
Tessa ran ahead to open the gate. Sello shouted for someone to help look for a taxi. Lungelwa held Rebecca by the shoulders, guiding her step by step while Rebecca tried to breathe through the tightening in her belly.
I walked beside them, my stiff leg dragging, my hand curled at my chest — but my focus locked only on her.
“Slow, slow…” Lungelwa kept repeating.
Another contraction hit, sharper than before.
Rebecca bent forward slightly, gripping my arm so tightly I lost feeling in it — but I didn’t flinch.
“Ai! Mama…! It’s coming again—” she cried.
“It’s okay, it’s okay, my child, breathe… breathe…”
Her mother’s calm voice did nothing to stop the fear spreading through the group.
A neighbor ran out from across the street.
“Should I call a taxi? Or an ambulance?”
“Taxi! Quickly!” Sello shouted. “Ambulance will take too long!”
The woman sprinted down the road.
Rebecca leaned her head against my shoulder, her breath shaking, sweat forming on her forehead.
I lifted my good hand and wiped it gently.
“I’m here,” I whispered. “I’m not going anywhere.”
She nodded weakly, but when she looked up at me, I saw it:
Fear.
Real fear.
A white taxi finally pulled in, screeching slightly as it stopped.
“Oooh! Hurry, she’s in labour!” someone shouted.
Doors flung open. Voices overlapped. Hands reached out to help her inside.
I got in beside her, my leg stiff, my body trembling from adrenaline.
As soon as the door shut, the world outside faded — replaced by the loud, deep breathing of a woman trying to stay calm while her body opened for birth.
She grabbed my hand with both of hers, squeezing so hard I thought my bones would c***k.
“Baby… don’t leave me,” she said, her voice breaking.
“I won’t,” I promised.
But then she turned her face toward the window — and I saw the first tear fall.
“Don’t cry,” I whispered.
She shook her head.
“I’m not scared of the pain… I’m scared something happens to her… or to me. What if— what if—”
“Don’t say that,” I cut in. “She’s strong. You’re strong. You made it this far. You’re both going to make it.”
She covered her face with her hands and sobbed once, quietly but painfully.
It felt like someone stabbed my chest all over again.
I wanted to take her pain. I wanted to carry it for her. But all I could do was hold her hand with my one working one and stroke her back while she cried.
The taxi hit a bump — I flinched. Not from fear of the road.
From the way my leg suddenly spasmed.
It was the old injury trying to remind me of itself. The stiffness. The trembling. The weakness.
My hand curled tighter involuntarily.
My breath shortened.
The familiar panic of losing control rose inside me.
Not now. Not today. Not when Rebecca needed me steady.
“Are you okay?” Rebecca whispered despite her pain, noticing my shaking.
I forced a smile.
“I’m fine. Focus on breathing.”
Inside, I was fighting a war.
Flashbacks hit me — the ground, the blood, the cold, the dizziness. My body remembered what it felt like to collapse, to feel helpless.
But looking at Rebecca — sweating, crying, fighting through contraction after contraction —
I refused to crumble.
Not this time.
Not in this taxi.
Not in this moment.
I inhaled slowly, forcing my leg to relax, uncurling my fingers one by one.
By the time another contraction tore through Rebecca, I had won the battle — barely — but I stayed strong enough to hold her tightly.
“Push through it,” I whispered to her. “I’m right here.”
When the taxi finally stopped at the clinic gates, people were already waiting — alerted by a call from earlier.
Nurses rushed forward with a wheelchair.
Rebecca screamed as the next contraction hit, her whole body tense.
“Okay, let’s go! Let’s go!” a nurse shouted.
They lifted her gently but quickly, placing her in the wheelchair. She reached for me immediately.
“Tebelo—”
“I’m here!” I said, grabbing her hand as the nurses began wheeling her inside.
The sliding doors opened. Bright lights. Echoing hallways. Voices. Footsteps.
Everything became a blur of urgency.
Rebecca cried out again as another contraction tore through her.
“She’s fully dilated!” a nurse yelled. “We need a room NOW!”
My heart nearly stopped.
Fully dilated.
That meant one thing:
The baby was coming. Right now.
The wheelchair’s small wheels rattled loudly against the clinic floor as the nurses sped Rebecca down the corridor. Her breaths came in quick, uneven bursts. I jogged beside her, my leg stiff, my heart racing faster than my feet could manage.
“Room 3! Open up!” one nurse shouted.
The door swung wide.
Bright overhead lights.
Sterile smell.
White sheets.
Gloved hands.
Everything felt too loud, too fast, too real.
They lifted Rebecca onto the bed. She groaned in pain, holding her belly.
“Okay, sweetheart, listen to us,” a nurse said, already pulling on extra gloves. “Your baby is on the way. You need to push soon.”
Rebecca turned her head to me instantly, like a child pleading for safety.
“Please don’t leave me,” she whispered, tears streaming down her temples.
I grabbed her hand.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I said — even though my own voice was trembling.
Nurses moved around the room like a storm.
One checked her dilation.
Another prepared instruments.
Another placed a fetal monitor on Rebecca’s belly.
“Her contractions are strong! Baby’s descending fast!”
Rebecca screamed again, her voice rising in a pitch that cut right through my chest.
I leaned over her.
“Breathe… breathe… you’re doing great. I’m right here.”
But inside, I was falling apart.
My leg shook violently from the effort of standing.
My hand curled involuntarily again.
Sweat rolled down my back.
My vision blurred for a moment.
The room’s noise faded into a faint ringing.
For a split second, I almost collapsed.
But then I heard it—
A faint, rhythmic thumping.
Fast.
Strong.
Life.
The baby’s heartbeat.
It hit me like a wave.
That sound — like a tiny drum racing inside water — pulled me back from the edge.
The nurse said, “Heartbeat strong!”
Rebecca sobbed as she heard it too.
“Is she okay?” she begged.
“She’s perfect,” the nurse answered.
I covered my mouth with my hand as emotion choked me.
My knees buckled slightly, and I steadied myself on the bed’s metal frame.
Strong heartbeat.
Strong baby.
Strong mother.
That sound woke something deep in me — a memory of everything I ever feared: loss, failure, helplessness.
But also something else:
Hope.
I leaned closer to Rebecca.
“Do you hear her?” I whispered, my voice cracking.
She nodded, crying. “Yes… yes…”
“That’s our girl,” I said softly.
“Fighting to meet you.”
Rebecca grabbed my shirt and buried her face into my arm.
She shook with sobs and pain and relief all at once.
“Okay, Mama, next contraction — you PUSH!” a nurse instructed loudly.
Rebecca whimpered, “I can’t… I can’t…”
“Yes, you can,” I whispered fiercely.
“You’ve come too far to stop now.”
Another contraction built — we could see it take over her whole body like a wave rising from deep inside.
The nurse lifted Rebecca’s legs.
Another positioned herself at the foot of the bed.
Another stood at her side.
“Okay! PUSH!”
Rebecca screamed — a long, raw, primal sound — pushing with everything inside her.
I held her hand through it, feeling her nails cut into my palm.
“That’s it! Again!” the nurse shouted.
Another push.
Another scream.
Tears.
Sweat.
Her whole body trembling.
“She’s crowning!” a nurse announced.
Rebecca cried out, “God help me—!”
“You’re so close, Rebecca,” I said, nearly crying myself.
“You’re almost there. Don’t give up now.”
My chest tightened so painfully I thought my ribs would c***k.
Then—
A rush of movement.
Nurses adjusting.
Someone calling for a clamp.
Someone calling for more towels.
“Okay, Mama… one more push… one more and your baby is here!”
Rebecca’s whole body arched.
She screamed — not in fear, not in pain alone, but in power.
And then—
A wet gasp.
A small cry.
A soft, sharp, beautiful sound slicing through the room.
The sound of a newborn taking her first breath.
The nurse lifted her gently — tiny, slippery, red, alive.
A cry burst from her lungs, loud and stubborn.
Rebecca collapsed back into the bed, sobbing uncontrollably.
I covered my face again, this time because I was crying — truly crying.
The nurse placed the baby on Rebecca’s chest.
“She’s here,” the nurse whispered.
“She’s beautiful.”
Rebecca looked at her daughter with trembling hands.
I looked at the two of them — the woman who survived everything, and the miracle she brought into the world.
My voice cracked completely.
“You did it,” I whispered.
“Oh God… Rebecca… you did it.”
Rebecca looked up at me, tears shining on her cheeks.
“We did it,” she said softly.
- Writer
