NIGHTS OF BLOOD
885 Words
Chapter 5
The night my mother went into labor, rain hammered our roof so hard it sounded like stones falling from the sky.
I remember every detail.
The smell of wet earth drifting through the windows.
The thunder rattling the walls.
The way my mother's hand kept finding her stomach while she cooked dinner.
At first, she tried to hide the pain.
Every few minutes, her face tightened before she forced herself to continue stirring the pot.
"Mama?"
She looked up.
"Are you okay?"
"I'm fine."
She wasn't.
Even my father noticed eventually.
"You've started?"
My mother nodded.
Something cold settled inside my chest.
The baby was coming.
My grandmother immediately began praying.
Neighbors started arriving.
Water was heated.
Wrappers were gathered.
Advice filled the house faster than people.
Only my mother looked frightened.
As the contractions grew stronger, she stopped pretending.
Her body shook with each wave of pain. Sweat covered her forehead despite the cold weather.
"Stay with me," she whispered.
I grabbed her hand.
"I'm here."
Hours later, the village midwife arrived carrying a small bag and an expression that revealed nothing.
She examined my mother quickly.
Then nodded.
"Let's begin."
The labor room became crowded.
Women moved in and out carrying bowls of water and cloths.
The rest of us waited outside.
At first, the sounds were manageable.
Low groans.
Heavy breathing.
Prayers.
Then the screaming started.
I had never heard anything like it before.
Every cry seemed to tear through the walls.
Through the roof.
Through me.
My father paced outside.
My grandmother prayed louder.
Rain continued pounding against the zinc sheets overhead.
The night felt endless.
At some point, my mother's scream cut through the house again.
"HADIZA!"
I was already running before anyone could stop me.
The room smelled of sweat and blood.
Lantern light flickered against the walls.
Women surrounded the bed.
And my mother...
She looked exhausted.
Not tired.
Exhausted.
Her skin glistened with sweat. Her breathing came in short bursts.
When she saw me, she stretched out her hand.
I rushed to her immediately.
Her fingers were cold.
Much colder than they should have been.
The midwife frowned.
"She needs to focus."
"Let her stay," my mother whispered.
Nobody argued.
I knelt beside her.
"You'll be okay."
She stared at me for a long moment.
Then she squeezed my hand weakly.
"Take care of yourself."
The words hit me like a slap.
"Mama—"
Another contraction seized her before she could continue.
Her scream filled the room.
The women shouted encouragement.
"Push!"
"You're almost there!"
"Push!"
My mother obeyed.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Each effort seemed to drain something from her.
Minutes stretched into forever.
Then suddenly
A cry.
Small.
Sharp.
New.
The room froze.
Then exploded.
"It's a boy!"
"A son!"
"Alhamdulillah!"
Women began praising God.
Someone laughed.
Someone cried.
Outside, I heard my grandmother shouting prayers of gratitude.
My father pushed forward immediately.
Everyone's attention shifted to the baby.
Everyone except me.
Because while they celebrated the child,
I was watching my mother.
Something was wrong.
Very wrong.
Her eyes looked distant.
Her lips had lost their color.
"Mama?"
She didn't answer.
Blood soaked the wrappers beneath her.
Too much blood.
The midwife saw it too.
Her face changed instantly.
"More cloth!"
The celebration vanished.
Women rushed around the room.
The newborn's cries mixed with panicked voices.
"Mama?"
My voice shook.
She turned toward me slowly.
So slowly.
For one second, our eyes met.
I wanted to tell her everything.
That I loved her.
That I wasn't ready.
That she couldn't leave me.
But the words wouldn't come.
Her fingers twitched inside mine.
Then her grip weakened.
"Mama?"
Nothing.
The room became louder.
People shouted.
Prayed.
Ran.
But all I could hear was my own heartbeat.
"Mama."
Her eyes remained open.
Yet somehow she was already farther away than anyone I had ever known.
I started screaming.
I don't remember falling to my knees.
I don't remember who pulled me back.
I only remember screaming her name until my throat burned.
Somebody carried the baby out of the room.
Somebody ran for herbs.
The midwife kept working.
But deep inside, I already knew.
The part of me that had spent months listening to her breathing knew.
My mother was gone.
By morning, the rain had stopped.
The house felt strangely quiet.
The baby slept peacefully inside a cloth wrapper.
Visitors moved around speaking in hushed voices.
My father sat outside staring at the ground.
I sat beside my mother's body.
Someone had covered her neatly.
Too neatly.
I reached for her hand.
Cold.
I waited for her fingers to move.
They didn't.
Outside, people were already discussing burial arrangements.
Life was moving forward.
The sun had risen.
The rain had ended.
The baby had survived.
And my mother was dead.
I was nine years old when I learned that the world does not stop for women who give everything away.
Not even mothers.
By evening, people would eat.
They would pray.
They would go home.
But I would still be sitting there wondering how the most loving person I had ever known could disappear in a single night.
And why the son everyone wanted had arrived at the exact moment I lost the only person who had ever truly wanted me.
- Writer
