Abu-Yaman 35

Midwife Crisis

By Abdulrahman Mohammed Abu-Yaman

Shortlisted for the 2026 "London" Literary Prizes in the International Prose category

Content warning: Self-harm

(Visualise reading these scenes in monochrome)

Midwifery is what I do for two reasons; the money and the blood. Blood, because red is my favourite colour and I like horror movies. I used to cut myself as a child to enjoy how blood flows out of my skin. It explains the origin of all the scars mapped on my body. And oh, my mother hated spotting them on me. I'm the crack in her looking glass out of her four children. I, the girl who turned out to be a tomboy amidst my three brothers, the lady that was never lady-like.

I like white, too, and our medical outfit matches my taste. The stain of blood on a white sheet fascinates me. I am the outlier. The misfit.

Mercy-Mary Specialist Hospital was erected on the elite street of Child Avenue in Lagos Island. I heard Dr Peter was charged extra for the land when they learnt the hospital will be a specialist institute for women and children, being located at 'Child' Avenue.

The hospital is made up of a magnificent edifice with a distinctive structural outlook. The frontage has a peculiar facade like the helmet of an ancient Greek warrior. A quarter of its body is a glassy framework. The interior is always kept immaculate and spotless. The smell that lingers in the ambience is a palatable fragrance, not the smell of antiseptics and the regular odour of medical paraphernalia.

Mercy-Mary's is also where I met my husband, Anthony. He was one of the few donors that responded to our special call for the Mercy-Mary's Blood Drive Campaign. The prompt came when a woman suffered severe blood loss after giving birth and no blood samples matched hers in the hospital blood bank.

“If you drain me dry, I won't be able to save others" he said, looking half-joking and half-serious.

I realised I had been staring too long at his biceps and the streams of blood flowing from his hand into the blood bag.

His words knocked me back to concentration.

“I'm sorry sir, I got carried away. That will be enough.” I pulled the needle out of his vein.

"So what do I call you?"

“Zoya.”

“Cool. First time hearing and meeting a Zoya. Blood doesn't just save lives, I think it connects strangers. Don't you agree, Zoya?”

“Yes I do. How does it feel to be a universal donor?" I unbuttoned my lab coat and buried my palms inside the two large pockets on both sides.

“It’s actually cool, you know, but lonely. I've never met my kind.”

“I could say the same, Mr donor”

He took another look at me, as if seeing me for the first time, or noticing something that eluded him earlier. He raised his brows and his dark sunken eyes met with mine.

“Call me Anthony, please”

My hand met his halfway, warm and tender, and the grip formed a connection born of blood. It had to be blood.

(Visualize reading these scenes in sepia)

“Would you like to know if it's a boy or a girl?” I said and placed my hands gently on Mrs Stella's belly. The image of the ultrascan displayed on the monitor was blurry and hard to describe. The hospital radiologist had finished his examination of the findings. He opened her file and penned down some of his observations and recommendations.

“Yes please,” Mrs Stella said, smiling.

He pointed to the monitor, “It's a girl. Congratulations madam"

“At long last. My husband will be delighted. The princess he has always wanted is on the way."

“Really?” I grabbed her hand to help her sit up on the bed after covering her belly.

“Yes, we already have four soldiers, as he likes to call them. Four strong boys.”

22 days after, we were in the labour room where Mrs Stella gave birth. The child wasn't the she we had been expecting. Our scan results had never gone wrong. Even Dr Peter was surprised. It would be the first of all the strange things I would witness at Mercy-Mary Specialist Hospital.

“Nooo, it's not possible. Nurse, you saw it yourself. You told me it was going to be a girl. You people should go and bring me my daughter.”

“I, I, we are, I mean, I'm so sorry, please, but…”

I was drenched in sweat. My hands were trembling. Breaking sad news to patients on the outcome of births or operations or announcing their death to family members was not my thing. I was never good at it.

“I don't want to hear it. How much did they pay you for the exchange? Oh, you think we are not aware of how babies are switched in hospitals?”

Dr Peter's timely intervention and suggestion of a DNA test watered down the issue to rest.

After the incident, my doubts resurfaced again. I do not believe in what cannot be proven. I believe in facts. 1+1=2 always. It is why I did not fancy the arts and humanities, which, in my opinion, were myopic with relative theories and assumptions.

But Mrs Stella's baby’s gender mix-up happened under my nose. I was there when the radiologist carried out the examination. I was in the labour room with her. I was the first to receive the child. I dressed him up. There could not have been any mistake. Everything happened on my watch.

The next episode happened a week after the first. One of my patients gave birth to an abnormal child after 10 months of pregnancy. The head formed two-thirds of the portion of the whole body. The limbs were tiny and barely visible. She rejected the child when we handed it to her.

“Over my dead body.” She shunned away and burst into tears.

The one that shocked me the most was a child that overstayed its time in the mother's bulging stomach after 17 months of pregnancy. Yet, it kept growing on the inside. In the end, it took a CS to force it out. The child did not cry. The baby boy, with fully formed organs in advanced stages, was actually laughing uncontrollably. It sounded like an adult laughing. It was on the fifth attempt that the operation became successful. The previous four always had complications midway through, and we had to stop halfway, for the sake of the mother's life. The funniest part was how the baby never blinked his eyes.

Normally, I don't believe in superstitions. But these last few occasions at Mercy-Mary's have resurrected all the doubts in my mind.

For the second time, I became pregnant, after the first one left a bad taste in our mouths. After what had happened, I had mixed feelings about the second one. Even worse, I was becoming more superstitious. Anthony cautioned me against my pessimism, but could anyone fault me for feeling that way?

Before I gave birth, a patient blamed me for losing her legs because I had promised her nothing will happen before the surgery. The chances were narrow, but I liked being the comforter and a beacon of hope. She was a young lady of nineteen, in her third year in university. Top of her class and the projected valedictorian. We had formed a formidable bond since she was admitted. She became the sister I never had.

“Zoya, I'm scared, promise me everything will be okay.” She held my hands as she was about to be taken into the operation room.

I hesitated to answer, and she repeated again, “Promise me!”

“I do, Shola”

That was all I could say. I told myself that 'I do' and 'I promise' are not the same thing. Dr Peter had warned us not to get too emotionally attached to patients, but my defiance was making me learn the hard way.

After the unsuccessful surgery, I became her archenemy. The liar.

“Get tha hell out of my sight! Look what you made them do to me. You knew it wouldn't work and you looked me in the eye and lied.”

“I'm sorry Shola, I….”

“Shut tha fuck up! Get out of my sight, bitch!”

And that was it. Our bond was broken and I did not get a chance to mend it before Shola passed on a week after. I was devastated.

While it all happened then, I had been heavy with my first child, about a month to the due date. The ultrascan showed a fully formed child. Anthony was a witness to it when we discovered it would be a girl. When I gave birth, it was actually a girl, only she did not come with legs. Even Anthony, who usually talked me out of my fears, was bewildered. He hugged me and could not hold back his own tears. When they handed her over to me, shrouded in a fluffy white shawl, I sniffed back the mucous from my runny nose, shook my head and said, “Shola, is that you? I'm sorry.”

Less than a week after her birth, my little ‘Shola’ died in her sleep, peacefully. For some reason, I felt relieved and thought my broken promise had been atoned for.

I took some months off from Mercy-Mary’s to focus on my wellbeing. Dr Peter had suggested it. Anthony couldn't agree more.

The emotional weight of the trauma made me shrink in size. I lost a few pounds despite not exercising or going on any particular diet. I was eating junk food but it never took a toll on me.

My cheeks were flattened, my bosom was in moderate stature. The contrast of my complexion became darker, with my eyes looking eerie and teary.

“How are you Zoya?” Anthony said, giving that look I never wanted from anyone, of pity.

“If I say I'm not fine, you will get worried and start beating yourself up. If I say I'm fine, you will still do the same. So why bother asking?”

It was when I began to watch YouTube videos of women who had lost their child at the infant stage speak of their experience and overcoming the trauma, that I found the strength to pull myself back up.

After my leave was over, I resumed work at the hospital. They had a big welcome surprise arranged for me. I walked into a crowd of colleagues roaring “Welcome back Zoya” amidst the whistle blowing and the rainbow confetti they rained on me. It felt good to be happy after all I had endured.

But soon after, I discovered I was pregnant with our second child. Anthony and I probably had too much fun when I got my mojo back. I made it clear to Dr. Peter of my intention to take the pregnancy leave in my sixth month, which he agreed upon.

We named her Precious. She has got my eerie eyes and her father's flat nose. Anthony opted for another hospital for her delivery, trying to boycott the memories I had at Mercy-Mary’s. I reluctantly agreed. But deep down, I was on his side and couldn't risk anything again. We had both become unwittingly superstitious, and closely tilting towards a belief system in any religion to hold on to or to use as a punching bag for all our woes.

Precious was born on Friday, the 13th of December that year. Bouncing baby girl. Fully formed. No defects. Good looking. A jewel in her parent's eyes. Life was smiling at us again.

Anthony and I were on the race for whose name she would say first. Her first words, Mama or Dada, as we often advertise to her on our lips, hoping she would mimic back.

I started gaining back my weight. Anthony with his new shave now looked handsomely younger.

Vigour was restored in our home. A home filled with mirth from the birth of a new fruit on the family tree.

(Visualise reading these scenes in colour)

I have to hurry back home today. It’s Precious’s 3rd birthday. But that's not the only reason I'm in a hurry. I don't want to be late for my rituals on her legs. No, it's not a superstition or any kind of fetish ritual. It is a routine of massage I conduct on her legs to facilitate blood flow. She has not been able to walk since her birth. Dr. Peter says there is nothing wrong with her legs. They look just fine. He says that all she needs is some encouragement, which is exactly what I've been doing with my massage rituals. And maybe a leap of faith and hope that a miracle happens. Yes, I only turn to the believers' God as a last resort when the chips are down.

“Dear God, if you're listening, I need you to make her walk. I don't know how to pray like your followers do. I'm not even a religious person, as you know already. But this child is innocent. I beg you, don't let Shola punish her for my sins. I'm not asking you this for myself. I have never asked you anything for myself. But this is for my Precious. Please make her walk. She has to walk. It is all I ask. Grant me this request and I promise to try being a believer."

I drive through the rusty night from Mercy-Mary’s to reach home on time before Anthony puts her to bed.

Each night I return after work, I go straight to see our Precious, perform my rituals on her legs. I caress them gently. Sometimes, she sighs when she feels my hands on them. Other times, squeezes her face when I start the massage, crying, “Daddy, daddy, my leg is paining me!”

“Hey, my Precious princess, don't worry, mummy only wants to help you walk. Okay?” But she does not listen or look at me. She never does. She only responds to her father. When I hug her, she doesn't hold me back like I see her do with Anthony. She is kitted in a white blouse with a navy blue gown suspended on her shoulders with a pair of pinafores. Anthony did well to braid her long hair into a pair of pigtails with red ribbons knotted at the tail ends of both tufts.

I continue to massage her and she cries again, “Daddy, daddy…”

“Alright my princess, daddy will come see you now” I say to her, giving her a peck on her forehead. She rubs off the spot I kissed with the back of her right hand.

Anthony rushes over to attend to her. I make way for him. I don't want to make a scene in front of our daughter. So whenever she calls him, I simply surrender and go to my room.

I'm jealous. Which sensible mother will not be? The price I pay for saving lives and helping other mothers give birth in the hospital is growing apart from my daughter.

Sometimes, I'm away on the night shift for a week. In the day, Anthony takes her to a day care school in Apapa. Her grandmother, Anthony's mother, takes charge after school and takes her to the family house. Anthony later comes and picks her up at six after he closes from work. Before he gets home, I'm already off to work again at the hospital. I live with the agony of a working mother unable to blend with her daughter. I can quit my job, but it's the only thing holding me together after seeing my daughter in this lame condition and the rejection I get from her.

The joy of dressing up the blood of patients gives me an essence of relevance. Each time I help deliver a baby, I feel the burden of my trauma loosen like a knot inside of me. Midwifery is the only therapy keeping me sane. Anthony knows that too, and that is probably why he hasn't confronted me yet about quitting.

All the biscuits and sweets I usually buy for my daughter end up on the table where I leave them. She would not accept them from me, so I drop them there instead. I complain to Anthony about it, but he does not say anything. Since we noticed she has not been able to walk, Anthony and I have not been on talking terms. Maybe he blames me for everything and regrets marrying me. Me, with all the trouble I bring into his life. First, a half-baby without legs, and now, a full child that is lame.

These days, I often find Anthony talking to himself. I fear for him. They say it is the first sign of insanity. I hear a voice echoing from the bathroom. I follow the sound only to find him nagging at the reflection in the mirror.

“If you know you will not be there for your child, why have one in the first place?” He shakes his head. His singlet is half damp with his sweat. He does not notice I'm beside the door half-opened, listening.

“Which careless mother would abandon her child at home and be busy taking care of others?” His voice gets louder, with traces of frustration from his heart.

I feel attacked by his last statement.

“I'm not a careless mother, Anthony. Can't you see all the efforts I've been making to get her to walk. Why do you think I'm still working? For myself? Don't you dare accuse me of being absent when you yourself have been mentally absent from her presence.”

“Dammit!” He screams and gives the mirror a heavy punch, creating a thousand cracks that split into circular broken lines formed diagonally in 360 degrees. His knuckles bleed from the strike, dripping blood on the floor.

I walk to my room without saying a word.

“Dear God, I've come again. You can prove to me you exist by healing my daughter's legs and stopping Shola from holding her back from walking. Show me your miracle like…”

“Like what?” a voice echoes back.

I jump on my bed and hug my pillow, flashing my torch around. To my greatest shock, it is the ghost of Shola, the patient that blamed me for her legs’ misfortune, sitting on the stool beside my bed. Shola who now walks with her two legs, in the same patient gown with tiny grey and pink flowery images as she last wore on her death bed at Mercy-Mary Specialist Hospital.

At first, I tried to scream but I could not. The shock of seeing a ghost for the first time freezes me on the spot. I pinch myself hard and I find my voice back, “Ahhhhhhhhh! What do you want from me. Get away from me.”
“Not until you stop mentioning my name in your prayers. I hate liars. You're lying again. Accusing me of being responsible for your daughter's legs.”

“Aren't you?” I breathe out uncontrollably, sweating profusely.

“You amuse me very much. I wish I was that powerful. I wish I could take credit for your daughter's misfortune.”

“Leave me and my family alone. Anthony! Please come. Anthony!!”

“Hahahhahahahaha, you're dumber than I thought. Stop wasting your time. He can't hear. Can't you see, Zoya, we are in the same boat right now. You have to stay away from your daughter and her legs. You're the only one preventing her from walking.”

I edge close to the wall on my bed, welling up tears in my eyes. I point at her and say, “You're dead, Shola. You don't know what you're talking about.”

“Yes, I'm dead. I know that. It's because of you after all. But the show is over now. You have to let go. You have spent enough time with her. It's time to let her walk. The more you massage her legs with your dead hands, the more you inflict her pain and stop her from walking.”

“I don't believe you. You're trying to get into my head. You're not here. You're a ghost. What do I have to do to say I'm sorry? Leave us alone! Please!” I go on my knees on my bed.

“Oh poor Zoya! If you can see me, it means you're also dead. Don't you realise that? You think your husband is insane, but you are the one driving him crazy by meddling in the lonely life you left behind for him with your daughter.”

Shola stands and starts approaching me, slowly. I keep pulling away as she inches closer.

“Why do you think your daughter never looks at you in the eye, or hugs back, or accepts your biscuits and sweets?”

As she closes the gap between us, I feel my heart pounding like never before.

“Why do you think your husband does not respond to you when you complain about your daughter? Why do you think he talks to himself sometimes? When was the last time he called you by your name? Haven't you been the one doing all the talking?”

“Nooo, I don't believe you! You're trying to ruin my life.”

“Haha, I wish I could take credit for that once again. But you see, the show is over. If you still don't believe me, then go and read today's papers on the dining table your husband dropped there. Or you can simply visit the hospital tomorrow, but this time, read the name boldly written at the top of the building.”

Shola is now on my bed, offering her hand to me.

“It's time to go, Zoya. It's the only way to free your daughter from your own hands. Walk away and let her walk.”

“Nooooo!” I let out an eerie shrill and throw the pillow into Shola's apparition, but she disappears before it reaches her and it lands on the stool.

I rush out of the room to the dining table at once. The newspaper is spread open in the middle page. The left page features an obituary in black and white of…me! But the right page carries an invitation:

The renaming ceremony of Mercy-Mary Specialist Hospital in honour of one of her valuable staff lost in the cold hands of death in a time when her services helped save lives of mothers and babies.

As early as 5 a.m in the morning, I hurry to the hospital. I look atop as Shola had instructed, only to find my name inscribed in red block letters on a white background: ZOYA MEMORIAL HOSPITAL.

In that moment, I realise it is actually over. Except for one last thing I promise myself to do, kissing my daughter one final goodbye.

On getting home, I approach her bedside, I kiss my Precious princess on the cheek, still sleeping, but she scratches the spot as if it was itching her. I watch her beautiful legs one last time. Tempted to touch and massage, but I resist the urge. As I stand to leave, for the first time in forever I see a twitch on her left foot. My eyes are flooding with tears, not for joy of this beacon of hope of her legs walking again as I have seen, but for sorrow of being the one who had been holding her back from walking in the past.

My head is exploding on the inside. I can't believe I've been dead and unaware of it myself. I cry all night. At what point did I die? Did I even give birth to a half-baby? Was it real? Or was my death during the childbirth of my Precious princess? Was it even before I met Anthony? Wait, is Anthony even real? And Precious too, is she real too? Am I just making all them up in my mind to make up for all the losses I've endured? Or is this what Shola really wants from me? To have me confused where I belong to, in the land of the living or the dead?

There is only one way I can trust to find out the truth. I go to the kitchen, pick a knife and dig it slightly into my left arm. I close eyes and pull the knife down, slowly, to make a fine cut. I will open my eyes any moment and anything I see from the cut will determine if I'm dead or still alive. A blank space with nothing flowing will mean I've been dead. A spill of blood will mean I'm still living.

I open my eyes, slowly, and guess what I see…

Abdulrahman Mohammed Abu-Yaman is a Nigerian writer, artist and sojourner who grew up in the cosmopolitan Lagos Island. He currently resides around the River Niger regions of the country and alternates between neighbouring cities like Abuja, Kaduna and Ilorin for arts pleasure. He is a fellow of Ebedi International Writers' Residency and former on-air personality as host of 'Literature Today' at Ultimate FM Campus Radio in Minna. His short story emerged the joint winner of the inaugural BCD/UTULU Prize for Literature in 2025. Also winner of the Hysteria Writing Competition in the flash category (2021). Some of his works have appeared on platforms like Afritondo, Brittle Paper, Tuck Magazine, London Grip Magazine, The Lagos Review, Southwark Libraries, North Dakota Quarterly, Blue Minaret, Neurological Journal, The Metaphysical Review, Spotify, Cult Culture Magazine, ExistOtherwise and elsewhere. When he is not writing, he loves painting landscapes and has exhibited few collections during some books and art festivals. His X/Instagram handle is @abuu_yaman