Habibu is lying on matting on the mud floor of her hut. The contractions are coming thick and fast now. The pain is intense, but she draws comfort from the memory that, the previous three times, this agony gave way to the peaceful, exhausted bliss of holding her baby in her arms.
Her husband’s mother is on hand to help – she has, after all, given birth many times herself and seen many more children born. Water has been brought from the pump and sits in two large bowls ready to be used – one to wash the baby and the other to wash everything and everyone else; pieces of old cloth have been gathered over the months before so as to soak up any blood and bodily fluid. A kerosene lamp has been borrowed from a neighbour to cast any light needed on this dark West African night.
