The Behle clan occupied a large homestead of several rondavels, circular stucco buildings covered by thick thatch roofs. Surrounded by a thorn bush fence, the kraal enclosed the umzi and offered protection for the cattle. Much like the brick work and courtyards of Poplar, the kraal created a protected world.
As the old rover rumbled up to the gate, a young girl ran from her place guarding the cattle to let them in. She shouted words in Xhosa to the doctor, then returned to her post. Ibo, Thembe’s husband, jumped from the vehicle before it came to a halt, but was stopped before he could enter the main house.
An older woman stood in the doorway. She wore the intricate headdress and beadwork of the first wife, a position that had no greater power than at this moment. The young man tried to push past her to see his wife and was rebuffed. Sister Julienne had been right: Patrick Turner would not have been welcome.
Fitzsimmons turned to Shelagh. “The Xhosa are strong-minded people, Mrs. Turner. They will not suffer British arrogance, nor will they allow you to ignore their ways. Doctor Turner has assured me that you are, in fact, Thembe’s best chance, but I must tell you it’s against my better judgement.” She turned her face away, but not before Shelagh saw a look of anxiety. “I haven’t delivered a baby in far too long. The chances of this ending badly are extremely high.”
Shelagh took in a breath and held it for a long moment. “I can do this, Doctor, and so can you. Between us, we will deliver this baby.”
“I hope to God you’re right.” With a shrug of her shoulders, Myra Fitzsimmons erased all sign of fear from her face and stepped from the car.
Despite her confident words, Shelagh felt her earlier boldness begin to wane. As she followed Doctor Fitzsimmons into the dimly lit home, she struggled to clear her mind of fear.
Umakhulu greeted them as they arrived at the rondavel’s entrance, and seemed to immediately accept Shelagh’s presence. Rare as it was for the villagers to call on Doctor Fitzsimmons for the sacred rite of childbirth, it was clear the old woman was willing to sacrifice her own pride for her granddaughter.
As she listened to the two women speak, Shelagh glanced about the room. The floor was hard-packed earth, and several small windows clustered high on the southern curve, their light bouncing along the bright white interior walls. Beds edged the rondavel, and a square table dominated the center. Shelagh quickly absorbed her surroundings, trying to acclimate herself.
A low sound came from a bed at the far end of the room, and she turned to their patient. Thembe was far thinner than she should be despite her swollen belly. The young woman lay on her side, her body twisted with pain. Shelagh took in another slow, deep breath as she sent up a prayer for courage and she knelt at the young woman’s side.
“Umhlobo,” she said gently as she pressed her hand to her heart. “Nceda.”
The woman’s forehead glistened and her eyes were glazed with pain. “Umhlobo?” Thembe whispered. Shelagh reached out and took the frightened woman’s hand and nodded. Without turning her head, she said, “I’ve exhausted my Xhosa, I’m afraid, Doctor. You’ll have to translate.”
A moment passed before Doctor Fitzsimmons responded. “I think perhaps you know all that’s truly necessary, Nurse.” She spoke softly to Thembe, and the young woman’s grip tightened on Shelagh’s hand. “I’ve told her what you’re going to do, and that it will be painful, but at the end of this long day, she’ll hold her beautiful baby in her arms.”
Thembe gasped as a pain contorted her face. Shelagh placed a cool hand on her forehead and watched as the contraction ran its course.
“I’ll need to examine her, Doctor. The pains sound as if the labor is beginning to progress, and I don’t want to miss the window where I can help. Is she ready for me?”
The old woman approached Shelagh, pointing out the bowl of water set aside to clean her hands. Her voice clicked words of support, her arms gesturing to her granddaughter. Shelagh smiled and said gently, “I can help, Umakhulu. Nceda.”
The bowl of water looked fresh, the bar of soap next to it untouched. Shelagh made a decision, then began to scrub her hands in the cool water. She needed their trust as much as anything else. An insult to the cleanliness of their home would do as much damage as ignorance. The bottle of surgical spirits in her bag would help disinfect her hands.
Her soft voice filled the room as she spoke, her small hands expertly manipulating the tense muscles of the frightened woman’s abdomen. Her eyes kept a close watch on Thembe’s face, noting the fear that never left the young woman’s mind. “Tell her I’ve done this many times before,” she told Fitzsimmons. “Tell her I can feel her baby moving inside her.”
As Fitzsimmons spoke, Shelagh moved lower. She paused and asked Thembe for permission. “I’ll have to examine the birth canal, Thembe. This will feel a wee bit uncomfortable, but I’ll be as quick as I can.” She waited for her request to be translated, then moved when she saw Thembe nod.
Her hands moved swiftly as she visualized the path the baby was taking. Keeping her face impassive, she turned to Fitzsimmons. “The baby is most definitely breech, not quite transverse, but I’m more concerned that the head is wedged under the ribcage. I’ll have to coax the baby down a bit before I can turn.”
She smiled at Thembe. “Your baby isn’t quite ready yet Thembe dear. Will you trust me, and let me help?” There was another pause for translation, and Thembe nodded.
“Help my girl, umhlobo. Please.”
“So it’s a girl then?” Dr. Fitzsimmons teased. Her own fear seemed to lessen as Shelagh took the situation under control.
Umakhulu laughed, relief clear in the sound. “A girl for my girl. There is little better a woman can know. You, umhlobo, do you have your girl?” She touched Shelagh’s wedding ring.
“Nurse Turner has a beautiful little girl, Thembe,” Myra Fitzsimmons answered. “She will insist on feeding the monkey at the table, I’m afraid, but she has laughing eyes.”
Shelagh turned in surprise to the doctor, but the moment was cut short by a deep contraction. “I’d best begin, Thembe. Now this will hurt, but I know you are strong.”
A/N: I know!!! Two chapters in one day!!! I finally have a quiet weekend, and the weather is just right for writing. Hopefully I’m back on a roll with this fic, though I can’t promise a chapter a day!
Here is a link to an Airbnb site that features photos of a traditional Xhosa homestead.
https://www.airbnb.com/rooms/12153240
And here are some Xhosa translations for words I’ve used in this chapter:
Umakhulu: grandmother
Umhlobo: friend
Nceda: help
As always, I ask that you forgive any blunders I may have made in my research and interpretation of Xhosa culture. Any mistakes are unintentional. Please do not hesitate to advise me.
My Little Yellowbird 