I still remember the day I was born, and that is because I have been here before. Not once. Not twice. Not even three times. This is my fourth time here. While some might argue it is impossible, I remember it so well. 

I have been here before. I recognize the fine, tall, young doctor. I still remember his heart-warming smile whenever he announced the sex my mother had birthed. I remember the smell of drugs mixed with antiseptics. 

Everyone and everything here is familiar — this hospital, this ward, the bed on the far right the first time, the bed close to the TV the second time, the bed close to the woman with her third set of triplets, and now this bed. The cleaners seemed to have made the extra effort of washing the bed sheets. They no longer smelled like cheap soap made with palm oil. They, for the first time, smelled like flowers.

Despite the number of times I left this woman, she will not stop calling. Rest, Abebi, rest! Are you not tired of the long-term pregnancies, the painful contractions, the swollen feet, the tears, and the stitches you get after childbirth? When you and your husband have sex without condoms, I weep because I know it is another call. 

Iya says that I am the only one that will fertilize your egg. However, it is only futile because I will depart almost as soon as I arrive. I can feel how happy you are whenever you miss your period. 

“This one will stay. I can feel it in my gut. I just know it,” you say to yourself, desperately.

The only problem is whatever you claim you feel is just the nausea that comes with being pregnant or maybe it is your brain’s way of creating a false world filled with optimism. Instead of mourning your dead babies that did not stay alive long enough to be christened, you convince yourself that the next one will survive.

Some might call Abebi a persistent woman, but I say she is foolish. Some might argue she is very hopeful, but I would argue that hope is a coping mechanism life sold to us. Abiku is almost an everyday term in her house. Abebi and Abiku— their names almost rhyme. 

The pastor from Ekiti state has tried all he can. He has fasted and prayed and convulsed like a raving drug addict.

But Iya said he is pouring water on a stone. 

The woman who sells Agbo, a herbal concoction meant to “cleanse” the body, told her to fasten the sides of her dresses with safety pins. That way I would be locked in her belly, unable to escape. The woman believed an evil spirit was kicking out her child and staying as a replacement.

“See my friend, let me not deceive you. This thing has happened to one of my cousins. She too will born and before her baby recognizes the colour of life, death will have taken the baby,” the woman told Abebi one day.

“Are you serious?” Abebi had asked, wide-eyed.

“Yes oh! It was one mama that opened our eyes, oh! She said my cousin was carrying her pregnancy wrongly. Mama told her to use pins on the sides of her dress so she could safeguard her child. Mama said that that way no evil spirit would exchange her baby. As soon as she heard it, she did it quick quick! Morning oh, Afternoon oh, Night oh, her dress had pins.”

“Did it work? Did she eventually have a baby?”

 “Yes. She has a strong son now, a very fine boy. So, my friend, I advise you to do the same. That could be the solution,” the Agbo woman responded with a reassuring smile.

Anyways, Iya laughed and called her foolish.

The Osun priest from Osun state has taken her for a bath many times in the Osun River.

“Listen to me oh! Open your ears and listen to me carefully. There is no mother like the goddess, Osun!” he would begin in the same loud voice. “She is the goddess of fertility. I promise she has seen your suffering and has taken pity on you. Don't worry, this bath will ward off the evil spirit. You will surely come back to say your thanks.”

But Iya tells me: “Lies! All lies! Nothing will work. You will still leave them.”

Abebi even switched religions, determined to be a dutiful follower and worshipper of whichever God made her a mother. On the day she was Catholic, she wore a rosary and said the Lord’s Prayer three times a day. On the day she was a Buddhist, she laid down a yoga mat, put on incense and candles, and practiced meditation. On the day she was an Osun devotee, she wrapped herself with a white cloth while singing the praises of the goddess.

I watched as Abebi, determined as ever, prepared for another cycle of hope and disappointment. She was so sure that this time would be different, that this time I would choose to stay. 

But I knew the truth. I am an Abiku, a spirit child destined to torment my mother with my recurring departures.

The days turned into weeks. Abebi's belly swelled with anticipation. She had that ‘gut’ feeling again. I was going to stay this time. 

“Honey, this one will stay. I feel so close to her. So— so attached… like she is here. I can even smell her,” Abebi would so often tell her husband. 

“This one will make me a mother. This one will change my name from Abebi to Mummy baby. Finally, a child will suckle my breast and it is this one,” Abebi would say to herself while caressing her stomach. 

On some days, she spoke to me. However, it sounded more like a plea. It sounded like an appeal that I make her a mother. She kept reiterating that it did not matter what I looked like, tall or short, dark or light-skinned, disabled or not, she would still love me with all her heart. On those days, it felt like she was trying to bribe me.

“My baby, stay with me, ehn. When you come, I promise not to give you one of those ugly names that remind you of your birth history. Nothing like Malomo or Durojaiye or Jokotimi or Ikukoyi. Those names are not even sweet in the ears, my child. I will name you Ayomitide. Yes! Whether you are a boy or a girl, I am naming you Ayomitide meaning my joy has come.  So do not be scared. Your mother is waiting for you, okay?” Abebi would say to me. 

She carried me with such tenderness, singing lullabies, and dreaming of a future filled with joy. But I knew the inevitable pain that lay ahead. I had witnessed it before, time after time again.

The day of my anticipated arrival came and labor pains gripped Abebi's body. Her face contorted with agony and sweat trickled down her forehead as she clung to the hope that this time would be different. I could sense her desperation, her unyielding desire to cradle a living child in her arms.

As Abebi walked into the hospital, her back crouched from painful contractions, her steps slowed from back pains, and her voice croaked from screaming. The matron from her last three births had to help her to the delivery room.

“Madam, with the way you are walking and shouting, one would readily think this is your first time in labour pains,” the matron said with some sort of irritation on her face.

“How about your husband? I do not see him anywhere around. I hope he is not tired. Lady Luck might be around for a visit this time. My God is also a God of good timing! It is your time, ehn,” she continued with a sarcastic smile.

Abebi understood the sarcasm. She knew the matron was poking at her pain. She was neither in the mood to shout nor to argue. She was going to be a mother soon. Instead, in a bid to worsen the matron’s irritation, she screamed louder and squeezed her hands tightly.

In the delivery room, there were the familiar smells of antiseptics mixed with the tension in the air. The doctor's encouraging voice filled the room as he guided Abebi through each push. 

“Push, Abebi, Puuusshhhhhh! You can do this!”

“Abebi, just breathe in, breathe out. Okay, push! You are on the path to becoming an amazing mother. You have got this!” the matron from earlier said while holding her hands.

For a moment, Abebi paused the long pushing exercise to look at the matron and the doctor. This matron, who had made snide remarks about her condition, was now acting like she cared. For the first time, she noticed the woman’s horrible makeup and poorly carved brows. She decided she would call her out on it once her baby was out— but then again, she might be too happy to think of that. Then she turned to look at the doctor. 

This doctor, who does not know what labor pain feels like, just kept shouting “Push!” She saw he was trying to help. Despite being with her in this same position for her three times, he looked hopeful. He looked like he was not just doing his job as a doctor. He also wanted to help her out. She decided she would give him a little something for all his help once her baby was out. She just needed to push with all her strength. This was the storm before the calm. 

“Soon all this will be over and I will become a mother,” Abebi concluded to herself.

 So with all the remaining strength in her, she began the pushing exercise again.

“Okay, Abebi,” the doctor urged, “ I need you to give me all you can. I can already see a head, so let us do this, okay?” 

True to his words, my head was out, but honestly, as I was taking another peep at the familiar setting. I thought: “Same hospital? Really? Couldn't Abebi's husband do this at some other place for a change?”

With one final push, I entered the world once again. 

“You have a very beautiful baby girl,” the fine doctor said while severing the umbilical cord.

And the room fell silent as the doctor held his breath, waiting for a sign of life. Abebi's eyes were fixated on my tiny, fragile form. Her heart raced with anticipation, and I could almost taste her yearning for a different outcome.

The fine doctor tried all the resuscitation techniques he learned in medical school. The same ones he had tried with Abebi’s previous kids. 

Yet there was no life– no tears, no heartbeat. 

I just laid there, like a baby born asleep. 

He gently rubbed my back, tapped my buttocks, did chest compressions – one, two, one, two, three. Yet I didn't move. He started sweating. He must have thought to himself, “Surely I am a good doctor. I can not fail this woman four times.” But who will tell the fine doctor this was above science and good school grades? He tried providing oxygen through an oxygen mask, but I was already down here with Iya watching his futile attempt to wake me up.

“My dear, ignore him! Leave him to do his own. He is only a child,” Iya said mockingly.

The matron took over the buttock-tapping exercise. She seemed so skilled in that area. You would know she liked to smack her kids a lot. She rubbed my buttocks, shook me, and did more chest compressions, yet I did not wake up. She kept muttering “Baby, please wake up” under her breath. But I stayed still, unaffected by the repeated smacks and pleadings. I was with Iya wondering if they could not sense the absence of life. I was wondering when they will all come to terms with the truth.

“My baby, cry! Cryyyy for God’s sake! This is a cold world, so cry! People are dying from horrible wars, so cry! There are hungry children on the streets, so cry! If you will not cry for me, at least cry because of something else,” Abebi wailed whilst holding me so close to her chest.

Then she turned to the doctor. 

“But she was alive inside me, so what changed? Perhaps she is scared of the world, doctor. Let us put her back in. Please tape the umbilical cord and put her back in, please. Who knows? She might wake up.” Abebi’s eyes turned mad with grief. 

Then tears began to stream down her face as the truth settled upon her. She had hoped against hope and prayed against fate, but the outcome remained the same. I had come and gone, leaving a void in her heart once again.

As the days turned into months, Abebi mourned my absence, reminiscing on her mother's tales of her own journey to motherhood. Abebi was her mother's eighth attempt at motherhood. She had endured labour eight times, with seven resulting in stillborn children.

Abebi recalled her mother saying that in her eighth pregnancy, she allowed herself to be flogged with broomsticks mercilessly by ten women in a desperate bid to become a mother. The women’s aim was to flog out the evil spirit in her belly. The baby survived, and her mother named her Durosinmi which literally translates to “wait to bury me.” However, to not be taunted by the history of her birth, she chose to be called Abebi instead. Abebi wondered if naming her child Ayomitide was the reason why her child left. Perhaps, she might need to be whipped too. Did she need to try four more times like her mother? Maybe she will also have a child on her eighth attempt, or maybe as the younger version of her mother, she would need to try five? Six? Seven more times?

The pain of loss weighed heavily on Abebi’s spirit, but she refused to let it break her. Once again, she was close to being a mother, but fate denied her the chance. She channeled her grief into strength, finding solace in the memories we had shared, despite them being quite brief.

Life went on, and Abebi carried her pain like a badge of honor. She refused to let the label of an Abiku define her. Instead, she embraced her role as a mother, cherishing the moments she had with all her departed children and finding purpose in the love she shared with her husband.

On some days, I asked Iya why I could not stay. Iya said people like Abebi are destined to suffer such a fate.