Ifechi what was your motivation? You’d read countless birthing stories that described labor as pain beyond comprehension, worse than the monthly cramps you dreaded so much. Yet here you were, walking into the storm willingly. Was it courage or necessity? Perhaps both. But I have to ask, why couldn’t you summon this strength to tackle the certification exam you failed four years ago?

The doctor had told you to come back when you felt “real labor pains.” Surely, this had to be it. The pain had been relentless for hours now. Yet, there you stood outside the hospital again because the petite nurse had sent you home. What kind of wahala is this? If she dared send you back one more time, you swore to yourself you’d slap her.

Your hips felt like they were being pulled apart, your lower back spasmed in waves, and the more you fought the pain, the worse it became. But what choice did you have? You trudged back home, trying to distract yourself with anything—thoughts of your baby, prayers, anything to keep you from focusing on the agony.

You had been to the hospital so many times that the nurse now rolled her eyes whenever she saw you. “Go and pick egusi to keep yourself busy, madam. Didn’t I explain how to time your contractions?” she had snapped earlier, waving you away like an annoying fly. Others in the antenatal queue chimed in with unsolicited advice. “Watch a TV show,” one said. “First labor is a long ride.”

From a nearby room, the screams of another woman filled the air. “Mama m! Mama m! Jesus, please take control!” Her cries were blood-curdling, the kind that could shake even the strongest resolve. You instinctively crossed yourself and muttered a quick prayer. God forbid. You didn’t need that kind of drama. By the time you reached home, you had convinced yourself: My mother said hers wasn’t too bad, and so mine will be the same. You repeated those words like a mantra, as often as the kernels on a cob of corn, clinging to hope.

Six hours later, you were back at the hospital, only to meet a new nurse. This one was short, chubby, and had webbed hands that reminded you of a frog. Her face was pinched in irritation, and you immediately disliked her. “Are you Madam Ifechi?” she asked without waiting for an answer. “Why did you take so long to return?” Before you could respond, she motioned for you to lie down and spread your legs. She slipped on gloves and performed the check. You screamed at the invasion, but the nurse was unfazed.

“Your baby is almost here,” she announced, as though discussing the weather. “Bring your hospital bag so we can arrange your items.” You stared at your wide-open legs, marveling at how pregnancy had humbled you. Who would’ve thought you’d ever be comfortable having your private parts examined like a science project? But as they say, "pregnancy no be anybody mate". The thought made you chuckle dryly.

The nurse’s words filled you with hope. Your baby was almost here. You clung to that thought, smiling weakly as you obeyed her instructions. But just as you settled into the bed, she returned with a curt directive. “Madam, it’s not time to rest. Go up and down the room to help things move faster. Don’t be a lazy mother.”

You shuffled back and forth, clutching your belly as the contractions worsened. Thirty minutes later, she returned to check your dilation. The pain was unbearable now, and tears streamed down your face. “Nurse, please,” you sobbed. “Are we not done with this checking? You said we were almost there before. Can’t you just get my baby out?” The nurse sighed, unimpressed. “Madam, if you’re not ready to give birth, I can’t force you. When you’re serious, come and find me.” She turned to leave, but you called after her, desperation lacing your voice. “I’m sorry. Please come back. I can’t do this alone.” She paused, then softened, surprising you. “You’re a strong woman. Jisike inugo. You’re almost there.” Her unexpected encouragement gave you strength. For the first time since meeting her, you felt a flicker of peace. Soon after, she declared you ready. “When I count to five, bear down with all your might.”

Three pushes later, your baby’s head crowned, and the nurse told you to stop pushing so the baby could descend properly. The sensation was indescribable—searing heat, as if someone had rubbed freshly blended ata rodo (habanero pepper) into your most sensitive parts. You tried praying, but the pain robbed you of words. You attempted affirmations, but they faltered. Instead, you escaped into a memory: a sunlit field in front of your childhood home, where you used to run and play. You imagined taking your child there one day. It was your happy place, your refuge from the storm of labor. Then, the nurse mentioned a cut. Episiotomy. The word had haunted you for months. You’d done all the kegels, drunk carrot juice, and eaten herbal remedies, hoping to avoid it. But you were too tired to argue. With a weak wave of your hand, you gave her permission.

Minutes later, your baby was in your arms. Overwhelmed with emotion, you burst into tears. The once-stern nurse rushed out, shouting, “My patient has delivered successfully! Chukwu daalu!” You watched her sudden transformation in disbelief. Was this the same woman who had been so harsh moments ago? Perhaps it was the magic of babies—they had a way of bringing out every emotion, from frustration to elation. In that moment, all the pain faded into the background. Your baby’s tiny face was everything. Tears mingled with laughter as you realized: the journey had been worth it.