Mama Funte, The Water Bearer

Adabollah felt it the moment she opened her eyes. It was a faint nagging feeling nestled in the center of her belly; not painful enough to assume sickness but present and pulsating like the onset of dread. Laying still in her cot she glanced towards the window of her lapa. The cool breeze toyed with the thin burgundy-colored drapes she had hung so many years ago. 

"It is the wind." She whispered, providing an explanation for a fear only she could sense. The light of the quarter moon was brighter than usual, illuminating the walls, casting over-sized dancing shadows out of small lifeless items. The enlarged shapes overtook the tight space, creating doubt out of familiar places, causing the woman to sit up on her mat. 

Surrounding her like a shrine were the Funtes given to her by every woman in the village whose child she had pulled forward. Rows and rows of stilled mementos curving around her circular hut like a static wave of memories. Her eyes glittered in the moonlight as she gazed upon the collection of gratitude.

The glass water pitcher in the shape of a dew drop was a thing of pure beauty given to her by the Adebisi's. The Temitope's colorful tapestry illustrating a woman surrounded by waves hung as a banner of honor in the center of all the gifts.

Yet, it was the small wooden figurines given to her by the Obi family that were her absolute favorite. The father would begin to chisel away at a small piece of wood the moment his wife's ceased bleeding and the mother would hand paint each carving once the babe nuzzled in her bosom. Adabollah now had seven such carved figures adorning her shelf, each as unique as the child it represented. 

"It is the moon." She whispered, as the unnamed feeling continued to brew within her.

Currently there was only one pregnant woman in the village, Anipe, who was at least three weeks out from her time. But with nothing else to account for this strange feeling, Adabollah decided to head towards the Uduike hut to pay the soon-to-be mother a visit.

She neatly removed each of her instruments from the handwoven tote the Mensah's had given her, and placed them at the center of the rag thin sack she used to carry long before the tote. It was a strange evening, full of nostalgia and a sense of foreboding that pulled at her with a grip she could not ease. Holding each of her tools towards the moon she blessed them in the silvery light, warding against evil with words she did not utter. Finally she placed the golden ring with the onyx stone on her index finger, twirled it around for good measure, and headed out the door.

Like a nursing child she nestled her sack across the warmth of her chest, heading north along the river's edge. The thirty minute walk, the songs of the nightly creatures, the moonlight dancing upon the rippling waters all afforded Adabollah the serenity needed to consider her life's work.

She had been the village's Funte for as long as she could remember. A title that came with many privileges: the right to hold a seat in the Circular Council, the first person served at any gathering, the assurance that every need would be met from food to clothing to medicine. Every need except companionship.

As a Water Bearer she would never marry, never menstruate, never experience the heat of a man for none would take on the challenge of a barren woman. Even if one so wished to do so, as Olu had, the village would not allow it. Funtes belonged to a higher calling, they were the singular mothers of many, in need of no personal commitments that would distract them from their collective obligation. Hence it was Adabollah's recurring torment to ignore Olu's longing gaze, forever sentenced to be the first person to hold the breathing miracle of a living child before handing it over to the woman with waiting arms. 

It was a challenging experience, to exist so silently within her own life. To smile when she meant to weep. To celebrate when she intended to mourn. To be called Mama Funte by every child except her own. Every birth pulled her deeper into the shadows of a regret she could not release. A regret that would appear as envy to anyone that did not have to bear it.

With every step she considered herself in ways she had suppressed. For so long she had cast the needed reflection of herself that she believed the mirrored image was the true object. Now, with the help of the strange stirring within her, and far from the approving gaze of the villagers she allowed herself the luxury of self-exploration. Contemplating the depth of her longing with no restrictions.  

It was while lost in these thoughts that she came upon a moving figure in the distance. The thing appeared to be crawling on all fours, human like in form but emitting cries that chilled Adabollah's skin, stopping her mid stride. The thing in the darkness wailed a desperate scream like a wounded animal negotiating with death.

Adabollah crouched slowly towards the ground, concealing her own existence behind the tall grass as a stalking lion. Whatever had hurt the creature was perhaps still lurking among them, anticipating the kill. So she held back, waiting to see from which direction the hidden predator would attack. The wounded animal twisted in the night, and from its silhouette Adabollah could make out a head, long thin arms, and as it rose to its knees a round and protruding belly. A pregnant woman. 

"Anipe!" cried Adabollah racing towards the figure. 

"Adabollah?" replied Anipe, hoarse and thirsty. 

Adabollah leaped over obstacles, clutching the sack against her chest with one arm so tightly she could feel her tools cut against her skin. 

"Anipe! What's happened? Are you out here alone? Where is Rufaro? Is the child in danger?" Adabollah asked, spitting one question after the other, her heart pressing against her throat, her hands trembling with fear. 

"He's gone, gone to the capital. The baby, it's coming, but something is wrong, I was coming to you." 

"You're so far, not close enough to my hut and too far from your own. We'll have to bring her forth here." Adabollah rushed, unwrapping her sack and laying out the cloth underneath the panting woman. The traveling clouds masked the details of the scene but Adabollah did not need light to discern that the streaks flowing downward on Anipe's thigh was blood flow. 

"Here? I can't. We can't possibly. Let's keep going. I can make it. I can make it to your hut, if not Damu's is closer." 

"No, Anipe. You cannot walk any further. We must bring the child forth now or..." her voiced trailed off, silencing the feeling she could finally name. 

The women held each other in their gaze. Anipe slowly accepting the limits of her options, Adabollah assuming the weight of her responsibility. 

"We can do this." Adabollah encouraged, repeating the same speech she had given nearly every woman she had ever aided, "This is what women have done since the beginning of time. Cots and herbs are luxuries our bodies welcome but do not need. Together we'll bring forth your baby." 

"Girl." Whispered Anipe, laying her head on the soft grass, allowing fatigue to settle. 

"What?"  

"You said, bring her forward. You think it's a girl?" 

"Oh" Adabollah replied with a smile, as she spread Anipe's thighs apart removing her soiled undergarments without a wince or a frown. "Just an assumption. Girls are usually the end results of difficult beginnings."

"I hope you're right. I want a daughter."

Anipe closed her eyes, drawing in a yawn that rested among her bones as she relaxed on the ground. 

"No, no, no, Anipe!" Warned Adabollah. "It is not time for you to rest yet, you are not done here." 

"Perhaps I am, Mama. Perhaps, I was only meant to find you."

"No, no! Look at me, Anipe! Open your eyes. I am about to pull your water, afterwards you'll have to push."

"Yes, Mama." Anipe whispered, still closing her eyes. 

Adabollah twisted the golden ring with the onyx stone around her finger, pointing it towards Anipe's opening and called out the waters in the secret tongue of the old mothers. Nothing stirred. 

Again, Adabollah twirled the ring, arched her back, and called to the waves within Anipe to pour forward. Yet her cries were met with stillness. 

A third time, Adabollah twisted her ring, looked towards the heavens, and wailed a call so profound she assumed the river would rush towards her. But again only the now rhythmic breathing of a weary Anipe answered. 

This was it, this was the feeling that had awaken her. It was not the foreboding sense of a stillborn child, it was the withering powers of a dying magic. 

"No, no, no please, Gods, no. Not right now, not here, not like this." She pleaded with her ancestors. 

In the recesses of her mind she knew she would not be the village's Funte forever, but she expected the passing charm to escape her as she too was passing. This was too early, she was not old enough yet, not dead enough yet. 

"Anipe!" She cried out to the sleeping woman. "You will have to do this alone. I'm here with you but I can't call on your waters for support. You'll have to push in dryness." 

"I can't Adabollah. I'm too tired. Allow the baby to rest, perhaps she too is tired."

"No, Anipe!" Reprimanded Adabollah. "You must push her out now, so push! Come on! Push!"

Anipe clawed at the earth beneath her. Resting her weight on bruised elbows she let out a deep moan, pushing with borrowed strength. On and on she pushed, encouraged by Adabollah's praises and the evening cheers of creatures both big and small. 

And then the world fell silent. The frogs ceased bellowing, the crickets stopped their singing, even the breeze stilled to a stop. And there, laid out between Anipe's thighs was a baby, fully enveloped in its amniotic sac. A caul baby, so perfectly preserved it appeared as a glimmering gift beneath the welcoming moon. 

Anipe collapsed backward unto the dirt, tired being too unfit of a word to describe such exhaustion. 

The baby barely moved inside the sac and Adabollah marveled at the strength of such a thin veil. In the past twenty-five years she had experienced a lot of births but no child had ever emerged enclosed within its caul. 

Adabollah extended her arm over the sac, reaching out her hand to rupture it when a thought as quiet and malicious as a predator crept into her mind. A thought not completely unfamiliar to her, a consideration that had crept up before, whenever she gazed upon a sleeping child mildly tended to by its tired mother. A proposal that could not take hold in the midst of a bustling village, but could indeed materialize in the vastness of an open field, under the cover of night, beside an exhausted mother. 

She could rip open the sac, extract the baby, and leave. If left alone Anipe could simply fade away into death or worse be eaten alive by roaming beasts but Adabollah and the child would be long by then. 

Drawing the edges of her fingers near the sac she felt a burning sensation coming from the onyx ring. Adabollah drew her hand back towards herself examining the ring and her finger. Again she repeated the gesture and again the ring flared as if pulled from living flames. Almost instinctively she knew the meaning for the pain. The child had stripped her of her Funte powers, this is why she could not call upon Anipe's waters, this is why the child still laid wrapped within its own living streams. 

As she removed the ring and placed it on the ground before the child, the living sac began to tremble, tearing a thin seam that unraveled like a gift, revealing the breathing baby inside. 

Adabollah quickly gathered the small child in her arms, wrapping it in the frail cloth she had carried. Anipe acutely aware of her daughter's presence flickered her eyes, looking up at Adabollah with an outstretched arm. Adabollah looked down on the baby, perfectly nestled in her arms and at Anipe's trembling hand.

An existence so full of life-giving acts now demanded that Adabollah take for once. That she leave that field with the one thing that had been denied to her her whole life. The one thing that could perhaps understand her best. The one thing she could aid through the lonely existence that awaited her.

Life had been cruel enough, but now, without the magic of the Funte it would be unbearable. Childless and now purposeless taking the girl was not simply her overdue payment, it was a form of justice. 

"Mama?" Anipe whispered, too weary to dislodge the thought she could clearly see transfixed in Adabollah's gaze. 

In the stillness of the night the three women panted. Looking at each other, each dependent on the next, each desiring to live. 

Finally, as if returning to herself through a locked door, Adabollah bent over Anipe and placed the ready-to-nurse babe on the mother's chest. 

A silent act, illuminated by a half-lit moon, witnessed only by distant stars, rewarded simply by a stream of blood that now flowed from between Adabollah's own thighs. 

The end.