Wrapper

Before I even saw your face, I had the wrapper picked out. It was made of crimson Ankara, adorned with golden flowers outlined in black. I had others, of course - which Yoruba woman doesn’t? But that one was yours. 

When I first pressed you against my back and draped you in the fabric, shifting so you’d be comfortable when your grandmother tied it off, I fought to blink back the tears. After months of hospital visits and late night feeding sessions, you were finally big enough to be backed. I tried to imagine what it would feel like for you, what it had felt like for me and my mother and countless people before us. I tiptoed around the house tentatively, worried that every step would dislodge you and make you cry. 

Soon enough, I was doing everything. I’d pound yam, dust the floors and even dance with you wrapped against my back. I loved feeling you kick those little legs in excitement, but that was nothing compared to hearing your giggles. You seemed much more content on my back, drifting off to sleep within moments of being tied to me. And when you’d wake up, it was with a shriek of relief that I was right beside you. 

The first day I left the house while backing you, you were almost a year old. I was driven by necessity. Your dad had gone to work and taken the car. There was no way I could carry both you and the shopping home, so I stepped out of our refuge and into the sleepy English town we called home. 

The stares came thick and fast, but the comments took longer. 

‘Can she breathe in that?’ a silver-haired woman enquired, her face twisted with concern. 

‘Why don’t you buy a pram?’ a man asked with a condescending smile. 

Most amusingly, a little girl stuck out her finger and asked, ‘Mummy, why is she squeezing her baby?’

After that, I did back you out a few more times, but only when there was no other option. Sometimes we were ignored, other times we were harassed more than usual. Even when I invited my friends over to fuss over you and update me on missed gossip, their eyes widened when I slung you over my shoulder and backed you. It was only when I was surrounded by cousins, aunties and family friends that I felt normal. We’d help each other ensure that our babies were secure, then stand shoulder to shoulder so you could all babble to one another. It never got easier to kiss them goodbye and head back to a world of being abnormal. 

Soon, too soon for my liking, you were big enough to toddle alongside me. You shunned the wrapper in favour of whizzing through the park on your balance bike, turning around once in a while to check I hadn’t abandoned you. I’d hoped to have another baby on my back by then, a permanent playmate for you. But God had not blessed us with one yet, and never would. I watched all the wrappers gather dust except your beloved red and yellow one. You’d drape it around yourself before falling asleep, or use it to wonkily tie your baby dolls to your back. As you shot up in height, going through clothes and shoes like they were free, the wrapper evolved as well. It became a canopy for the forts you’d make with school friends, or a fashion show outfit, or something to practice your Cubs knots in. I half expected it to keep evolving, to grow with you even as its patterns began to fade. But one day, you tossed it on the floor in the corner of your room and never picked it up again. 

I ignored it for a while, waiting for you to reach for it once more. After a few weeks, I extracted it while you were away on a scout camp. I crawled into my bed and wrapped myself in it, just like you used to. It still smelled of both of us. When your dad came back from work, we both slept under it instead of our duvet, clinging to a piece of younger you. 

I watched the chubbiness fade from your cheeks and waved you into secondary school. I wore a plastered smile until I could go and weep behind the wheel. When I wiped my tears with my sleeve and looked up, I noticed something. An auburn-haired woman was hurrying past with her Year Seven child trailing behind her. On her back, secured by a brown sling, was a bright-eyed baby. 

I mentally chastised myself for being shocked. Of course we weren’t the only people to back our babies. I’d read about countless cultures that did the same thing. But seeing it here, with no one reacting to it, was a huge surprise. I pulled out of my parking spot and drove home, unable to fight back the tears. 

Soon, there were people ‘wearing’ their babies everywhere. Some had them in slings against their chest, others in backpack-looking contraptions that could even hold toddlers. Some of the friends that looked so incredulous when I backed you now wore their own children, raving about how it promoted secure attachments. No one batted an eye at these parents - even men wore their babies now. Now it was hip to have your baby so close. When I did it, it was foreign and primitive. 

Even you started to notice. “Mummy, everyone’s backing their babies now!” you’d exclaim, your voice betraying bitter surprise. Somehow, you seem to remember the judgement we faced. How? Had I complained to you about it? Or were you just aware of how these things normally went? 

I made a note to swallow my resentment. “Yes, they are,” I said. “Isn’t it wonderful?”

I kept the wrapper with me as you sprinted through secondary school. When you’d win awards, all I’d see was the tiny baby that needed my touch to fall asleep. When friends visited with their babies, we draped the wrapper over them when they dozed off. Now it no longer smelled like you, but I clung to it nonetheless. I kept it when you left me for a bright future in Edinburgh, and it stayed in my room until you came home with your integrated masters and a man on your arm. Only then, my eyes heavy with bags, did I gift it to you with my wedding jewellery hidden inside. You squealed like a little girl and squeezed me so tight that I thought you’d never let go. 

The wedding came and went in a flurry of colour and chaos. Within weeks, you pulled me to one side and whispered that blessed word in my ear: pregnant. You escaped my fertility woes, never having to endure the disappointment of countless single lines. In fact, you were pregnant with twins. My dreams of chubby-cheeked grandchildren to spoil were inches from being realised. Using your old dolls and the wrapper, I taught you how to carry your future children. While some cultures devised a way to carry twins simultaneously, I stuck to what I knew. I promised you that I’d be there to back one of the babies whenever you needed a second hand. 

As the months flew by, your belly swelled to the point that you could balance multiple bowls on top of it. Your husband took as much time off as he could. I picked up the slack whenever he wasn’t there. I’d spoon pepper soup into your mouth and leave Tupperwares filled with jollof rice so the two of you could avoid another takeaway. For the first time in years, you and the wrapper were rarely apart. Whether it was used as a blanket or tossed on the couch as decoration, you always kept it near you. 

Soon, much sooner than we expected, the big day arrived. Your husband drove you to the hospital, disobeying the speed limit as often as he could get away with it. Your father and I were right behind you, our car filled with home-cooked meals, a bundle of balloons, and the things you forgot. I had the wrapper draped around my shoulders. I knew seeing it would make you smile. 

We waited outside in a packed waiting room, our ears ringing from the cries of expectant mothers and newly born babies. I gripped your father’s hand so tightly that it turned white. When he withdrew it, cradling it like I’d broken his fingers, I turned my attention to your wrapper. I tied knot after knot in it, busying my hands to keep them from pulling my hair out. 

Hours passed that felt like years. We kept staring at your door, waiting for a nurse to come and call us. When your husband poked his head out instead, his face blotchy and his eyes wide, my stomach dropped. I screamed before they even told me the news. The midwives tried to steer me away from the bed and towards the cribs, but I had to see you. I had to squeeze your hand, fighting to ignore how cold it was. I had to whisper prayers and affirmations in your ears, pretending you could hear them. I had to plant a kiss on your sweat-drenched forehead for the last time. Then I turned to my son-in-law and held out my arms for him to collapse into. 

Two days have passed since then. They dragged like decades, but I have few memories from them. I barely remember holding my grandchildren for the first time. Now I’m standing before you, flanked by three of your masjid aunties, with a very different wrapper in my hand.

I lay it to the side and wash you, something I haven’t done in years. I close my eyes and escape to when you were a bath-hating baby You’d open your mouth and scream in defiance whenever the water touched your skin. When I force myself back to reality, the silence is deafening. 

With the aunties’ help, I lay the fabric over you. As I adjust it, I remember how I’d tuck your wrapper to make sure you were as comfortable as possible. As I wrap it around you, I see a younger you strutting around, showing off your new red and yellow ‘dress’. As I daub scent on your forehead, hands and feet, I feel like I’m back at home, crouched over the wrapper, trying to conceal the smell of spilled stew with your favourite fragrance. 

Soon, you’re wrapped up, but not in crimson Ankara. Muslims bury our dead in white. For a moment, I wonder if you’d prefer to be robed in the fabric that raised you. Then I remember you backing those tattered dolls with it, unfazed by your age and your swollen stomach. It’s only then that I know what to do. 

At my request, the ladies file out. I’m alone with you, my first and only child. Your face is obscured by white fabric, but I still look directly at you. I promise that I won’t throw the wrapper out, despite how close I was to doing it just last night. I vow to use it to back my grandchildren, and teach your husband to do the same. I’ll do it in public, holding my head high and offering smiles of solidarity to anyone I see wearing their babies. And when your kids outgrow it, just like you did, I’ll keep it for them to use for their own children. 

Now, though, while the babies are too small for it, I’ll cling to it whenever I need to. I’ll use it to muffle my cries before swallowing my grief and showing up for them. I swear all this with tears pouring down my face. Then I dry my eyes and walk away from you. My feet feel heavier with each step, but I don’t look back. I can’t. 

I rush towards my handbag and pull out the wrapper. Its once golden flowers are now more of a sad sandy colour. As I bury my face into it, I am convinced of one thing. That wrapper has played so many roles, and will play so many more. It will hold so many babies, and even more memories memories. It will continue to fade until it’s a shadow of the vibrant fabric that I bought so long ago. But it will always be yours.