Bongolistically,
Mallam O.
The morning had begun like any other in the small village of Warima. Tha Mariatu woke before dawn, her body still aching from the previous day’s work. Her three-month-old son, Saidu, stirred beside her on the thin mattress they shared, his tiny fists opening and closing as he began to fuss with hunger.
“Shh, papa, little one,” Tha Mariatu whispered, lifting him to her breast. Saidu latched quickly, but Tha Mariatu’s mind was already racing through her day’s tasks. The krain-krain leaves needed harvesting for the market, and her mother-in-law had reminded her twice about the husk rice that must be pounded before her husband returned from his week-long trip to his home.
A rooster crowed, marking the true beginning of the day. Tha Mariatu glanced anxiously at the growing light filtering through the gaps in the wooden window. There was never enough time for her. Oftentimes she would weep.
“Mariatu!” Her mother-in-law’s voice called from outside. “The water buckets are empty, and the fire needs tending!”
Saidu was still feeding, his eyes closed in contentment. Making a quick decision, Tha Mariatu remembered what the village elders had taught her. She gently pinched Saidu’s nostrils closed with her left hand while continuing to feed him with her right. It was how the women in Warima had fed babies for generations when they needed to hurry the feeding along—a practice her own aunt had used.
“This way he will finish quickly,” her mother-in-law had explained when Ibrahim was born. “Babies waste time breathing when they should be swallowing.”
Saidu’s rhythm changed. He gulped rapidly now, his tiny body tense against hers. Tha Mariatu felt a moment’s unease but pushed it aside. This was tradition. This was necessity.
Then suddenly, Saidu’s body jerked. His eyes flew open, wide with panic. When Tha Mariatu released his nose, expecting him to take a breath, he remained rigid, his face turning from red to a terrifying undesirable shade.
“No, no, no!” Tha Mariatu cried out, sitting Saidu up and patting his back frantically. “Mother! Come quickly!”
Her mother-in-law rushed in, took one look at Saidu, and took him from Mariatu’s trembling hands. She turned him face down across her forearm and delivered four sharp blows between his shoulder blades. Nothing changed.
“Call Aminata!” her mother-in-law commanded, referring to the village’s traditional birth attendant who helped with all matters concerning infants.
Neighbours gathered as Tha Mariatu’s screams were heard. Ya Aminata arrived, her face grave as she attempted various traditional remedies—holding Saidu upside down, placing herbs beneath his tongue, whispering prayers into his ear. Minutes stretched into an eternity as Saidu’s body grew limper, his lips now a frightening blue.
“The hospital in Mile 47,” said a young man who had recently returned from Freetown, the capital city. “He needs a doctor now!”
Tha Mariatu didn’t hesitate. Against the protests of some elders who insisted traditional methods should be given more time, she climbed into a vehicle that had stopped to buy produce at the market.
“Go, go!” she begged the driver, tears streaming down her face. A young man accompanied her.
Tha Mariatu whispered into Saidu’s ear the entire time, begging him to hold on, promising to never rush his feedings again if only he would take one breath.
At the hospital, doctors in white coats rushed toward them as they arrived. Saidu was whisked away immediately, leaving Tha Mariatu standing in the entrance, her empty arms still curved as if holding her child.
“What happened?” a nurse asked, leading Tha Mariatu to a chair in the waiting area.
Through her tears, Tha Mariatu explained about the feeding, about holding Saidu’s nose. The nurse’s face remained carefully neutral, but her eyes reflected a deep concern.
“This is not the first time we have seen this,” the nurse said quietly. “This practice—it can cause babies to choke. Sometimes fatally.”
Hours passed in the hallway. Tha Mariatu sat motionless, her milk-stained wrapper drawn tight around her waist. When the doctor finally appeared, Mariatu braced herself for the worst.
“Your son is stable,” the doctor said, his face showing both relief and gravity. “But it was very close, Mariatu. Saidu suffered from severe aspiration—milk entered his lungs when he gasped for air. We had to intubate him and drain his lungs. Had you arrived even thirty minutes later, we could not have saved him.”
Tha Mariatu’s legs gave way beneath her, and the nurse caught her as she collapsed in relief and shock.
“Can I see him?” she whispered.
The doctor nodded. “He will need to stay here for a few days. We need to monitor him for pneumonia and make sure his oxygen levels remain stable.”
In the days that followed, Tha Mariatu barely left Saidu’s side. She slept in a chair next to his hospital crib, waking whenever a nurse or doctor came to check on him. Though Saidu was now being fed through a tube, Tha Mariatu dutifully expressed her milk every few hours, determined that he would have her nourishment even in this strange new way.
On the third day, an older doctor sat down beside her. Unlike the others, who had been kind but hurried, he seemed to have time to talk.
“Saidu is recovering well,” he began, “but I want to make sure you understand what happened.”
With gentle patience, he explained infant physiology—how babies coordinate breathing and swallowing, why blocking their noses disrupts this delicate balance, and the dangers of aspiration pneumonia.
“I’ve been a doctor for thirty years,” he told her. “I have seen too many babies who did not survive what Saidu survived. This practice—it comes from love and necessity, I understand—but it is dangerous.”
“But the work,” Tha Mariatu questioned, her voice small. “Women have so much to do. How can they feed so slowly?”
The doctor acknowledged this reality but suggested she speak with the hospital’s community health worker, a woman named Fatmata who had once lived in a village much like Warima.
“My grandmother taught my mother to feed babies the same way,” Fatmata confessed. “But we now know better ways that keep babies safe and still allow mothers to manage their work.”
“The work will always be there,” Fatmata said, “but a child’s life cannot be replaced.”
A week later, Saidu was well enough to return home. His lungs had cleared without developing pneumonia, though the doctor warned that he might be more susceptible to respiratory infections for some time. Before they left, the hospital staff insisted on teaching Tha Mariatu proper feeding techniques, which she practiced under their watchful eyes.
When Tha Mariatu and Saidu returned to Warima, they were greeted with celebration—but also with whispers. Some elders viewed the hospital intervention with suspicion, suggesting that traditional methods would have worked if given more time. Others questioned whether Mariatu had performed the feeding technique incorrectly.
That night, as Tha Mariatu sat outside her house with Saidu sleeping peacefully against her chest, her mother-in-law joined her.
“You will feed him the proper way now,” she stated, not asking a question.
“I will feed him the safe way,” Tha Mariatu replied quietly. “The way that will not send us back to that hospital.”
Her mother-in-law was silent for a long moment. “I fed all my children as my mother taught me. As her mother taught her. None choked.”
“You were fortunate,” Mariatu said. “The doctor told me many babies are not so lucky. Saidu was almost not so lucky.”
More days passed. Tha Mariatu struggled to complete her work while feeding Saidu at his own pace. Some days, she felt she was failing at everything—the krain-krain was harvested late, the meals were prepared hurriedly, and still, Saidu seemed to be constantly hungry.
Then one evening, her husband returned from his journey. After greeting him and sharing the story of Saidu’s near-tragedy, Tha Mariatu expected anger or dismissal. Instead, he watched her feed Saidu the new way, allowing the baby to breathe naturally between swallows.
“My sister’s second son died while feeding,” he said suddenly. “The elders said it was an evil spirit that took him, but he choked just as you described Saidu choking.”
He was quiet for a moment.
Eid Mubarak
Mallam O.
