When I woke up this morning I had absolutely no idea what was in store for me in the next few hours. My first day of 'leave', taken so I could properly look after and entertain Marianne and Lisa, I was taking absolute pleasure in the fact that the whole day stretched out ahead of me sparkling with sunshine and time to relax. I imagined nothing but a lazy start, a yummy breakfast with friends (yey!), a wander about town for a little bit of Zebilla sightseeing, and plenty of chilled out relaxation. A very nice change to my 6am starts and 10-12 hour working days, out at dawn and home after sunset (!).

So I stretched (the Ghanaian term for having a bit of a lie in which to them is anything after about 5am), got up, pottered about, did some yoga, prepared breakfast...and then figured I had some time before the girls got up, and so I went to visit one of my neighbours, a young boy that some students from the University have decided to sponsor to set up his own business. All completely in my own little world and oblivious to what was going on right next door.

I wandered up past the mud compound house next door, where the old lady lives who is a little bit crazy (she has schizophrenia and can frequently be found / heard having rants and raves wth someone that no one else can see but her). This lady is known around here as a witch, but somehow she has become one of my good friends and we greet every single day, either when she comes to knock on my door, babies and little toddlers in tow, when I'm getting ready for work, or when I pass by her house and find her singing to herself and drawing pictures in the sand with a stick on my way to work. I have no idea what she says when she talks to me, but somehow we have a really lovely connection.

Anyway, this morning, as I passed by, she wasn't sitting in her usual spot on the big black rotting tyre that serves as her armchair perched right outside the entrance to the house, instead she was pacing up and down muttering about something...I had no idea what. She turned to me and said something unusual...but she always says something unusul, so I didn't think much of it and I said my usual hellos and greetings, smiled and carrried on past.

When I got to the young boys house, he was still in bed (typical teenage even here in Ghana!), so I was invited to breakfast which his mother was cooking on her little charcoal stove in the mud-made compound of their very African house. By the time the boy emerged, I was super keen and ready to talk business, but to be honest he was a little too bleary eyed for that just yet. Then I noticed an awful big cut on his arm that was really swollen and oozing with puss, and clearly very infected. He said he'd fallen off his bicycke a few days earlier, and as the family can't afford health insurance he had't been able to get to a doctor for it to be treated. It was a real mess, so with my 'first aid at work' head switched right on I took hold of his not-so-disgusting other elbow and marched him back towards my house for some serious anti-septic treatment.

As we were on our way back, passing once again the lovely old lady who was still pacing about and humming a tune, she said exactly the same thing again as she had said to me earlier, except this time with a bit more urgency. I once again smiled and shook her head and said the few words that I know, but Ayuuba's eyes opened wide and his jaw was dropping to the floor.... "Sophia has given birth!" he said.

And so she had. The two teeny little girls that I see every morning playing with their crazy grandma, tottling about in just their knickers, huge round bellies shining in the sun and their big brown eyes wider than ever in amazement as though every time they see me it's the first time they saw a white lady all over again, were giggling all over the place and swinging between high pitched bursts of giddyness, and hushed quiet moments of shock and awe as they bumbled about playing in the open compound area of the house.

I found the old lady behind me, holding my hand and ushering me into the chaos, whispering something to me in Kusaal, and smiling at me and giving me reassuring looks at me that, it's ok, you are welcome here. I was led towards a wooden door, painted bright blue against bright green mud walls, and was gestured to enter. As the door creaked open, there she was, the girls beautiful mother, on the floor of her mud hut of a home, and with her brand new baby girl all red and wrinkly and covered in goo in her arms. The baby and been born literally minutes before I entered, and an older lady was knelt on the floor just cutting the umbilical cord. I think that's the way it was meant to be...my 'first aid at work' training didn't cover emergency home-births in mud huts in Africa. I couldn't believe it, it was one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen. A beautiful two-minute old baby born under the African sun in the shade of the house built by the hands of her grandfather.

What was more beautiful than anything though, was the strength and spirit of the mother. There was no doctor, no nurse or healthworker, no drugs, no-one to hold her hand, not even a glimpse of something to help with the pain, just a pure and natural homebirth. Of course, my 'safe motherhood practices' head went into overdrive, as I was surrounded by all the things we advocate for women not to do...but actually both mother and baby were fine, and for now the last thing they needed was for me to start talking about pre-natal care, the benefits of skilled deliveries (in the hospital) and what to do next. For now, it was time for them to just sit and be in the moment. The wonderful, life-changing moment.

And so there we were. Sophia welcomed me in and urged me to sit down, smiling, happy, looking so uttery peaceful. And we just sat and coo'ed over the baby for a while. People from all about the village came, friends, family, relatives, children, all excited about the birth, and all clearly with a part in it, seeing as whole communities here take responsibility for their children. The whole time I was greeted and encouraged to be there. I was just glad that I had recently built up a friendship with this lady, so at least me being here wasn't all just about me being white. Or at least that's what I thought until she said "You can take her"... and then "and you can take one of the older ones for your mother". Luckily I've been here ong enough to know that when someone says this, they don't really mean it, it's just their way of being kind and saying that you are part of their community too now. It still came as a shock of course, and I was like "noooo, she's your baby girl!" but she just laughed at my typical nasara reaction and continued to offer her children, and her sisters children to me. As I was about to leave, she asked me a more serious question.."will you name her?". Wow. I just didn't know what to say. Being something so unfamiliar to me, I was a bit shocked, but I understood that it was meant as a gift to me, and to their family also. So I agreed. And then I panicked...pants, what name?!! "Blessing!" was the first thing that popped into my head. "Nah-ah, Blessing is here" said the old lady, ponting to one of the little gurgling children in the corner. Hmmm..ok... "how about Emiliana?"...and again (what are the chances) "I am here!" said the sister-in-law. Flip. Thank God for Google and for 3G in Ghana! I quickly got out my iphone and looked up some Muslim baby names on the internet, not very natural I know, but I found what I was looking for. "Let's call her baby Aaila... it means 'beautiful like the moon'". There was smiles and oohs, and coo's and mmm's, and with that everybody agreed. So baby Aaila it was. It took them a few days to get used to it, when I went rounda few days later all the children were saying all kinds of mixed up things, Aliyah, Aleela, Alooly... but eventually they got it right.

Of course after all of this fussing, we had to get back to the fact that the mother had just given birth without medical care on the floor of her house, and had to make sure she and baby got to the hospital as fast as possible for their injections and after-care. But the moment stayed with me for the rest of the day and since. What an experience. What a gift.

With love from Ghana,

Em

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