Meet Fakira

Everyone, meet Fakira. Or, as her big brother calls her, “Lydia.”

Fakira is the granddaughter of my neighbor / adopted village mother, Diddi, and I’ve learned so much about the traditions surrounding babies because of her.

It started when Aissatou (nicknamed Ai), Diddi’s daughter, arrived in Nyambaka in November. Ai lives in Douala, Cameroon’s largest city, with her husband and their two-year-old son Ahmed, but traditionally, women return to their mother’s village to give birth so that she can assist with the delivery. Ai’s pregnancy was without incident, and like most women here, she chose not to learn the sex of her baby. I talked to her about the baby quite often during the last weeks of her pregnancy: She confided that she wanted a daughter, and we talked about possible names. I suggested Yasmine, the village name of the volunteer who preceded me, and with whom Diddi’s family had been very close, but Ai rejected this idea, saying she had a cousin named Yasmine that she didn’t get along with.

Unfortunately, I was in Bamenda for In-Service Training (IST) when Fakira was born in early December, but I can imagine what the delivery was like. I’ll offer a short anecdote by way of explanation: The first time I went to the small health center in Nyambaka, I was waiting in the doctor’s office and heard soft noises, somewhere between a labored sigh and a small grunt.

“What’s going on in the other room?” I asked Kara, who was working then as a health volunteer.

“Oh, she’s giving birth,” she replied matter-of-factly. “She’s actually making more noise than most Fulani women, but this is her first child. She’s fifteen. Do you want to go in and watch?”

No, I didn’t. This was perhaps a month after I’d arrived in Nyambaka, and my presence was still a subject of discussion, so I thought it’d be best to not be the weird nassara who randomly showed up to watch someone give birth. But all this is to say that when a Fulani woman gives birth, she’s surrounded by female family members and is encouraged not to cry out.

When I met Fakira upon my return from Bamenda, she didn’t yet have a name, though Ahmed would point at her and say “Li-dah” (his attempt at saying “Lydia”). Apparently, she was so pale when she was born that Ahmed started calling her by the name of the only white person he knew.

And so she was Lydia for the days leading up to her “baptism”—although Diddi’s family is Muslim, this is the term everyone used for the day she was named. Babies here receive their names a week after they’re born. Ai told me that it was to bring good luck, but I assume the custom started when infant mortality was more prevalent.

The baptism itself was like the other fêtes (celebrations) I’ve seen here: The women prepare copious amounts of food, everyone dresses in their finest clothes, and the house is opened up to everyone. Women sit in the salon and talk about their families, and men sit outside on the veranda and talk about… well, actually, I’m not sure, since I was in the salon. In any case, it was a great deal of fun, with lots of gifts, too much food, and Fakira being constantly passed around from woman to woman so everyone could fawn over her.

Since then, Fakira has started to gain weight. Her eyes have cleared and started to focus. And she’s peed on me. I’d never been urinated on by a human before, but there’s a first time for everything, and it’s almost inevitable when a newborn doesn’t wear diapers. Her brother doesn’t call her “Lydia” anymore, just “bébé” (baby), which I admit is a little disappointing, but it’s for the best. I imagine Fakira is going to grow up to be a strong personality—a forceful, independent woman like her mother and grandmother—and she shouldn’t have to stand in the shadow of someone else’s name.