41. Expecting mothers …

When I first started going out with my lovely wife, we discovered unexpected things about each other. Once we got beyond the unbridled physical passion, (on my part anyway; hers was more an unbridled physical forbearance), we each realised that our new sweetheart had certain annoying attributes which needed fixing. As you might imagine, mine are still being fixed. Wives have an uncanny talent for fine-tuning the end-marital-product.

By contrast, I was almost completely happy with the product I was getting:    

       

   

           Mis 2015                                                  Mis 1973

… and indeed a short while into the relationship, I tore up the receipt.

There was one thing about my beautiful inamorata, however, that drove me potty: Patience.

“Patience? A worthy and desirable attribute in a person, surely?”, I hear you say.

And you would be right … up to a point.

“Up to a point?? A point where impatience is better than calm equipoise? Surely not?”,

I hear you add.

(I will be OK from here on in, by the way, if you want to take a break from interrupting people’s blogs.)

Yes, there is indeed a point where impatience is better than calm equipoise. And it is this: green traffic lights. Who in their right mind (other than my wife-to-be), slows down at green traffic lights, ‘in case they turn red’? What sort of mad sealing-of-one’s-own-fate is that? Of course they might turn red! That’s what they do! They are traffic lights, for Pity’s Sake!!! We are already being overtaken by octagenarians recovering from hip surgery, so yes, they will indeed be red by the time we get there!!! We cannot spend the rest of our lives together stopping at both red and green traffic lights!!!!

Anyway, you get the point. Miriam is a naturally patient person, and I am not, (although I am considerably better for the four decades of uxorial effort put into upgrading me).

(Before moving on, by the way, let me just point out that natural impatience is not, in itself, a vice. It has, occasionally, stood me in good stead – for instance in surgical crises, where the stop-at-green equivalent might be, “Hi everyone! How are things? And the family? Oh my! Bernie! Is that green you are wearing?! It’s funky, man!! It was great fun last Friday, wasn’t it? Do you know, sometimes we should just take deep breaths and suck in the pure joy of our friendship. But not now, because I just cut the aorta by mistake.” 

I freely admit that this is a wildly inappropriate stereotype of patient people, and that they are almost always right. And that patience even in surgery is a key attribute. I just needed to get it off my chest.)

Funnily enough, however, something within impatience does have another, positive, and somewhat more unlikely role. Unlikely, because I am referring to a role in Africa, where patience is traditionally measured on a different spectrum; (archetypally, where ‘never’ is only just above mid-point). To be impatient in an African project is to self-explode. Indeed, if you look carefully in the bush around where you intend your project to take place, you might well find the spleen of a predecessor who had a similar idea.

Why, then, am I feeling a bit sanguine at my choleric disposition? Well, it seems that when you strip away the negative aspects of impatience – the bad vibes; the intolerance; the jumping to conclusions; the making mistakes; etc – you are left with something actually pretty useful: Expectation. The expectation that, at the right time, the right thing will happen. (A bit like preparing a crab for the table: when you take off the bits that pinch you and the bits that poison you, there is something worth having inside.) (If you are fond of crab.)

This type of expectation is not vague or misty. It is an Expectation. It knows what it is after, knows it is coming, and is waiting, bright-eyed and alert, for it to arrive. It is not to be denied.

The setting up of Tushikamane took two-and-a-half years, and demanded not just patience, but a type of steadfast, quiet determination on behalf of many people, which I, for my part, was not very good at. But now, we have begun. The teams are trained; equipped; locally commissioned; accepted. They have now entered the small collections of mud-huts in distant Tunguli and Msamvu, and have begun to form women’s groups. These groups will be taken through a process whereby they explore the roots of the problems that kill them and their children. Thereafter, it will be the women themselves who lead the process of prioritizing which problems each hamlet is going to tackle.

Here is an excerpt from the February report of Wilbard Mrase, the Project Director:

“Tushikamane project is progressing well; already three women’s groups are formed at Kwiboma in Tunguli and Dibabala and Kipera in Msamvu village.

Each group has a chairperson and a secretary.

Kwiboma has 18 women in the group and the group is called Amani, (which means ‘Peace’)

Dibabala has 30 women in the group and group is called Upendo. (which means ‘Love).

Kipera has 18 women in the group, name of the group not yet given.

These three hamlets Kwiboma, Dibabala and Kipera decided/agreed to meet every Saturday at 2Pm, Sunday at 2Pm and Friday at 9Am respectively every week.

… On 27^th and 28^th January we will be in Tunguli and Msamvu in order facilitate establishment of another four women groups (two groups in each village)”

     

                    Kwiboma Group

Upendo Group

  

Kipera Group

So. It’s happening. We have women’s groups in remote villages in Tanzania; where 10% of children die and maternal death is a frequent visitor. The expecting mothers for the first time will have an empowered and legitimate voice in determining what to what to do about these tragedies.

And we also have an Expectation; an Impatience: to consign these avoidable deaths to history.