A Barren Womb

By J. Daaud

She slaps dough against plastic bowl as dusk settles upon the African horn.  As she squats upon concrete floor, she joins sister, aunt, mother, and neighbor in the evening chorus of hands kneading flour and water, preparing tomorrow’s laxoox.  Though this day is done, she’s planning for another.   Flies whirl above her head, eavesdropping on her thoughts.

At dawn’s first light, she’ll shuffle calloused feet across cold floor, pick up rug, and bend weary knees eastward.  She’ll utter memorized prayers, then the heart wrenching one she’s whispered for years—please, just once—the feel of swelling belly, touch of tiny hand, smell of dimpled skin, sound of little feet pounding concrete.  Every day she’ll continue to ask, beg, plead.  She’ll ward of the Jinn and the dark question that lurks in the cobwebs of her mind: What if husband leaves for a fruitful womb? 

The corners of her mouth curl into a frown.  She punches the dough down.  Flies scatter as she cries, “No!” 

Tomorrow she’ll prove herself worthy once again. She’ll work hard cleaning the foreigner’s house, leaving sparkling floors, shiny pots, fresh laundry.  Her husband will expect to see the fruit of her hard labor, and she’ll find more ways to make money.  She’ll take vegetables to the market before the other ladies and won’t come home until she sells every last one.

When her husband comes home from the market, with a down cast face from lack of work, and the scent of khat heavy on his breath, she’ll make his mouth water with the smell of crushed garlic and cumin.  They’ll gather around a bowl filled with pasto, and she’ll watch with delight as he shovels fingers into his mouth.  When he grunts with satisfaction, she’ll blush deep.  All the other ladies know she’s the best cook on the street.   She’ll continue to fill his stomach to evade her empty womb.

Then after resting from the heat of the afternoon sun, she’ll visit her neighbors and catch up on the latest gossip.  She’ll find out about the unmarried women, and emulate their beauty, their decorated hands and feet.  With women she trusts, she’ll dance away her fears to lively music, and jingling bells.

The slapping stops.  The night is still.  She swallows hard as her empty womb taunts.  It’s been three years of praying, and tongues wagging; three long years of questioning stares at all baby celebrations.  The spiders are back spinning webs in her mind.  Is her labor enough?  Is she enough? 

She covers the dough, swatting away flies that sniff her shame.  Tomorrow’s a new day, and she hopes that this bread will satisfy both her and her husband in the morning. 

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Please pray for the women in East Africa who experience deep shame from infertility.  Pray that they would find hope in the bread of life—Jesus Christ, and experience deliverance from fear and shame.