Explore Naija
Real stories. True voices. The heart and soul of everyday Nigerians.
Hello Chief and my amazing Explorers!
I’m Nne, and today, I’m finally stepping out of silent reader mode to share my labour room madness. It’s one for the books — If you’re pregnant or planning to be, please grab a cold drink. You’ll need it.
So, I got married in October 2020, and my husband and I had this romantic idea of enjoying each other for two years before bringing in a baby. LOL. You’d think it was our decision. My mother and in-laws said “over their dead body.” My mother, especially, said “You need to hold one child first before you start that rubbish you’re saying.”
As usual, I lost. I got pregnant by the end of November 2020.
By January 2021, I was convinced the pregnancy was out for blood. I mean, who knew pregnancy could gift someone with ulcer? I was gasping for air in the middle of the night and had to be rushed to the hospital. Between the vomiting, endless spitting, and food aversions, I started looking like a shadow of myself.
My diet? Cabin biscuits soaked in milk — breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Yet somehow, my glucose level was high, and my legs swelled like I was carrying twins. I barely recognized myself. Pregnancy used me to see shege.
When Hormones Enter Driver’s Seat
It wasn’t until 6th month six that I started feeling human again — the so-called honeymoon phase. And that’s when I became a whole different woman. My hormones said jump, and I asked, “how high?”
Let me just say it straight: my husband saw pepper.
I craved everything and demanded it immediately. He became husband of the house and chef of the kitchen. If you’re reading this, dear hubby, thank you for not running away.
At 39 weeks and 3 days, with my hospital bag packed and baby expected anytime, something crazy happened. On the night of August 25th at exactly 8:42 p.m., I suddenly wanted one thing: intense cowgirl style. Yes, you read that right.
My husband blinked twice, unsure if I was serious. But I mounted like a warrior queen, belly and all. The climax? 10/10.
Afterwards, I opened my garri with cold water and added plenty milk. Hubby was like, “But babe, there’s milk in the fridge!” The death stare I gave him? Silence. That was the wise choice.
August 26th: Let the Games Begin
By midnight, I noticed the show — pinkish mucus. Contractions started, spaced about 10 minutes apart. They weren’t strong yet, but I knew what was happening (thanks to my mom, a retired midwife, who had made me read all her medical books. I was armed with plenty knowledge).
By morning, I went to the hospital. Let me pause to ask: Why do nurses have no fear of God?!
One nurse shoved her hand into my precious kpekus like she was searching for buried treasure. I screamed, and she calmly said, “You’re just 2cm. Come back later.”
I went home, but by 5 PM, I couldn’t stand straight. Thank God I had eaten Afang soup o, because what came next was war.
Back at the hospital, I was 6cm and admitted. I didn’t go with my hospital bag, so I called hubby to bring it. He came around 6:30 PM, only to be chased away by my mother.
Yes, my mother. She told him not to say sorry to me. “Nobody died!” she said. I wanted to throw her slipper, but contractions no gree.
Contractions That Opened the Gates of Heaven
By 7 cm, my progress stalled. The midwife gave me one hot drip and whispered “Just relax, this will help.”
LIE! That drip unlocked contractions that took me straight to the gates of heaven. I saw white light. I met Jesus. But he told me gently, “My daughter, it’s not your time. Go back.”
I screamed “JESUS HELP ME!” over and over. When I mistakenly screamed “Mommy!”, that same woman said, “Don’t call me, call Jesus!” I swear, my mom is liquid metal in human form.
They moved me to the labour ward — and for the record, those beds are iron rods with one wrapper. Is that not abuse?
Now time to push. Doctor said, “Push when contractions come.” But my body said no. I couldn’t push. I started crying like a baby begging, “Please help me!”
The midwives threatened to leave me, and my mother shouted at them: “Don’t guilt-trip her! There’s something called assisted labour!” At some point one of them said “Let madam deliver her child then!”
Ha! I screamed, “You people want to kill me ooo!”
10:25 PM – The Miracle Moment
Then it happened — at 10:25 PM on the dot, my precious baby girl made her grand entrance into the world. The moment I heard her cry, all the pain evaporated. The room felt like heaven opened.
Tears streamed down my face. For that one moment alone, I would do it all again.
But wait — the doctor cut me somehow. My mother said if I had seen the cut, I’d have disowned my own kpekus. They stitched me like I was torn jeans. But hey, I survived.
Everyone praised me. First-time mum, no insults, no swearing at my husband, no shouting down the hospital. Just calm, strength, and heavenly screaming.
Hospital Bill Wahala
Next morning, we were discharged. Bill: ₦86,000.
For what, please? No pain relief, no fan, no AC, no massage, and you want 86k?
I told my husband, “You better go and bargain. I have born now, nobody’s chasing me.” They eventually collected ₦70,000.
Omugwo & Beyond
We got home to start omugwo. Honestly, it wasn’t sweet like the movies. We were managing financially, so there was no jollof joy, just survival and gratitude.
Now my baby girl is a year plus, and my mother is giving me side-eye again like, “Shey time never reach for number two?”
But this time, my NO is strong like Mount Kilimanjaro. No means no.
Romance is sweet, marriage is beautiful, but that labour room? Na battleground. If you’re reading this and your time is near, fear not. Women are powerful beyond words. You’ve got this.
