The dilemma of infertility

Dr Sekai Nzenza

Although she had flown all the way from Raleigh to Washington, then Johannesburg and finally landing at Harare International Airport several hours later, Simbiso looked as fresh as anything.

We wheeled her luggage to the car and before we got to the Zimbabwe Independence memorial, Piri asked Simbiso how many children she had now.

Simbiso shook her head and said she did not have any children.
“Yowee! Hauna mwana nanhasi? No children yet?”
For the past 10 years, Simbiso was living in America.

Piri was shocked and went on to ask why Simbiso was childless. Surprised, Simbiso replied, “Oh my God, what a question? I have barely landed and I am trying to take all this Zimbabwean life in. Give me a break, will you?” Simbiso spoke in English.

Her accent was mostly American now though some words were very Zimbabwean.
I was not sure whether I should translate all that to Piri.
Piri’s Grade Seven English is somewhat limited.

Simbiso had for a moment forgotten that she was back home. It happens when you are so used to speaking in English all the time.

It was going to take some acclimatising for Simbiso to speak in Shona. We are all cousins, Simbiso, Piri and I.

Our fathers were Sekuru Dickson’s sons from his four wives. My grandmother, Mbuya VaMandirowesa was the first wife.

We grew up at different times here in the village compound. I was the oldest and Piri was the youngest, three or four years younger than Simbiso.
Simbiso is the girl who comes after my other cousin Reuben. Reuben is the cousin in Australia, the one who was a teacher here before he went to Australia where he ended up working in a nursing home.

When Reuben migrated with his wife and children to Australia, Simbiso went to America through the church, as a visitor.

Ten years is a long time without coming back to the village. When her parents died, Simbiso could not come home because she could not leave America at all.
Her immigration papers were not in order.

Her visitor’s visa had long expired. 
If she had left to come for both funerals in the past 10 years, then the American Home Security Office was not going to allow her to come back in.
She mourned both her parents from afar.

Akatovachemera paphone!
Although she was not allowed to work in America Simbiso had a good job in a supermarket, packing cereal on shelves.
Later on she got promoted to the check out.
That is where she has been ever since.

Because she is now married to Dwayne, an African American, born and bred in Raleigh, North Carolina, Simbiso said America is home for her now. 
Her right to stay in America was approved earlier this year. Simbiso is now free to come back to the village and see her mother and father’s graves and all the other graves of people who died in the past 10 years.

We were sitting on the verandah of my grass-thatched hut in the village last week.
Just us women.
There was Tete Verina, Simbiso, Piri and myself. It had been a hot day but now it was cool and the sun was slowly changing to a golden red colour on its way to set over the Homa Mountains.
“Why are you infertile?” Tete Verina, my father’s sister asked. It was her role to do so.“Mudzinza redu rese. Zvekushaya mbereko zvatanga newe. Why have the ancestors laughed at you?” Tete’s face was very troubled.

Simbiso’s eyes remained focused on her Blackberry.
She was texting on Whats up.
She said infertility had nothing to do with bad luck.
It was something biological. Tete Verina shook her head.

“Am so glad, I’m not totally lost from civilisation anymore!” Simbiso said putting away her Blackberry and reaching out for some champagne from the cooler box. I said she should have come here five years ago.

“There was no network in the village compound at all. You had to go right down to the valley or up the mountain to get one or two bars of network,” I said.

“Thank the Lord Jesus I did not come back here then. What would I do without my Blackberry? I would die,” she said laughing. “Tete. Fanta?” Simbiso asked.
Tete nodded and Simbiso gave her a bottle of Fanta and a cup.

Tete Verina is a Mupostori. She does not drink but she does no mind us drinking around her.
“Saka wofa usina mbereko?” Tete asked, not letting go of the infertility subject. Tete Verina said there was no history of infertility in the whole of our extended family. History of not finding the right man? Yes, there were plenty of aunts, vanatete, who ended up with no man or the wrong man. But they still stayed with the man. One tete, whose name Tete Verina did not reveal, had children with various male relatives of her husband.

That was allowed because she had to remove the shame of childlessness from her name. She also wanted to give her husband the dignity of fatherhood even though the children were not biologically his.

“Did this tete’s husband know that the children were not his?” we asked.
Tete said it most likely the husband knew.
But what was the point of making noise about it? Who would listen to him?

After all, it was his own mother who arranged this sexual liaison between her daughter in law and her son’s brothers.

All the six children belonged to his brothers. This was an open village secret.
Piri shook her head and said childlessness was a curse. “No matter how ugly a woman is, she should have a child. Pane murume kana pasina, husband or no husband, a child must be born. True?”  Piri then gave the example of Ketina and how she helped her sister.

Ketina’s older sister Hepi was married to a man who lived somewhere near Dorowa Mine. After three years Hepi showed no sign of pregnancy even though she lived with her husband all the time. Hepi’s husband then made the journey to his in laws. Speaking through Hepi’s aunt, he said his vision was pretty good, meaning he was quite fertile. In his whole family, they were all gifted with good sight.

Hakuna asingaone. Hakuna akavigwa negonzo.  His in laws said he had paid his bride price very well and they had no complains at all. In return for his cows and to maintain the good relations between the families, they offered him Hepi’s beautiful young sister Ketina.

That was many years ago. Ketina was in my Grade Seven class. She went to live with her sister Hepi and her husband soon after finishing her examinations. She would have been 12 or more years old. Three years later, she had a child with Hepi’s husband. Both sisters were now married to their husband. Sometimes you saw Hepi happily carrying Ketina’s child Chipo on her back and hurrying back home to get Ketina to breastfeed the baby.

Hepi was called Mai Chipo while Ketina was called Mai Tipei after her second child. Their husband has since died and Ketina moved to town where she sells African artifacts at Mupedzanhamo market.   “Did you not see her the other day when we went to Mupedzanhamo?” Piri asked me. I said, yes, I saw her. She looked very well. “That woman did a great job for her sister. I want to do the same for you Simbiso,” Piri said. “Zvakaipei nhai Tete?”

Before Tete Verina could answer, she wanted to ask Simbiso more questions about her relationship with her husband and clearly establish who was at fault. She had a whole list of infertility causes. Among the list was the following: Taking family planning tablets before you get married. Getting injected with the drug Depo Provera before you get married.

Not sleeping with a man for too long can cause a lazy uterus and fibroids start growing where a baby should grow. Being lazy and fat then lacking exercise. Shavi rechirume, the spirit of a man sitting on you and claiming to own your body.

“Are any of these affecting you at all?”  Tete asked. Simbiso shook her head. She was not paying much attention at all because she was back to texting to her husband on “What’s up?” again.
Tete Verina got impatient. She raised her voice and said “Nhai mwana we hanzvadzi? Is that what they do in America, to keep talking to others on a phone when I am talking to you?”  Simbiso was startled.

She quickly put the phone away. “Sorry Tete. I just got carried away for a moment.” She replied in English again. I quickly apologised to Tete and said English was a habit that we have adopted for so long due to our diaspora experience. I was trying to make light of the situation.
“Have you tried other means of getting pregnant?” Tete asked. Simbiso explained the invitro methods and fertility tablets. “Tete, it has been seven years since Dwayne and I started living together. Believe me, we have tried everything.” Simbiso said.

Then Piri said it was good to have tried everything Western, now it was time to try something more traditional and effective. “Forget modern technology and all that in vitro business. If it was so good, you would have three children by now.  “What kind of child can be born after passing through a tube?”

Piri then presented a solution to Simbiso’s lack of children. “You take me to America and I make good friends with your husband.  If you both treat me kindly, I will give you a child.”
“Tete, there is no issue here. Hapana nyaya,” Piri continued. “I can go to America with Simbiso and save her all this money they are spending on doctors and technology. Duweini is a big guy. I saw the picture. He was a soldier. Soldiers have power as long as the Iraq bombs did not get too close to where it matters. Kune basa racho.

“Unlike other women I know my monthly cycle very well. If I go to America with you when you go back in January, give me your husband sometimes, then give me till October to deliver a baby for you,” Piri said. I gave her another can of beer from the Cooler box. Simbiso did not take Piri seriously at all. But Piri meant what she said.

“Asika, you are old, Piri,” Tete Verina said. Piri’s uterus was risky. What with her drinking, the baby would probably come out drunk.  ‘It might take time or it may not work at all.”  Turning to Simbiso, Tete said, “Over there in America, are there no other young Vahera relatives who can help you. You talk to them then ask your husband to give one of them his seed. That way, you can have a child. Do not allow yourself to die before you have a child.”

I said to Simbiso, this was surrogacy, the African way. Simbiso agreed and said in America it costs a lot of money to do that. Tete and Piri were lost to the conversation.  I explained the process. 
Tete said it would not cost that much here if it’s done among relatives. Would Simbiso consider coming back home with her husband for the sole purpose of identifying a relative to mother a child for Simbiso?

Simbiso shook her head and said it was not possible for Dwayne to do that. “Quite frankly, we are quite happy. Honestly. Sometimes Dwayne says what is the point of having a child when they are so many needy children in the world? We have not ruled out adoption either. It’s just that it takes time.”
Tete Verina looked at Simbiso and smiled sadly. Then Tete disappeared to the bush with a hoe. She came back with some roots. She crushed them in water and gave them to Simbiso.

Simbiso took sips from the brown bitter liquid, in between her champagne and texting to Dwayne.  She showed me one text and it read, “Hey honey, I got some special juju from Africa. No more technology. Prepare yourself for the arrival of the African Queen!”

With some luck, when Simbiso goes to America the medicine might very well work and a miracle child will come along. Piri’s offer to become a surrogate mother may not be required.
If traditional surrogacy no longer works to overcome infertility, then we have no choice but to simply accept technology or nature’s gift of no children. There is pleasure in bringing up other people’s children.

Dr Sekai Nzenza is a writer and cultural critic. She holds a PhD in International Relations and works as a development consultant.