It took almost six years.
Six years. And more than one miscarriage.
By the time I finally sat in front of the consultant and he said, “Choose a date to have your baby,” I didn’t hesitate.
“Friday,” I said, whatever date but on the Friday.
A good day to be born. A good day to die, I thought quietly.
I was to have a caesarean because I had a fibroid blocking the way.
Pregnancy was not the glowing, cradling-your-bump-in-sunlight version people post about. I puked my way through it — four hospital admissions, each one introducing me unwillingly to the terrifying possibilities that can sit inside hope.
Fibroid degeneration. Just one of the phrases I wish I could forget.
I learned that pain can be white. Not red. Not sharp. White. White-hot.
Subhanallah.
And through it all, I kept saying:
Fa bi ayyi alaa’i rabbikumaa tukadhibaan — Which of the favours of your Lord will you deny?
Favour? This?
Yes. Even this.
Because while he withdrew, Allah sent helpers.
Ade – my old boarding school friend. My neighbours Mrs Edwards, Aunty Shola, Idil, Hibo and their Mum – Hooyo – even their exchange student Hatice, who has become a lifelong friend. My Aunty Jamilah. Sisi Funmi. My friend Aisha.
They fed me. Sat with me. Checked on me. Refused to let me disappear into isolation.
Beautiful people. Carefully placed mercy.
I tried to bring my mum over on a visa. I couldn’t. Not as a dependent.
That heartbreak is another chapter entirely.
And then came the morning of my caesarean.
I was ready.
He refused to let me order a taxi.
“We’ll take the bus,” he said.
Ya Rabb.
If I am going to die today, I thought, I am riding the bus to theatre.
It sounds dramatic now. But it carried the weight of every whispered negativity that had shadowed my pregnancy. Every moment I felt I had to be cautious with my joy – as though too much happiness might tempt it to disappear.
As if I was unsure of His mercy.
We arrived. Everything moved quickly.
And then…
They showed her to me.
This tiny marvel. My firstborn.
And the world shifted.
It has never been the same again.
When Allah blesses you with motherhood – when He entrusts you with an amanah – your entire lens changes.
You are no longer just a woman navigating life.
You are a vessel. Voice. School. Comfort. Safety. First love. First language. First example of faith.
It is not a curse.
It is not something you endure “for a man.”
It is not a side effect of marriage.
It is a blessing for you.
Jannah lies at the feet of mothers. Not because we are perfect. But because we are chosen to carry what breaks and builds us at the same time.
That Friday, I didn’t just give birth to a child.
I was born too.
And I have never walked the world the same way since.Welcome to Sisterlink. A Digital Village.Because even the strongest women were never meant to do this alone.