A woman had two miscarriages.
One scarred her, the other hollowed her.
In both cases, she had a premonition and even though everyone doubted her, they ultimately regretted it, because she was right.
A mother knows. Listen to mothers. But that’s not the point of this piece.
The point of this piece is the difference between a scarring and a hollowing.
The first miscarriage was of a child with no name. A baby was expected but it was unknown. When the miscarriage occurred, what came next was accepted: an evacuation. Upon the evacuation, the dismembered parts were disposed of in the trash. As with all miscarriages, the baby’s kicks lingered long after the pain of the process had passed. But the kicks did not bring pain; they brought hope.
The second miscarriage was of a child with a name. This baby was not just expected, it was known. When the miscarriage occurred, it was impossible to let go. Then it started to rot and threatened the life of its mother, but still she refused to let go. The father stepped in and chose to let go of who was lost and hold on to who was still here, but what he didn’t realize was that both were lost. There was no evacuation; there was a birth, but only one cry—that of a mother, interrupted. The child was baptized and given a proper burial. There were no kicks after that. There was no hope.
A child’s life starts with two cries—one of the mother and the other of the child, but it starts to have meaning with a name.
When a name is lost, everything left is hollow.
– Osasu Oviawe