The story of my birth is one that is worthy of a screenplay (or so I have been told). I cannot validate the truthfulness of that statement considering the emotional state that my infant-self must have been in (I mean, being expelled from my innocuous cocooned world of amniotic waters to the harsh environment called Earth where I had to teach my lungs to become accustomed to the intake of oxygen, in a matter of minutes, is traumatizing). #aint-nobody-got-time-for-checking-where-they-are-being-born-because-they-are-too-busy-trying-to-stay-alive
Word has it that I was born under an apple tree and my mother, in her panicked state, had to be rushed to a hospital in a wheelbarrow . . .
The tale is strange and unquestionably fascinating. The image of a twenty something year old woman wracked with labour pains, strapped to a wheelbarrow and being pushed up the rugged countryside of Chipinge is unfathomable! At least my future progeny have an enthralling tale to listen to on pouring days. I’ll probably tell this at all the dinner parties I go to. I’ll obviously tweak it and make my baby self sound like a hero.
They did eventually make it to a hospital and all the normal (boring ) and administrative stuff that usually happens after a birth happened .
This is why Africa is cool 🙂
Lots Of Lily Love ❤ (LOLL)