The Story Of My Birth

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,ย  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 . . .

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YES WAY, ย GIRLFRIEND!

The tale is strange ย and unquestionably fascinating. ย 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! ย At least my future progeny have an enthralling tale to listen to on pouring days. ย 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 ๐Ÿ™‚

Lots Of Lily Love โค (LOLL)

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