A Morning of Weighing Babies
Print this Page- By Kris Holloway
- Country: Mali
- Dates of Service: 1989–1991
Excerpt from Monique and the Mango Rains: Two Years With a Midwife in Mali by Kris Holloway.
Monique opened her tin trunk and took out the scale, a round disk like a clock face, marked off in kilograms, with a steel ring to hang it from. The scale reminded me of something from a corner grocery store in my childhood, only this one had a sling rather than a tray dangling from it. I took it from her and stood on a chair to suspend it from a hook near the doorframe. I attached the newly washed cloth harness (a frightened babe had wet it last week) as Monique got out a packet of blank charts for new arrivals. A chart recorded a child's progress—or decline—in the first years of life. Mothers were gathering outside. It was time to begin weighing babies.
The first woman came up and gave us her child's chart, retrieving it out of a deep fold in her pagne as if by sleight of hand. The clinic did not have a filing cabinet, so it was the mother's responsibility to keep the chart. I took the thin little girl and put her in the sling.
"Seven and one-half kilograms": Less than 17 pounds.
"And she is over one year old," Monique said as she unfolded the green, tattered paper and recorded the weight on the graph according to the child's age.
The graph was divided into colored zones: green meant fine, yellow beware, and red severely malnourished. The color coding was intended to make the chart easy to interpret for people who were not literate, which meant everyone in town except Monique and a handful of men. I had quickly noticed a trend. Most of the really young babies were healthy, but after they turned a year old or so, many dipped into the yellow and red zones.
"She is in the yellow," Monique said to the mother in Bambara as I got the child out of the sling. "She has lost weight. Has she been sick?"
"Yes," the woman answered, and they began a dialogue in Minianka. Monique raised her voice a little as other women gathered in the doorway to listen in and learn, some coming inside to sit on the floor of the clinic and others standing just outside. Monique used her arms and hands when speaking, clearly but gently pushing her words toward her audience. She looked around and made eye contact with everyone. The mothers clicked their tongues against the back of their throats in understanding. When the impromptu lesson ended, another mother approached with her baby, and the rest of the group dispersed onto the porch, picking up their conversations where they'd left off.
"That woman is pregnant again, her ninth child," Monique explained to me in French as I weighed the next infant. "She stopped nursing her child when she realized she was pregnant."
"Why?" I took the squalling infant out of the sling and handed him back to his mother. "This one weighs eight kilos."
"Ten months old. Still in the green, but barely." Monique carefully marked the chart before answering my question. "It is believed that the milk becomes bad for the nursing baby when a new one is growing inside. So she weaned the child right away and put her on adult food. The girl has had diarrhea ever since. I told her and the other mothers about the importance of not weaning abruptly, and about the importance of putting more time between their pregnancies. These are very, very common problems here."
She reached behind her, where Basil nestled in his sling on her back, and patted his bottom and protruding pudgy leg.
"He is almost four months old, three years younger than his sister Geneviève. And I will wait again to have my next baby. I don't care what le gars says," she added, lowering her voice.
Did François want another baby already? If so, how would Monique prevent it? I did not get a chance to ask.
"I ni sogoma," came a sluggish voice. Monique's sister-in-law Elise appeared in the doorway. She had cut to the front of the line and now approached Monique. She walked so pigeon-toed that her big toes almost touched. Her hand was wrapped in a strip of pagne. Strapped to Elise's back was her son Karamogo, his emaciated face and thin hair edged in dirt.
Elise had cut her finger this morning with a knife. After Monique cleaned the wound and wrapped it in a sterile bandage, she motioned for Elise to put Karamogo in the sling to be weighed. Elise shook her head no. Monique spoke to her in Minianka for some time, but I could tell from Elise's tone that she was adamant. Finally she mumbled a thanks and left. The next mother approached and handed me her little girl. I put the baby in the sling and watched the needle jiggle and settle.
"Elise is lazy," Monique said. "And stubborn. I even have a chart for him, which I keep here, so she doesn't have to remember it. Did you know that 'Karamogo' means 'teacher'? She believes the name alone will give him a long life. Part of her knows Karamogo is sick, but she doesn't want to be told there is anything wrong with her son. And as you see, when she came here she did not even know it was the morning to weigh babies."
I took the girl out of the sling and handed her back to her mother. Monique recorded her weight on the chart. Green. Fine. Vaccinations up to date, too. Monique spoke with the mother for a while. I was still thinking about Karamogo.
"What can we do about Elise?" I asked, when Monique was finished. She sighed.
"I asked her to please come next week. I'll remind her and we'll see if she does."
Another mother came forward, bearing her infant.
About the Author:
Kris Holloway has used her background in writing, public health, and development to further the mission of numerous nonprofits and educational institutions, including Planned Parenthood, the Western Massachusetts Center for Healthy Communities, the University of Michigan, Springfield College, and the Greenbelt Movement International. She currently works with the National Priorities Project, a nonprofit organization offering citizens and community groups the tools to shape federal budget and policy priorities that promote social and economic justice.
Monique and the Mango Rains is supported by the Literary Ventures Fund, a not-for-profit, private foundation that supports literature and public discourse about literature's role in society.