Literary Mama writing about the many faces of motherhood
On African Fathers and an American Dad

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Soumana, a work colleague, called me to cancel.

He and his family couldn't come to lunch at our house, he explained, because his daughter was too sick. She had better days and bad days and this day was a bad day.

Last year she contracted cerebral malaria. Once a social, inquisitive, energetic little girl, now she can barely talk and walks with difficulty. The illness that got into her brain mangled her body and damaged her mind.

Soumana looks broken when he talks about it. His hair has more gray in it than when we first came to Niger eight months ago. He rarely smiles.

"I'm really attached to her," he explained quietly. "Well, the truth is I'm very attached to all of my children. But she's always been special."

A few months later Soumana invited us to his house. "I want you to meet my family," he said. "And this way you can see my daughter for yourself."

"I'm not sure I want to go," my husband said that Sunday. "I'm afraid it will make me too upset." James frowned his little boy frown, his brow a mat of worry lines.

"But just because you don't see it doesn't mean it isn't there," I said. "Even if we never meet Soumana's daughter, it doesn't mean she isn't suffering."

"That's true," James said quietly.

One of James's biggest fears is that something like cerebral malaria will happen to one of our children. Another is that he won't live long enough to watch his children grow up. He thinks about dying a lot. He imagines a pain in his stomach is the bleeding ulcer that killed his grandfather, the wart on his foot a fast-growing cancer.

James's grandmother died when his mom was only nine. His aunt choked on a piece of tenderloin while on a date with her husband. He had left the table to call the babysitter, to check on their five children. When he returned, his wife was already dead. She was only 33. So to James, when he was little every goodbye was forever. My mother-in-law often acted like she would never see him again and made a point of giving a long hug and lots of kisses, of saying goodbye with a lot of love.

Soumana picks us up in his jalopy and we bump our way over the sandy streets. The car rumbles so loudly we have to shout over what Soumana jokingly calls its "music."

Although city life is a little less restrictive, in Niger men and women pray separately, eat separately, and play very different and sharply defined roles in the life of the family. It's unheard of to have a joint bank account. (Why share your money with your husband when he could use it to pay for a second wife?) A man is expected to provide. A woman takes care of the children.

You seldom see a man carrying a baby in public. Fathers don't change diapers. They don't prepare food for their children. They don't take them to the park, or shopping.

My husband wasn't sure he wanted to do any of that either when we first met. He thought he would have "maybe one" child. He had never seen, let alone held, a newborn until our daughter was born. During our courtship I suggested he stay home with our future children while I work. He found the idea surprising but began to consider it.

When our first child was born we both fell deeply in love. Before she was old enough to do anything but drool, my husband would hold her in his arms and sing to her, talk to her, and tell her elaborate stories about walking on a cobblestone road to Sleepy Castle. At first I worked and he stayed home, then after the birth of our second child he worked and I stayed home. He hated being away long hours as much as I did. It took a long time to get it right -- and our arrangement is far from perfect -- but we finally devised a schedule that allowed us both to work part time and be home.

At his compound Soumana is solicitous and hospitable. He introduces us to his three daughters, two nieces, nephew, wife, and housekeeper with obvious pride. The youngest climbs onto his lap and he absent-mindedly strokes her hair. His wife brings a big plate of chicken. She uses a fan to shoo the flies from the food. His oldest daughter, Chamsiya, is beautiful, with intelligent eyes and a bright smile. Grains of rice hang from her lower lip. The malaria has mangled her limbs and she can do little for herself. Soumana lifts a cup of water to her lips. Chamsiya grunts monosyllables -- she needs to go to the bathroom. He takes her by the hand, she shuffles one foot in front of the other, gripping her father tightly as he leads her to the outhouse.

Ask any Nigerien and he'll tell you that raising children is the responsibility of women. But in private, like at Soumana's house that Sunday, men are sometimes deeply engaged with their children. This Father's Day, ask my husband if he planned to have children and he might say no. But ask him what accomplishment he's most proud of and he would point to our 7-year-old who has his chocolate brown eyes and keen sense of pride, our 6-year-old who inherited his broad brow and incredible talent for art, and our mischievous 3-year-old who makes trouble from daybreak to sunset.

Being a parent means having so much to lose. It's terrifying. It's also the most gratifying thing James and I have ever done.


Jennifer Margulis, Ph.D. (“Poker Face”) is a freelance writer, consultant, and parent educator. She is the editor and co-author of Toddler: Real-Life Stories of Those Fickle, Irrational, Urgent, Tiny People We Love (Seal Press), which won the Independent Publishers Book Association Award. Her writing has been published in Mama, PhD: Women Write About Motherhood and Academic Life (Rutgers University Press, 2008), Ms. Magazine; Pregnancy; Newsday; Mothering Magazine; Brain, Child; World Pulse; and dozens of other national and local magazines and newspapers. She has eaten fried crickets in Niger, appeared live on prime-time TV in France, and performed the can-can in America. She lives in Ashland, Oregon, with her husband and three small children. Find out more about her at: www.ToddlerTrueStories.com.


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I enjoyed your piece--thank you! I checked out your web site and noted that you are from Oregon originally. I plan to check out your book now that I know that it was censored in Ashland--how disappointing! What a fascinating childhood you are giving your children--to be able to live in Niger! My husband and I lived in Japan for 3 years--that's where we met--and now live in Portland, Oregon. We have three sons aged 9 months to 10. Thanks again for sharing your wonderful writing! Marie Gettel-Gilmartin Portland, Oregon
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What a lovely piece of writing. Truly inspiring. I grew up in Zambia and Kenya myself, although I am from the Netherlands originally. My Africa years were some of the best years of my life. My childhood was amazing and your children will look back some day and feel the same, without doubt. My very best to you and your family. Simone Mul-Baker Boise, Idaho
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