It’s been a whole eight days since I wrote. So many motherhood stories bottled in my fingertips. Like dreams, some will remain and be told in days to come and others will live as untold memories in the nothingness that they were born from. It’s been a full time - spilling with simple moments that swallowed me whole.

A week ago my body bled gently, responding to the arrival of a new copper IUD. I fell into a tired space with little capacity for anything or anyone beyond my immediate reality. My sister-in-law strained umqombothi alone in my home, preparing traditional beer for Saturday’s ritual: A process to initiate me back into society as a mother, and welcome our baby to the world. A cousin arrived from the night outside, spiling with reasons for her lateness. My husband fought a cold he had caught days earlier, doing his best to rest before a trip away. I was too preoccupied with hawking over our little one to write.

Saturday. Dzedze family members arrived. My husband’s cold crept into my throat and I refused to embrace it, opting to rest as much as I could. Cousins and Aunts welcomed me back to the world and fought over who would hold our baby girl next. A new mama-bear protectiveness set in as they kissed and fussed her into overwhelm, excitedly. I held her close to me in the retreat of our bedroom. There she taught me that as social as she is, she needs space to process. She suckled frantically seeking to soothe herself. Alcohol poured into the bodies of her aunts and they merrily drank into the evening, chattering away on the big green couch as Mr Dzedze snuck out to record a self-tape audition with a friend.

Sunday. Family waved farewell. Mr Dzedze prepared lines for the week ahead, and I prepared my heart for a week without him. He’d be leaving town to fly to Durban in receipt of a new TV role. Jacqlyne and Hamish arrived with bags packed for a sleepover and promised to support me in the transition in all the ways they could. We didn’t know when he would be home.

Monday passed, then Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday... A whole week melted into a million beautiful moments. Jacqlyne and Hamish travelled to work each day and returned in the evening, scooped our little one into their arms and bounced her, paced up and down. Cooked and blessed my belly with home-meals, washed the dishes and kept conversation flowing in all the directions that light us up. I watched them play games with our child, listen to her and respond to her as though her requests were spoken clear. With every breath they said, “We are the village” and I felt it. 

Nyaniso updated me as the days went by. Set was treating him well, and I cheered for his happiness. Shortly after our daughter’s birth, he had battled with the myth that fatherhood and his dreams were at odds. There he said, “If I couldn’t act anymore, I don’t know what I’d live for.” I was happy for him and proud too. Despite my joy, I missed him. There’s a deep surrender that awakes in me when Nyaniso is around and I wondered when he would fly home to us so I could rest a little deeper again. 

On Thursday night I wished Jacqlyne and Hamish a good night. Settled into my bed and looked at our baby, wondering how well she might sleep. I sat contemplating how to journey through the rest of the night. Netflix? Meditation? An audiobook? Without a knock, the door burst open. Not Jacqlyne, nor Hamish… It was Mr Dzedze. I thought he might surprise us this way, but I’d avoided getting my hopes up. Jaw dropped. “You really did that!” I smiled as he hugged us both tight. He wrapped our baby girl in his arms and I crashed.

Whilst I’m far from my own family and homesick at times, the village that is gathered around us is bursting and true. Across oceans from my homeland I’ve mightily gathered a home. I have mamas and aunts loving my child as their own blood, and friends who are here at the drop of a hat to be more than friendship. Here I have family.