About Babies
Why
African Babies Don't Cry
By J. Claire K. Niala
Friday, December 31st, 2010
I was born and grew up in Kenya and Cote d’Ivoire. From the age of
fifteen I lived in the UK. However, I always knew that I wanted to
raise my children (whenever I had them) at home in Kenya. And yes, I
assumed I was going to have them. I am a modern African woman, with
two university degrees, and a fourth generation working woman, but
when it comes to children, I am typically African. The assumption
remains that you are not complete without them; children are a
blessing which would be crazy to avoid. Actually the question does
not even arise.
I started my pregnancy in the UK. The urge to deliver at home was so
strong that I sold my practice, setup a new business and moved house
and country within five months of finding out I was pregnant. I did
what most expectant mothers in the UK do—I read voraciously: Our
Babies, Ourselves, Unconditional Parenting, anything by Sears—the
list goes on. (My grandmother later commented that babies don’t read
books and really all I needed to do was “read” my baby). Everything
I read said that African babies cried less than European babies. I
was intrigued as to why.
When I went home I observed. I looked out for mothers and babies and
they were everywhere, though very young African ones, under six
weeks, were mainly at home. The first thing I noticed is that
despite their ubiquitousness, it is actually quite difficult to
actually “see” a Kenyan baby. They are usually incredibly well
wrapped up before being carried or strapped onto their mother
(sometimes father). Even older babies strapped onto a back are
further protected from the elements by a large blanket. You would be
lucky to catch sight of a limb, never mind an eye or nose. The
wrapping is a womb-like replication. The babies are literally
cocooned from the stresses of the outside world into which they are
entering.
My second observation was a cultural one. In the UK, it was
understood that babies cry. In Kenya, it was quite the opposite. The
understanding is that babies don’t cry. If they do—something is
horribly wrong and must be done to rectify it immediately. My
English sister-in-law summarized it well. “People here,” she said,
“really don’t like babies crying, do they?”
It all made much more sense when I finally delivered and my
grandmother came from the village to visit. As it happened, my baby
did cry a fair amount. Exasperated and tired, I forgot everything I
had ever read and sometimes joined in the crying too. Yet for my
grandmother it was simple, “Nyonyo (breastfeed her)!” It was her
answer to every single peep.
There were times when it was a wet nappy, or that I had put her
down, or that she needed burping, but mainly she just wanted to be
at the breast—it didn’t really matter whether she was feeding or
just having a comfort moment. I was already wearing her most of the
time and co-sleeping with her, so this was a natural extension to
what we were doing.
I suddenly learned the not-so-difficult secret of the joyful silence
of African babies. It was a simple needs-met symbiosis that required
a total suspension of ideas of what should be happening and an
embracing of what was actually going on in that moment. The bottom
line was that my baby fed a lot—far more than I had ever read about
and at least five times as much as some of the stricter feeding
schedules I had seen.
At about four months, when a lot of urban mothers start to introduce
solids as previous guidelines had recommended, my daughter returned
to newborn-style hourly breastfeeding, which was a total shock. Over
the past four months, the time between feeds had slowly started to
increase. I had even started to treat the odd patient without my
breasts leaking or my daughter’s nanny interrupting the session to
let me know my daughter needed a feed.
Most of the mothers in my mother and baby group had duly started to
introduce baby rice (to stretch the feeds) and all the professionals
involved in our children’s lives—pediatricians, even doulas, said
that this was ok. Mothers needed rest too, we had done amazingly to
get to four months exclusively breastfeeding, and they assured us
our babies would be fine. Something didn’t ring true for me and even
when I tried, half-heartedly, to mix some pawpaw (the traditional
weaning food in Kenya) with expressed milk and offer it to my
daughter, she was having none of it.
So I called my grandmother. She laughed and asked if I had been
reading books again. She carefully explained how breastfeeding was
anything but linear. “She’ll tell you when she’s ready for food –
and her body will too.”
“What will I do until then?” I was eager to know.
“You do what you did before, regular nyonyo.” So my life slowed down
to what felt like a standstill again. While many of my
contemporaries marveled at how their children were sleeping longer
now that they had introduced baby rice and were even venturing to
other foods, I was waking hourly or every two hours with my daughter
and telling patients that the return to work wasn’t panning out
quite as I had planned.
I soon found that quite unwittingly, I was turning into an informal
support service for other urban mothers. My phone number was doing
the rounds and many times while I was feeding my baby I would hear
myself uttering the words, “Yes, just keep feeding him/ her. Yes,
even if you have just fed them. Yes, you might not even manage to
get out of your pajamas today. Yes, you still need to eat and drink
like a horse. No, now might not be the time to consider going back
to work if you can afford not to.” And finally, I assured mothers,
“It will get easier.” I had to just trust this last one as it hadn’t
gotten easier for me, yet.
A week or so before my daughter turned five months, we traveled to
the UK for a wedding and for her to meet family and friends. Because
I had very few other demands, I easily kept up her feeding schedule.
Despite the disconcerted looks of many strangers as I fed my
daughter in many varied public places (most designated breastfeeding
rooms were in restrooms which I just could not bring myself to use),
we carried on.
At the wedding, the people whose table we sat at noted, “She is such
an easy baby—though she does feed a lot.” I kept my silence. Another
lady commented, “Though I did read somewhere that African babies
don’t cry much.” I could not help but laugh.
My Grandmother’s gentle wisdom:
1. Offer the breast every single moment that your baby is upset –
even if you have just fed her.
2. Co-sleep. Many times you can feed your baby before they are fully
awake, which will allow them to go back to sleep easier and get you
more rest.
3. Always take a flask of warm water to bed with you at night to
keep you hydrated and the milk flowing.
4. Make feeding your priority (especially during growth spurts) and
get everyone else around you to do as much as they can for you.
There is very little that cannot wait.
Read your baby, not the books. Breastfeeding is not linear—it goes
up and down and also in circles. You are the expert on your baby’s
needs.
Bio
of Author: J. Claire K. Niala is a mother, writer and osteopath who
enjoys exploring the differences that thankfully still exist between
various cultures around the world. She was born in Kenya and grew up
in Kenya, Cote d'Ivoire and the UK. She has worked and lived on
three continents and has visited at least one new country every year
since she was 12 years old. Her favorite travel companions are her
mother and daughter whose stories and interest in others bring her
to engage with the world in ways she would have never imagined.
Reprinted with permission from the author, J. Claire K. Niala
The Natural Child Project and
InCultureParent, A Magazine For Parents Raising Little Global
Citizens
'Behold, I will bring them from the north country, And gather them
from the ends of the earth,
Among them the blind and the lame,
The woman with child and The one who labors with child, together,
A
great throng shall return there...And My people shall be satisfied with My goodness, says the LORD.'
Jeremiah 31:8, 14~~~
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August 2011
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