A Short Story
Whose baby, this?
She saw the woman was very much in pain. Her hands were gripping the metal bar above her pillow, her long blonde hair that spilled down her shoulders were wet with sweat and tears and her face was drained of life itself. Mrs Boadu made her examination and wrote them down in her file.
"It won't be long now, dear. You're going to have the most wonderful baby", Mrs Boadu said, wiping the sweat and tears from the face. "Just a little while yet," she continued and the patient's face came alive a little.
"Sister... eh... M'amm, can you get my daddy to come over here?"
"Who's your daddy?" asked the Midwife.
"Ben Richards, Underground Manager at Jangoe Shaft," she replied.
"I'll certainly do that, but you take these pills and relax, hmm?"
Mrs Boadu walked over to the telephone chuckling to herself: "She wants her daddy, Probably her husband is in England... Imagine coming all the way to Africa to deliver hmmmm..."
Mrs Boadu looked at her dangling watch for the tenth time in half an hour. It was still morning yet and the maternity wing was swarming with pregnant women and expectant fathers. To Mrs Boadu, every day throughout the twenty years she has worked at this Company hospital has been a busy day. She was convinced that the Hospital was the best thing that ever happened to the people of the area. She knew that the Mining industry has made the town and the town has helped built the Mine. There were non-Africans who worked for the Company the "expats", they are called. She has become used to living in this pseudo multi-racial community.
Plump, short and middle-aged, she was professionally efficient but given the opportunity, she will not hesitate to pour out her hidden contempt for those "expats" and their families. She thought their wives and kids were sexually immoral, uncontrollable nitwits and frowned at their apparent idle-rich sort of life and low regard for Africans even on their home soil. Still Mrs Boadu thought the Richards girl was in a poor condition and needed immediate help.
At the Visitors Waiting Room George Williams had sat for nearly two hours. He had rushed straight from the Smelting Plant where he was a Supervisor to the hospital after closing time at four o'clock to see if his golden goose had lain the golden egg. George has planned for a big wedding on his annual leave in Brighton. The baby will be two months old by then.
He ought to be happy at the thought but the two hours waiting had worn him down and time appeared to be moving rather slowly. Still no word about Kathleeen Richards and the expected baby. "I love to have a bouncing boy... A girl will be super of course... How about twins...?" his mind was scheming and twirling. Still he waited.
A short while later, the door opened and a tall chap with rather over busy, unkempt hair, patched-up dungaree, local tyre-sandals and a canvas bag slung across his shoulder entered the room and stood surveying the anxious faces. His face met that of George Williams and he bit his lips and drew hard on the cigarette held at the corner of his mouth. Mrs Boadu came into the room and directed the newcomer to sit down. "What did you say your name was, Sir?"
"John Casper. I teach at the Secondary School. True Scot, I am see… Voluntary Service Third World. Been here...", he rumbled on.
“I believe you asked for Miss Kathleen Richards?"
"Yes Ma'am", he turned towards George Williams who was attempting to interrupt the conversation, rising up, sitting down, mouth opening and finally being shut, his eyes alert amid the tension and anxiety.
"Then I believe you two know each other", Mrs Boadu addressed the two white men.
"Don't you mind that bloody Scot". George Williams cut in angrily.
"Ah, so you have met already. I ought to be going to see..." she sounded baffled.
"I warned you, fella. You slut! 1 warned you the day we 'met' at that hotel downtown not to come near Miss Richards", said Williams.
"Well, Ma'am", John Casper turned to Mrs Boadu and continued, "You see, I got several shots at this Kathleen girl... good tits if you ask me... nice little one and she told me last time she was up for labour and well I say better go to see the kid that was inside her belly. So here I am, think I am a father and now you see this lousy guy thinks he did it better than I ei?..."
\Before he could finish his talking, a strong slap went across his lean face from Williams. John Casper was infuriated: "I cannot stand stupid bastards like you bloody English", and with that he took two steps, grabbed Williams' shirt from the front, pulled him towards himself with a brutal force and let go of him. Williams sprawled onto the floor as Casper continued with his insults. "You mining chaps when you come down here to this neck-of-the-woods of a place, you think you own this bloody place and the people who live here. Filthy pig!" Williams got up in an instant and engaged a blow rushing towards Casper but he was intercepted by four Security men who burst into the room. Mrs Boadu who, like the large audience watching the scene, spoke up.
"How in the name of humanity can respectable gentlemen like you put up such animal behaviour?" she said scrutinising the faces of the white men who were still hurling verbal shots at each other. Said John Casper, obviously coming on top of the exchanges: "Let me tell you that Kathleen Richards was just a coffee- cup in a popular restaurant. I was one of the many patrons who enjoyed the use of that cup".
"Rubbish, absolute rubbish", said Williams who unable to take more, broke from the grip of the security men and lunged at his adversary shouting and threatening: "How dare you talk of Kathleen like this?... you'll never get away with this... you..."
Suddenly the door opened and the Senior Medical Officer entered the room and everyone was quiet. he cleared his throat and began: "I have been briefed on the fracas going on in this waiting room. I have therefore got a message for 'Both of You', if I may say so." He surveyed the puzzled faces and continued, "Miss Kathleen Richars could not survive the caesarian operation. The baby has been saved, a cute little boy, but I am of the opinion that his father is more likely to have a black skin than a white one, as you can now judge for yourself".
With that, the door opened and a cot was wheeled into their presence. The little boy giggled and kicked his little black leg and waved his dark-brown fingers. All the hall-marks of a little half-caste was evident: the short curly pale brown hair. None of the combatants acknowledged the innocent waves of the little hand but the tiny lips continued smiling.
