“Bra Bonsu, please come! Come quickly, please! Ewurama’s water broke!” It was one of Ewurama’s friends, Nana Aba Peters, who had come over for the weekend, and she sounded as if she were in tears. I froze. Her water broke? My heart sank, and I was so stunned. My head was spinning with questions. My body felt cold. She was only five months pregnant; how could her water break?Was it a miscarriage? Had we come all this way for nothing?Was the house we were rushing to complete so we would welcome the baby for nothing? Had we bought all those lovely baby clothes and toys for nothing? How were we going to explain this to friends and family? I can’t describe the level of disappointment I felt; it was like grasping at straws. All of a sudden, I thought of Ewurama; she needed me there at a time like this. I just hoped she was alright. Steeling myself, like the military man that I was, I rushed to the hospital. My wife looked shattered, the baby didn’t make it. So shattered that I even forgot my own pain. I hugged her and told her that it would be alright, that we would try again, and that God knew best. She cried forcefully, crying and crying, while I stayed strong and composed for her, even though I myself felt like crying. THE UNE XPECTED EMERGENCY Sob! Sob! Sob! Crying uncontrollably, I buried my face inmy hands. My sobs were violent and explosive, sending painful spasms through my body as my muscles contracted sharply as if I were being hollowed out. The pain in my chest felt like a thousand-ton truck had been placed on it, and I struggled to breathe. Attempting to steady myself and lower my voice so that Ewurama wouldn’t hear me, I hid my face in one of the small pillows, but the tears kept flowing, and mucus ran down my nose. Then a torrent of questions swirled inmy head, along with a desperate prayer to God: “Oh God! Why us? Why us?” The emotional pain of the miscarriage from a few months earlier was beginning to overwhelm me. During that miscarriage, I had tried to be strong for Ewurama because she was so vulnerable. I had put on a tough facade for her. Additionally, as Ashanti boys, we had been raised to believe that men didn’t cry, so I maintained a macho exterior and pretended that I was fine. Moreover, my military training had taught me to always be prepared for any eventuality, so I had tried to put that training into practice. However, deep inside me, turmoil was boiling, and I could no longer contain it. MEN CRY TOO 22 The Birthday Journal
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