The Birth of Temitọpẹ

On Saturday, 13th July, I went out with Grace for a long day in Clapham Junction. We visited Sam Sunmaila and his family to celebrate the arrival of their newborn baby boy, Ariyọ.

It was there that Grace first started to feel signs of labour. We managed to get home in time for a good rest. By 10 p.m., the labour was becoming intense, and I had to call for an ambulance. They arrived within minutes. It was incredible how quickly they responded to my call. They said her water had broken and that she needed to be in the hospital as soon as possible.

After about 12 hours in the labour room, my first daughter was born at precisely 10:19 a.m. on 14th July 1985. She weighed 2.740 kg. I was ecstatic. I did not know how to celebrate her arrival. My joy knew no bounds. I simply knelt down in front of the nurses and doctors and started to praise God. I had never prayed like that before. Words were just flowing from my mouth; I did not know where they were coming from but they were simply flowing like a river. I did not know how to pray then. The nurses were simply incredible. They treated Grace and my little girl as if they were members of their own family. I began to wonder what could motivate them to work so hard, so devotedly, and with such care and intimacy. They did an amazing job delivering my baby naturally. I had heard stories of such deliveries that needed the aid of an epidural, many of which resulted in the total paralysis of both mother and child. That was one of my greatest fears throughout Grace’s pregnancy.

Being there and present when my first child was delivered was simply magical. It was something out of the ordinary. When I saw what Grace had gone through, I concluded that all mothers should be cherished and held in the highest possible esteem. I wanted to rush back to Nigeria to show my baby to my father. I wanted my mother to hold my baby in her arms. I wanted to show off the wonderful gift that God had just bestowed on us. I wanted the whole world to know that I had been blessed. The moment was electrifying. At about 4 p.m., I sat by Grace’s bedside, watching my newborn baby. She was sleeping, lying on her belly and facing the other side. Suddenly, I noticed that she had changed position, turning toward me all on her own. It was incredible, but it happened right in front of me. Grace and the new baby stayed in the Mother’s Hospital for seven days. When they were leaving, it was like a big celebration, with the leading midwife dressed in a ceremonial uniform, holding our baby in her arms. We took photographs at the entrance of the hospital while she handed our baby over to Grace. It was an emotional moment that still remains fresh in my memory. I would find the experiences of the two subsequent births quite different. Things had changed by the time the others were born.

The traditional naming ceremony took place a day after Grace returned from the hospital. It was conducted by Mr Eluyẹra, an Ile Ife man who lived on the 2nd floor with his wife from Modakẹkẹ.  My beloved uncle, Chief Abiọdun Ẹhindẹrọ, who happened to be on holiday in London, was also in attendance. It was a significant moment in my life. The naming of a child represents a monumental event in a child's life. I had not received a name from my father before he died, and it had been my wish that he would give my child a name, but it did not happen. I, therefore, decided to honour my father's mother by giving my first daughter her name. My grandmother's name was Tiyemiro, which literally means ‘For the sake of my mother’. Since my first daughter was born on a Sunday, she was naturally given the name Abọsẹde, which literally means ‘someone born on Sunday’. Through intense prayer, meditation, and divine revelation, I personally named my first daughter Temitọpẹ, which literally means ‘mine is enough to give thanks to God’. At that stage in my life, I had every reason to say, "Thank you, Lord." 

Extracts from Grace and Resilience: A Personal Story of My Life’s Journey