“Push!” was the fuel that set Abike ablaze with the strength to deliver her long-awaited babe within minutes. She fumbled from the mat, ignoring the pool of blood and the awe-struck birth-attendant, agbebi, to examine him as he wailed. He was beautifully pink, hair like a raccoon, and eyebrows arched into a scowl as the wailing continued. Suddenly, she recognised the wail—the tune to the dirge she had sung for three other sons. His blood-stuck skin became cold as the wail ebbed; her eyes widened in terror. She grabbed the child, started running to find help from someone, anyone.