That Sunday morning: The story behind my birth story

 By Prim K. Tumuramye

The day was 5^th February. It was a beautiful Sunday morning. To the ordinary folk in the beautiful countryside, characterized by her famous stunning Kigezi hills, it was just another day for resting. For those that had responded to the gospel message carried by the winds of the East African Revival, it was a day to go and fellowship with God, such meetings uniquely remembered for the hearty Tukutendereza chorus interludes at the mention of the Lord’s doing among the congregants.

Yet this was no ordinary day in the life of the woman that was to be my mother. That Sunday morning, she had the privilege of going into labor, to bring forth the first fruit of her womb. Culture then dictated that issues to do with child birth and ultimately child care was a reserve for the female folk. My father, even if he had wanted, could definitely not be in the labor suite. It was a privilege to be born in the hospital, I was among the few that partook of that opportunity. I was later to hear of tales of children born by the roadside, gardens or the fireplace!

Under the supervision of a mid-wife, my mother progressed well in labor. At 11:57am, a baby girl was born to her. Little did she know that this hitherto defining moment of her life was to give her a glimpse of the world of the dead. Shortly after my birth, the mid-wife announced to her that the placenta had refused to go out. The mid-wife’s panic-stricken face did not require the interpretation of her report. To say my mother was sacred would be an understatement. She saw death in the face, in her own words.

My mother and I.

My mother had just started her teaching career as a qualified primary school teacher. She was young and had grand dreams for the future. How could life be so cruel? It is at that very point that she saw the hand of God. Message was sent to the doctor on call that day, who was chilling downhill in Bugongi for a beer or two. The doctor came in haste and just on time to save my mother’s life. My life was later to be spent in Bugongi, the same place that had alluringly held the doctor meant to be on call that day. My mother spent part of her teaching career life at Bugongi Primary School. How and why she decided to prematurely end her teaching career is a story still under investigation. When I was of age, my mother told me part of the story of my birth. My mother told me that when I was born, something extra-ordinary happened. Being a teacher, she could best express it in rhymes. And this is the song I was taught that tells the story of my birth:

Prim, yeee

Obuyazarwa, bakamushabira

Bamaraika b’omwiguru bakarugayo beija kureeba Prim

Enyonyozi zomwiguru zikarugayo zeija kureeba Prim

Loosely translated as:

Prim (refrain)

When she was born, she was prayed for

The angels left heaven and came to see Prim

The stars left the heavens and came to see Prim

I believed this story in totality without a quest for another version or third-party confirmation. As a little girl, I pictured angels and stars leaving the heavens and coming to my little crib to see my little body. The Sunday School story on the birth of Jesus gave me a mental picture of what my birth must have been like. Oh, how I cherished the co-relation. Up to date I do not know how my mother came up with this story for then she had no strong attachment to religious dogma. The story of my birth made me feel special and perceived myself as thus. Till today I do.

‘You were named Kesande because you were born on a Sabbath. Had you been born a boy, I would have called you Sabiti.’ my mother would remind me.

‘So why didn’t you give me a popular name like Grace, Sarah, or Esther? Something in the Bible!’ I would ask my mother.

Rev. Peter Rwabyoma baptising me.

The quest for knowing the meaning of my not so common name marked my journey of interacting with the dictionary. My mother was an English teacher, those that have been part of her life know that English is one of the things she loves! When I was eight years of age, she taught me how to look for word meanings in the dictionary. And she told me that she got my name from that wonder-book.

Prim, meaning neat and proper is the definition I found in my mother’s dictionary.

Today marks yet another year added to my life. It comes with painless memories of the circumstances surrounding my birth, yet my mother chose to focus on the positive not the grave danger that walled my birth process. Her choice of naming me tells it all. Unlike the Biblical Jabez story, whom the mother gave the name because he was born in pain, my mother saw the rose in the thorns. The intriguing story of the heavenly host coming to see me after birth gave me a high sense of purpose – I knew right from a young age that I was no ordinary child. Being an only child, my mother was the most present next of kin in my life – I believed her story. I had no reason to doubt her, for she was a primary witness of my birth. As I age, I pray that like my mother, I will be the woman that sees hope amidst despair, one who will prophetically speak into my children’s destiny and one who will age with Dickson Tumuramye to tell this story to my great grandchildren.

# Born in pain, destined for greatness.

©Prim K. Tumuramye

Prim is a Christian, wife, mother and Communications Specialist at Compassion International. She is passionate about reading, writing, youth mentorship and intentional parenting.