No one knows her real name. We all call her Bertha, or Big Bertha behind her back. The woman is indeed as large as a house and she has overseen the birth of just about every baby in Jiji Ndogo. It’s, therefore, no wonder that she makes it her business to ascertain every rumour of a potential pregnancy and offer the way forward.

“Obviously no alcohol until you’re done breastfeeding,” she tells my wife Sgt Sophia.

“I thought that’s supposed to be until birth,” Sophia counters. “There’s no scientific reason why a breastfeeding mother can’t take a little wine with dinner.”

Bertha shrugs. “That’s fine if you want to turn your newborn into a raging alcoholic. Look, you do seem to be the kind that likes to be sloshed every once in a while, but it’s no longer just about you, is it now?”

“What else do you have?” I say, if only to break the tension.

“First babies are rarely ever on time,” Bertha goes on. “So it is very important that you summon me immediately if there is a full moon a few weeks before your due date.”

“Why is that?” I ask.

She frowns. “Is that a question? Everyone knows a full moon does induce labour. The same way it’s been proven that if a pregnant woman gets heartburn, her child will be born with a full head of hair.”

Sophia rolls her eyes. “Are you serious?” she asks me. “All she’s spewing are midwife myths that have no basis in science.”

“Science?” Bertha scoffs. “Who needs science when I have all this experience? You think I got where I am not knowing what I’m doing? Why, Mama Blessing just got pregnant again, and her baby is not even two years old. You know why? Because she stopped breastfeeding.”

“Oh my God! That’s not true. Breastfeeding is not a form of birth control.”

Bertha shakes her head. “We’re going to have a problem with this one, aren’t we?”

“In her defence,” I offer, “she’s very smart. Probably the smartest person I know.”

“Smarts have nothing to do with childbirth or child-rearing. Show me a smart person that will tell you that you shouldn’t eat spicy foods while the baby suckles. Most will say—“

“Most will ask how come all babies in Asia don’t get sick or die. They put pepper in mandazis in India, did you know that?”

“I don’t care what Indians do. They have too many people to worry about the death of a baby. What will you say when I tell you not to exercise once your baby is here?”

Sophia’s eyes grow wide. “Exercising is bad, too?”

“Dear Lord! It makes the mother’s milk sour. Just as stress and anxiety reduce milk. Dear me. What’s wrong with today’s mothers?”

Sophia stands up. “That’s it. Thank you so much for coming, but I’m having this baby at the hospital.”

“Or on top of a boda on your way there.” Bertha too gets on her feet and turns to me. I think she believes I have a more sympathetic ear. “It’s common for pregnant women to think they know everything, but time will tell. You know where to find me.”

“Thank you,” I say as I see her out.

Once back in the flat, Sophia casts daggers at me and says, “I want that woman nowhere near my baby. I’d rather do it on my own.”

Like Bertha said, we might have a problem here.