When a new mother ended her period in the fattening room, it was a great opportunity for parents and grandparents to show off their wealth. They would dress the nursing mother with much expensive and seldom-seen attire. They used Dmask, India cloth, Velvet (I don’t know the English names for some of the fabrics like Kurukuu bite and Ikaki, etc.) There were gold necklaces, heavy pearl and pure ivory necklaces, bracelets and rings, earrings, gold and mirror decorated hats, expensive hand fans decorated with variegated colors of plume feathers, and anything else the family wanted to show off to the public (sometimes to intimidate their enemies).

She would have six days of outings, visiting friends, extended family members, and being seen by the general public as she walked through the streets with her entourage…usually older women of the family singing old family songs in praise or telling stories of their family, ancestors, the nursing mother, or the husband. On the seventh and final day, there would be festivities in the evening, with eating, drinking, and dancing. The older women led the nursing mother in the day dance. The festivities ended the confinement period, and the mother would go back to her normal public life. There was one funny song if the nursing mother did not get as fat as expected. It says, “If the nursing mother is not fat, do not blame it on those who cared for her in the fattening room: it is because her husband had not brought enough money for her feeding.” What a shame that would be! So every husband tried to be a responsible provider for the period his wife would be in the fattening room. Parents could pitch in when the husband did not provide enough, because they wanted their daughter to be plump enough for the final dance.

Now, over two years after her fattening room confinement, my mother still had milk to feed me. When she returned from the market, I remember finding her a stool, begging her to sit so I could be fed. She would go wash her breasts, then sit to feed me. Most of the women were not happy that she still fed me. I remember some of them passing by, spanking my back side while I nursed, and saying to my mother, “Why are you still feeding this old-enough-to-marry man?” I would look into my mom’s eyes, and convinced that she didn’t mind, I continued nursing. But when mom discovered that she was pregnant with my younger sister, she applied bitter leaf juice on her breasts, and that gradually weaned me! Well, she has long been forgiven for playing that prank on me! I do not remember when my younger sister, Simeipriye, was born, but I remember being taken into Mom’s bedroom, dressed in white pants and a shirt with black stripes that my father had bought for me. It was one of the most amazing experiences of my life just standing by the bed as a little man to see my tiny sister in bed. I probably was as happy as I was jealous of competing for Mom’s attention and affection. Although I had been weaned, I still wished I was the one in Mom’s bed.

Victoria, my first daughter, almost followed my footsteps. She was breast fed (along with bottle feedings and some solid food) for almost two and a half years. John, my son, wasn’t that interested. He rejected breast feeding at six months. What a frustration to his mother, because we thought something must be wrong with him, but he was fine! I guess some babies just don’t have as much taste for the good stuff as others! My other two daughters, Florence and Helen Ibigo were breast fed for at least two years.

Whenever I think of my good health, I always have more reasons to say thanks to my mother.