The Somali Midwife
"She's delivered half the babies in Cedar-Riverside—a thick ebony widow who holds life in her hands. When he takes a doula training class she teaches, the lessons get very personal. Some births are about being reborn yourself."
Hibo has delivered three thousand babies.
Forty years of midwifery. From Mogadishu to the refugee camps to Minneapolis. Her hands have caught life more times than she can count.
I sign up for her doula training class.
"A man?" She looks me over. Fifty-nine years old. Two hundred and fifty-five pounds. Ebony skin and knowing eyes. "Men don't usually take this class."
"My sister's pregnant. I want to help."
"Mashallah—a good brother." She nods. "Sit. We begin."
The class is women only, except for me.
Hibo teaches with authority—the physiology of birth, the emotional support, the ancient practices of Somali midwifery.
"Birth is sacred," she says. "The moment when Alla breathes life into a new soul. We are witnesses. We are helpers. We are humble."
I take notes. I absorb everything.
After class, I stay to ask questions.
"You're serious," she says, surprised. "Most men who come just want to... observe."
"I want to understand."
"Why?"
"Because my mother died giving birth to me." I've never told anyone this. "I want to understand what she went through."
Hibo is quiet for a long moment.
"Come to my office. We'll talk."
Her office is in her apartment.
Walls covered with photos—babies she's delivered, mothers she's helped. A lifetime of bringing life into the world.
"Your mother died in childbirth." She pours chai. "And you've carried that guilt."
"How did you know?"
"I've seen it before. Children who feel responsible for their mother's death." She hands me a cup. "It wasn't your fault. Birth is dangerous. Sometimes, despite everything we do, we lose mothers."
"I know. But knowing and feeling—"
"Are different things." She finishes my sentence. "I know. I lost my husband in the refugee camps. Malaria. I've felt that guilt too."
"How do you carry it?"
"By bringing life. By helping others live." She sits across from me. "That's how I honor the dead—by serving the living."
I keep coming back.
After every class, I stay. We talk for hours—about birth, about death, about the spaces in between.
"You're healing," she says one night. "I can see it."
"Because of you."
"Because of yourself." She touches my hand. "But maybe... I've helped a little."
"More than a little."
We sit in comfortable silence. The night deepens around us.
"My husband has been dead for thirty years," she says quietly. "Thirty years of helping others. Never helping myself."
"What do you need help with?"
"Being seen." She looks at me. "Being touched. Being reminded that I'm not just a midwife. I'm a woman."
"You're a woman."
"Then remind me."
I worship the midwife.
Her body has helped thousands of women—now I help her. My hands learn her curves, her softness, the places thirty years of solitude have left untouched.
"Alla—" She gasps as I kiss her breasts. "No one has—"
"Let me."
I kiss down her belly—soft, round, ebony.
Spread her thick thighs.
"ILAAHAY!"
She screams—thirty years of need releasing. Her hands grip my head.
"So long—" She's crying. "So long alone—"
I lick her through it all. Every tear. Every release.
"Inside me—" She's pulling at me. "Ku soo gal—give me life—"
I strip. She looks at me with wonder.
"Subhanallah—"
"Is this okay?"
"It's a gift."
I position myself.
I push inside the midwife.
She cries out—thirty years of emptiness filling.
"So full—" Her arms wrap around me. "Like birth—like life—"
I move slowly. Reverently. This woman has witnessed thousands of sacred moments. Now I witness hers.
"Coming—" She's shaking. "Ku shub—fill me—"
I release inside her.
We lie tangled together.
"Rebirth," she whispers. "That's what this is. Being reborn."
"For both of us."
"Haa." She kisses my forehead. "Both of us."
One Year Later
My sister has her baby.
I'm there for the birth—trained, ready, helpful. Hibo delivers the child, catches the life in her experienced hands.
After, when everyone has gone home, I find her in her office.
"Thank you," I say. "For everything you taught me."
"Thank you." She pulls me close. "For bringing me back to life."
We don't need words for what comes next.
The midwife who catches life.
The man who caught her heart.
Macaan.