My name is Esther.
For many years, I was known in my village as “the woman who could not keep a pregnancy.”
Those words cut deeper than anyone could imagine.
After I got married, my husband and I dreamed of raising a large family. We decorated a small room for our first baby before I was even five months pregnant.
But one evening I started feeling severe pain.
By morning, I had lost the pregnancy.
Everyone told me not to lose hope.
“You are still young,” they said.
I believed them.
When I became pregnant again, I was careful. I attended clinic appointments, followed medical advice, rested when necessary, and prayed every day.
But once again, I lost the baby.
Then it happened a third time.
A fourth.
A fifth.
After seven years of repeated loss, I stopped buying baby clothes because I was afraid of hoping.
Women who had married years after me were now raising children who called me “Auntie.”
Some people pitied me.
Others whispered that perhaps my family had been cursed.
The gossip became unbearable.
One afternoon, an elderly neighbour told me about a respected traditional healer by name Dr Magongo who encouraged people to combine proper medical care with cultural practices that symbolized healing, hope, and reconciliation.
I decided to visit.
The healer welcomed both my husband and me.
Instead of promising instant miracles, he spent a long time listening to our story.
He asked about our family relationships, the emotional pain we carried, and whether we had unresolved conflicts with close relatives.
He explained that, in his tradition, healing involved both the body and the heart.
As part of a symbolic ceremony, several traditional items were used.
A calabash of clean water represented new beginnings.
Medicinal herbs were prepared according to local custom.
A white cloth was placed around my shoulders as a symbol of hope and peace.
The room was gently filled with the smoke of traditional incense, while prayers were offered for strength and comfort.
Finally, my husband and I held hands while the healer reminded us that no ritual could replace love, patience, or proper medical care.
Those words stayed with me.
We continued attending every antenatal appointment.
We followed every doctor’s instruction.
We also spent more time together, supporting one another instead of blaming ourselves.
Months later, I became pregnant again.
I was terrified.
Every hospital visit filled me with fear because I remembered the previous losses.
But each month passed safely.
When I reached the seventh month, I cried almost every day because I had never gone that far before.
Then came the day I will never forget.
After many hours in the delivery room, I heard the loud cry of my baby girl.
For a moment, I could not believe it.
The nurse placed her gently in my arms.
I looked at my husband.
He was crying harder than I was.
We had waited seven years to hear that beautiful cry.
Today our daughter runs around the compound laughing, asking endless questions, and filling our home with joy.
Whenever I watch her sleep, I remember every tear, every disappointment, and every moment I almost gave up.
My journey taught me that hope can survive even after years of heartbreak.
The traditional ceremony became a meaningful moment of reflection and encouragement for our family, while the care we received from healthcare professionals remained an essential part of our journey.
Today I share my story to encourage other families facing difficult seasons: never stop seeking support, never lose hope, and never be ashamed to ask for help.
