Shental's baby

I return to our room around 6:30pm. I unstrap my bag and step out of my sandals.

“Shental was waiting for you outside at 5:30. Her baby died yesterday.”

My mind freezes. Shental’s baby had been taken to the hospital about a week ago. Shental said she came home to the shelter and was told her baby had a “fit.” Shental went to see her at the Wynberg hospital. The baby is swollen, Shental said, and half her body doesn’t move. It sounded like a stroke to me.

I meet Shental outside my house at around 6:30 the next evening. I give her a hug, tell her I am so sorry. She pulls out of the hug early.

“It’s ok. You know Rebecca, I think God just wanted her, I was too young to have her, and he didn’t want her to suffer. You know?”

“Yes, yes that sounds right.” I have no idea how to respond to that.

Shental seems so normal. The baby was be cremated, this is what Shental wanted. She actually says burned, the baby was burned. Shental tells me about the ceremony, how she invited the social workers (who have seemingly been absent throughout this whole ordeal) and the people from the shelter. I couldn't go because it was at noon on a Tuesday. She had tea and coffee and biscuits for everybody. Veronica, her mother, didn’t show.

It’s amazing to me that no one is taking care of Shental, that no one is making a big deal of these huge, complicated, catastrophic things happening in her life. I am not really there for her, and I know I shouldn’t try to be. This is a job for a professional, or a mother. Even at the hospital they are making things hard, charging her for the cremation even though anyone can see she literally has nothing.

I give her the R90 to get the ashes from the hospital. It’s been a long day with the funeral and all, and Shental goes home to rest. I do the same.