I sat on the worn brown bench in the health centre, its surface scratched and polished by years of use. The waiting room was full as usual: people in pain, others dozing and drooling, some chewing roasted peanuts and making irritating noises. Mothers kept close watch over their curious toddlers to keep them from wandering.
I shifted along the wooden seat, my patience dwindling. Two hours of waiting felt endless. I didn’t look like someone who belonged there—dressed in a neat denim dress and open-toe shoes, I waited for results that would change my life.
Names were being called one after another. “Che Ernestine! Manka’a Gladys! Eyong Benjamin!” Each call made me tense, my heart racing as if someone were prodding a tender spot. One name that didn’t belong to me came up—“Keka Nicodemus!”—and I didn’t flinch. My ears stopped playing tricks on me for a moment.
Then my name rang through the room: “Nchifor Precious!” I jumped up and hurried to collect my results. The long stretch of uncertainty was finally over. I was eager to see the doctor and find out why months of cramps had produced no blood.
At door number two I knocked, opened the door, and handed over my battered pink hospital book. The doctor scanned it and said flatly, “So you’re pregnant.” I nodded, expecting guidance or a plan. Instead she offered a curt, indifferent “Okay.” Her expression conveyed little more than, “You may go now.”
I left clutching my faux-leather handbag and walked home in a state of reverie. Thoughts tumbled through my head as I tried to absorb my new status. I scribbled a rough baby shopping list and tucked it into a frequently used bag, smiling at the small, hopeful plans forming in my mind.
But the joy was short-lived. Early morning brought a new reality: constant nausea and a house full of smells that assaulted me. The kitchen, once comforting, became unbearable; the scent of reheated food made my throat tighten. Stepping outside for fresh air offered no relief—the warm, heavy atmosphere of Douala carried dust, exhaust, and other odors that made my nausea worse. Perfumes and grinding mills became enemies.
My appetite vanished. I began vomiting everything I ate. Foods I once loved tasted like poison: garlic, ginger, onions—everything triggered disgust. Groundnuts, which I had enjoyed and sometimes cooked with, became unbearable. The first time I saw them after the nausea began, I retched violently.
Even body lotion smelled offensive. My skin felt dry, my eyes tired, and my face grew gaunt. What had once seemed like a blessing started to feel like a burden.
My mother came down from Bamenda to help, dropping her errands to care for me. She prepared bland meals, hoping something would stay down. Most of it I vomited; a little remained.
Despite reassurances that this was a normal part of pregnancy, I sought medical help. A hospital injection relieved the nausea briefly, and I rejoiced—only for the sickness to return the next day, even stronger.
Relief finally came as I entered the second trimester. Morning sickness eased gradually, and I could at last relax and begin to enjoy the pregnancy again. Shopping lists turned from a nervous scribble into hopeful plans for baby clothes and small comforts.
I’m eager to share the rest of this journey—the surprises, the lessons, and the birth itself. For now I’ll pause here and gather my thoughts. Stay tuned for the next part of my first pregnancy story and the account of a remarkable birth.
Do you have thoughts or experiences to share about first pregnancies? I’d love to hear them—leave a comment below.