Separated & Pregnant. A Newly-Wed Embraces the Soundtrack of Her Life.
When I first announced to my husband that I was pregnant, he was cleaning up a broken wine glass. The house, which was typically filled with lively conversation and music, fell completely silent. We were in the kitchen in Virginia, Liberia, about 30 minutes outside the capital city of Monrovia. He received the news with a huge smile and then he held me tight for what felt like five long minutes. My heartbeat raced close to his chest. We then talked excitedly about the pregnancy — it was unplanned, but the timing felt fortuitous. Having only been married for a few months, our lives had already come full circle. We were young Liberians educated abroad who intentionally chose to live and work in our home country. While contributing to Liberia’s recovery after 14 years of conflict, we fell in love and married.
Yet, two months after that conversation in the kitchen, we separated.
I remember every detail of the day we broke up — what I wore (striped blue dress, no jewelry); where the fight started (downstairs, living room) and where it ended (upstairs, bedroom floor). On the surface, the turmoil was about the urgency of moving which was something we agreed to do during our pre-marital counseling but disagreed on a few months later. Admittedly, it was something I desperately wanted. I’ve replayed and considered every word, action, reaction and consequence from that morning. At the time of separation, I was 31 and nearly 4 months pregnant. The awful morning sickness of my first trimester had passed and I was experiencing renewed energy. Despite the contentious communication with my husband I hoped that compromises were possible. That we could be the partners we vowed we would be. All I wanted was to make up as soon as possible in preparation for the birth of our son. That desire was diminished when I was told flatly by him that there was no possibility of a reconciliation — no point in working on our marriage — until after the baby was born.
What was I supposed to do until then?
I was renting a studio apartment on Tubman Boulevard, the main street that runs through the Sinkor area of Monrovia. Every evening, the local music shop adjacent to my apartment compound blasted love ballads directly into my living space. Celine Dion and Shania Twain played from dusk until midnight.
7 days a week.
Honestly, I wish Whitney, Mariah, or Brandy entered into the mix. It would have been nice to be serenaded to sleep. Instead, these ballads completely took over my mind during the evening hours. I’ll admit, it was a much-needed distraction. When the music played, it carved out a space for me to daydream. I imagined what life could be. And yet, I still felt stuck. Alone. Oftentimes the music rendered me so depressed that it was comical.
Every night, I would hear music like Shania Twain’s “Forever and For Always”…
“And there ain’t no way,
I’m lettin’ you go now
And there ain’t no way,
And there ain’t not how
I’ll never see that day
Cause I’m keeping you
Forever and for always
We will be together all of our day
Wanna wake up every
Morning to your sweet face, always…”
I would have moved out of that apartment, but I had 4 months to go before departing for the US to prepare for delivery. Plus, this was actually my third residence since leaving my marital home. I had stayed in a workspace apartment which housed my textile business and after that, I moved into a relative’s home. Moving around left me exhausted. I couldn’t even find the energy to speak to the shop owner. Needless to say, I had a lot on my mind. Yet, my impending divorce and single motherhood were pushed aside. I spent many moments pondering forlorn figures and unrequited love through this music. I journaled a lot, but my head spun. Love & loss as it turns out, could not be drowned out.
One night after a work dinner with colleagues, I visited an acquaintance, also a newlywed. She invited me to join her for some tea. We chatted. I was able to navigate all of her questions about my “exciting career” and “beautiful marriage” without revealing the truth, that I was already living alone and separated. She didn’t know that I was pregnant. After our goodbyes, I breathed a sigh of relief as I left her apartment. Halfway down the staircase, she called out behind me, “I forgot to tell you that I’m PREGNANT!” “Congratulations, I’m so happy for you!” I shouted back. But I wasn’t being honest. At that moment, I couldn’t muster up an ounce of happiness for myself or anyone else.
The number of times I was close to succumbing to utter despair was too numerous to count. Waking up was easy, falling asleep was not. One memory in particular stands out. It was the evening my estranged husband brought some of my things in trash bags, handed them to me, and before walking out we exchanged terse words. As soon as the door shut behind him, I couldn’t stop crying. In order to cope, I threw myself into my work to leave no time to mourn. As the youngest political appointee in the government, every week was fast-paced, full of high-level meetings, and field visits. At the office, people began to inquire- Why do you no longer receive office visits from your husband? I eventually opened up to an older woman I trusted, but it turned out that she was a gossip. Rumors began to circulate at the office. In a culture where people are extremely direct, I was dodging comments and staying more to myself. Since the break-up occurred while my boss was away on vacation, I shared the news with her over the phone. She was my mentor and understood my story, supporting me without an ounce of pity. I was grateful. She allowed me the space to navigate my new normal privately yet remained considerate enough to set up a doctor appointment for me when I fell ill with typhoid during my 7th month of pregnancy. I appreciated all the support I could get.
Many of my local friends stayed away. I’m sure they heard about the abuse and separation, but I imagined that they felt that it was none of their business. Over Japanese food, a close friend remarked something to the tune of “women make the marriage.” It wasn’t the first time I’d heard that sentiment. In my mind, it translated as — It is your fault that things fell apart. And it was your responsibility to fix things. The reality of others’ judgments and values was a burden. I tried my best not to focus on the gossip, but a deep pit of shame grew. A few of my most well-meaning relatives avoided me. Perhaps they felt a sense of relief knowing that their relationships appeared far better than mine. And what do you say to newlyweds who have zero chance of reconciliation?
In spite of disappearing friends and local gossip, I had Frank Ocean’s Channel Orange and Miguel’s Kaleidoscope Dream on repeat. I used the music I enjoyed to cancel out the music I couldn’t avoid. Most moments just before bed were spent reaching out to a close-knit group of friends and family outside of the country. This was my other outlet because these interactions gave me glimpses of a bright future ahead. I rallied a group of friends to partner with me in prayer. I joined a women’s prayer group at my local church. Although visitors came over infrequently, two cousins regularly checked up on me. One eventually moved in to make sure that I ate. We laughed over the blaring music and composed our own songs. The days became more bearable.
On December 9, 2012, I left the country with 2 overstuffed suitcases. Even with luggage and a growing belly, it somehow felt like I was leaving a life and a home empty-handed. After giving away items to my housekeeper, I left the 10+ bags of my belongings with a friend and her husband. My wedding dress, wedding gifts, 5 sewing machines, furniture, family photo albums, books, clothes — all left behind. On the long flight to Boston, I had to let go of all of these possessions. I had to let go of a marriage, promises, and a life that disappeared as I flew West. At that moment, I made a decision to never again settle for a beautiful wedding and a bad marriage. All that I lost in the mirage of matrimony was soon to be upended by my new reality.
On March 13, 2013, at 3:20 am, Xavier entered the world surrounded by the soothing sounds of Yoko Miwa, an extraordinary Japanese jazz pianist. She had mesmerized me during a live concert I attended a few weeks prior to his delivery. And then, in the early morning hours, Miwa’s Wheel of Life became the first melodic sounds for a bright-eyed, joyful little baby boy. A lot of healing has occurred in my heart since my pregnancy in Liberia and music continues to play an important role in our lives. John Coltrane’s My Favorite Things would instantly calm Xavier during his first few months. Back on the African continent, he’s 6 now and already an avid music fan who enjoys pretty much anything… except for love ballads. I’ve never met a kid who loves making playlists more than Xavier. My little DJ. Guiding his passion for creating music erases the pain of the past. Instead of focusing on the circumstances around his birth, I prefer to focus on the future which is proving to have a beautiful rhythm to it.
