Eight centimetres dilated by the time we will reach the hospital. The midwife will say, 'You're a miracle worker.' I will call your mother's father and tell him you are born, that the midwife declared it a miracle. Your grandfather will reply, 'There's no such thing as miracles, but I am in tears all the same.'
Next, I will call my father and tell him you are born, that the midwife declared it a miracle. Your jidoo will reply, 'Take my grandson in your arms, and whisper these words into his ear, Ash-hadu alla ilaha illallah, wa ash-hadu anna Muhammadar-Rasulullah.'
Your ear will be dough and powder upon my trembling lips. And the hospital will be dark and restless and aching when we take you to our room. Your mum will hold you out in her arms, this little head wrapped firmly in a bright-pink blanket. She will cradle you from side to side and hum while you screech and groan eeh-eeh-eeh, the anguish of existence, attempting to stare back at her like a pebble falling into an abyss.
Your mum will hold you out in her arms, this little head wrapped firmly in a bright-pink blanket
You will be an ancient frown, your buttery face rippled and wrinkled and your tight eyelids warring with themselves to open. Your mother will breathe you in through her nose, freckles flickering, and dance with you from side to side in her brittle attempt to help you settle. I will watch as your tiny eyes of silver emerge upon her before you cannot hold them up any longer - Allah will find all kinds of ways to wink at us. Your mother will cry as she breastfeeds you for the sixth time, staring straight at me and shrieking, 'It's like sandpaper on my flesh.'
I will take your weightless body from her grip and hold your head, which blazes like the birth of a brand-new star, across my arms.
I will tell you about your great-grandfather's arms, which carried his eleven children through the streets of Tripoli and Beirut; and I will tell you about your grandfather's arms, which carried his six children through the streets of Alexandria and Newtown and Redfern; and perhaps one day you will tell your son about my arms, which will carry you through the streets of Lakemba and Punchbowl and Bankstown, where the Arabs will ask me, 'Your son?' and I will reply, 'No, my sun.'
You lump, will you please explain to me how you can earn my affection so effortlessly? Lying there like a wad of flour, deep ringed lines under each of your eyes and a deep groove above your Cupid's bow just like your mother's, arms and legs clenched to themselves, your voice like a broken flute, your blocked nose wheezing, your face cringing as you puff through your nostrils like you're cracking rice bubbles.
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Perhaps one day you will tell your son about my arms, which will carry you through the streets of Lakemba and Punchbowl and Bankstown, where the Arabs will ask me, 'Your son?' and I will reply, 'No, my sun.'
I will hold your blanket away from your airways so you can breathe. Every second that I will keep you asleep is another second that your mother will rest, and heal, until you begin to cry all over again for her blood and her bones and her flesh and her skin. Our room will be still and silent and strewn in shadows, with nothing but your mother's wheeze to fill the void. Your brittle face will crumple between my elbow pit as she rolls over, half-opens her eyes, murmurs, ‘Shhhhhhhh-shhhhhhhh-shhhhhhh,’ and slips back into sleep.
I will be stricken by the flame of a burning bush, filling the midnight slumber of the hospital with a crackling echo. Your mouth will bring the purest smile to my face - the subtle kind we share with no one but God - as your lips spread open and reveal a steady little tongue and tender blunt gums. You will start to suck at the air, searching for your mother's nipple. Just before you find your voice, which will shatter my organs and hold me at your complete mercy, your left eye will fling open, and close shut. Allah finds all kinds of ways to wink at us.
This work of autobiographical fiction is an extract from The Other Half of You, the latest novel by award-winning author, Michael Mohammed Ahmed. The Other Half of You is out .
Michael Mohammed Ahmad is the founding director of Sweatshop Literacy Movement.
