The Tea (it’s a cautionary tale)

I wasn’t going to say anything, but I keep coming across the TikToks of the young mom who shared her experience at a certain government hospital in the city, and I just can’t keep this nightmare to myself. If you’re pregnant or plan to be and had the mindset that I did, please let me be your cautionary tale. Please. Please. PLEASE.

Growing up, I had this romantic notion of giving birth where I was born. All I can say is that there’s a time and place for being sentimental, and this was not one of those times.

Here begins our tale. After registering my pregnancy, I was asked where I planned to give birth. That’s when it hit me: I was pregnant and needed to figure out where to deliver. It was overwhelming, to say the least. My boyfriend was in another country, and my mom was on the other side of the country. Everyone who knew suggested either GPH (Gaborone Private Hospital) or Ramotswa if I went the government route. Everything was still up in the air—until hyperemesis came along and made it clear that it meant business.

I don’t think I was naive. I thought I was being financially responsible by opting for a government facility. Even with medical aid, the cost of giving birth is not cute, and I didn’t want that financial burden over our heads. I knew the level of care wouldn’t be the same because… well, if you know, you know. So, my decision was made: my birth plan revolved around going to Ramotswa. But, in typical me fashion, my already difficult pregnancy got even harder when I started leaking amniotic fluid way too early.

On April 26th, a friend picked me up and we drove to the nearest clinic. The nurse there was… unpleasant. She gave me a shot, some pills, told me to shave, and provided no useful information about what was happening or why I was leaking. Naturally, we sought a second opinion and went to Princess Marina Hospital. Arriving at labor and delivery in my Superman pajamas (yes, Superman pajamas, no hospital bag, just vibes) was intimidating. I became the laughing stock for not having a hospital bag, but I didn’t care. My baby had barely kicked since the leakage. I was recovering from a migraine and throwing up. At that point, being a joke was the least of my concerns.

The second red flag? The doctor on call, a Shona woman—yes, this detail matters— who assumed I couldn’t understand her, was incredibly blasé. She made me an experiment for the student doctors. I expressed discomfort with the male students being present and asked if it could just be the female students, but she dismissed me. At separate times, two male students proceeded to assess me with a speculum—a deeply uncomfortable and invasive procedure. The fact that it was done by a man? I was fuming inside. Anyway: We did an ultrasound, my baby seemed fine, and so we went home. Not long after, I leaked again. This time we went to GPH but left due to the long queue and went to my doctor. He was the only one who seemed to grasp the gravity of the situation, urging bed rest and telling me to notify him before heading back to Marina.

After bed rest, life carried on. I can barely recall how I ended up in the hospital again after my impromptu baby shower (we were all panicking that my girl wanted to come early, and rightfully so). My youngest sister, just 13 at the time, was with me when I started leaking again. The panic on her face is something I’ll never forget—no 13-year-old should have to witness that kind of stress.

I waited and waited to be attended to. Everyone was texting me for updates, but I had none to give. I was cold, utterly alone, and surrounded by the screams and cries of women in labor. It took the help of friends to finally get assistance. Around 3 AM, I found out my fluid levels were low and there was fetal growth restriction.

I was furious. Furious that I’d been dismissed before, told that what I knew was amniotic fluid was just pee. Furious for being made to question my own experience and reality. After hours of fetal monitoring, I was admitted and told to wait for a specialist to determine the next steps.

Hours passed, and I was ready to leave. I wanted to go home. The attitudes of the hospital staff were disheartening. I won’t even mention the food. It wasn’t until the next day that I saw the specialist, and who was with him? The same student doctors who were there when my concerns were brushed off. One of them had the nerve to look surprised to see me, and wouldn’t even meet my eye.

Then came the news I didn’t want to hear: I needed an emergency c-section. My birth plan was officially out the window. The doctor who dismissed me passed by without a word, avoiding eye contact as though the floor had suddenly become the most fascinating thing in the world since sliced bread. Shame on you, wherever you are. 

Disclaimer: I hate that woman. Though she’d never ask for my forgiveness, she wouldn’t get it even if she did. Once she heard the news that I was on the list for emergency c-sections, she began talking about me with a colleague and said she did not see the point of taking my case ‘seriously’. A whole doctor saying that about her patient. And as fate would have it, she was the one who wheeled me to the operating room. As she helped prep me, making a snide remark in Shona about not knowing she was also a hairdresser. 

I was floored—the only reason why I needed help undressing and tying up my hair was because my dominant hand had a cannula and was bruised and visibly swollen, and when I tried to tell a nurse, she said I was fine. It took another doctor taking notice of my hand for me to get assistance. The women there are NOT good people. Imagine having one-sided beef with someone in your care. Un. Real. 

The red flags didn’t stop after surgery. While I won’t go into too much detail, there were stories floating around the ward—stories of babies… allegedly…being given the wrong medication, a baby… allegedly…being dropped, and staff…allegedly refusing to work because they hadn’t been paid since December 2023. But I don’t need to rely on rumors to tell you that a doctor told me the hospital didn’t treat migraines and that I had to arrange medication elsewhere. A hospital. That doesn’t treat migraines. Who would’ve thought. 

Yoh. Modimo wa tshwaro. (Oh my god) 

Another disclaimer: I know I was treated the way I was because I refused to speak anything other than English. But what else was I supposed to do? My logic was simple: tit for tat, butter for fat. Now we all mad. 

With my piercings and tattoos I’m sure I shocked their traditionalist sensibilities (I’m not the first or last woman to look this way, but it’s the general reception of older generations). Still, I was respectful, and kept it cutesy and they still chose to lack decorum. A regular conversation topic between the new mothers in the ward was about how horrible the bedside manner was, one even asked a nurse what the issue was. Her response? When she was a new mother, she was treated the same way and now it was “our turn”. 

Make it make sense. 

One nurse started beefing with me for not speaking Setswana. Like I said, now we both mad. I eventually went nonverbal when I caught onto the fact that ‘do you want to see your baby or not’ was being hung over my head, because I hadn’t seen her since delivery and I was losing my medulla. Even the security guard took issue with my boyfriend bringing me food daily. 

A staff member eventually admitted to me, unprovoked, that they had initially judged me harshly—because of my tattoos, piercings, hair being done, and use of English— and thought I was faking my migraine until I fainted in her arms, but realized they had been wrong. It’s wild to experience such bias in a hospital.

So, if you’re pregnant or planning to be, please, think carefully about where you’ll give birth. If it’s within your control, I’d recommend steering clear of that hospital. The judgment, the dismissiveness, the lack of proper care—it’s not something I’d wish on anyone. Every mom deserves to feel safe, heard, and cared for, and unfortunately, that just wasn’t my experience. 0 out of 10, would not recommend. 

All the love, 

N.