Life in Community

A very indignant woman was on my doorstep. “Madam!” she demanded. “Don’t you hear your baby crying?!” Once (only) I had put my crying baby in his crib in the hope that he would soon drop off for his morning nap. Windows are always open in the tropics, and within minutes this woman, a total stranger passing by on her way to market, had heard him and stopped to let me know what she thought of me.

It was August 1962 when we arrived in Nigeria with a two – month – old baby, a few years after Nigeria became independent. Canadian Presbyterians were working with Church of Scotland missionaries to support the Presbyterian Church in Nigeria, and we Canadians were following the Scottish policies. These had only recently changed as a result of the introduction of effective malaria prophylactic drugs.  

Until the 1950s, in line with the policy of the British colonial service, missionary wives had returned to the United Kingdom when they became pregnant. They had their babies and remained there with the children until they were old enough to be entrusted to relatives or sent to boarding schools. The men returned on home leave every 18 months to reunite with their families. With the fear of malaria removed, the Scottish mission board now permitted babies and young children to live with their parents in Nigeria. Several Scottish couples had small children and we were joining four or five Canadian Presbyterian families. However, European children were still a novelty, especially in rural Nigeria—as I discovered when I was nearly mobbed by a crowd of friendly, curious women when I imprudently took my baby to a village market.

My husband, Murray Ross was assigned to work as an architect designing and building churches, houses and hospitals. I resisted being given an assignment because I felt having a new baby was responsibility enough for a while. I was a brand new mother thousands of miles from home, missing the support of family, and clinging to a well – thumbed copy of Dr. Spock. But Nigerian friends were supportive, and showed me a whole new perspective.

People reacted with amazement (almost, it seemed, with horror) to our practice of putting a small baby to sleep in a room all by himself. Nigerian babies are carried, by mothers or someone else, almost every minute until they begin to walk. Much of this time they are on someone’s back in a tightly wrapped cloth. Today it has become fashionable in North America to carry babies in similar ways, but that was certainly not the case in the early ‘60s. Now we hear about the importance of bonding, and skin – to – skin contact. In most of the world, this is how they have always cared for babies.

Back in Canada, then and perhaps now, a young couple’s goal was a house that would give each child a bedroom—an individual space. In Nigeria, as in much of the world, small children sleep together on a mat. It is seen as the natural way for them to relate as part of the family.

Our second and third babies were born in Nigeria, and I found pregnancy and childbirth were natural ways to be accepted by my fellow members of the Women’s Guild. Clearly, in all the fundamentals, I was just like them.

The children, as they grew, were tremendous bridge – builders. Nigerians, like people everywhere, enjoy kids, and found it very easy to relate to them. It was a small step from joking with our children to relating to us on a friendly basis.

I was far less isolated in my home than I would have been in Canada. There were always people around, and the children saw and got to know the people in my life. Church people, fellow missionaries, contractors, messengers, peddlers, all were at the door or in our living room. They were not voices on the telephone or faceless Facebook friends. The various parts of my life overlapped, and there was a fluid interaction between our home and family and the community. This could have its downside for the adults (how do you concentrate on your work?), but for the children there were many positives.

When we returned to Canada in 1969, our children were seven, five and two years old. Recently I asked my elder son how life overseas had affected him. He says (although he could not have articulated this then) that he realized his experience set him apart from his Grade 2 classmates. For them, North Toronto and the way we do things here was all they knew, and all there was to know. He knew there was another world out there that was different from North Toronto—not weird or scary—just different. Unconsciously he knew that ours is a big wide world, and humans have many diverse ways of living. This made him more comfortable with differences. It strengthened his determination to be his own person.

I will be forever thankful that we were blessed with those preschool years in Nigeria. I say this acknowledging that not all our missionary families had as good an experience (for some, poor health and education for older children were challenges). We were in the city, and we were blessed with good health. I wouldn’t have missed that experience for the world.