The Village Still Belongs to Us: A Motherhood Story

In Africa, we didn’t schedule community — we lived it.

In Africa, I belonged to three women’s groups, what we sometimes called fellowships or circles. Some women belonged to four or five. It wasn’t about the number — it was about the rhythm.

A rhythm of showing up month after month, in each other’s homes, sitting in familiar chairs, on woven mats, or on plastic stools pulled in from the backyard.

We gathered with no agenda other than simply being together.

We brought nothing except ourselves.
We didn’t call ahead.
We didn’t apologize for interrupting anyone’s day.
We didn’t wait for invitations.

You just walked into another woman’s home knowing she would make room for you.

One group was full of teasing and gossip — the harmless, joyful kind that kept us laughing until our eyes watered.

Another was more prayerful, where stories poured out slowly, the way hot tea fills a cup.

Another was the hardworking group, where we talked about school fees, farming, and how to support each other in tough seasons.

But all of them had a pulse: women keeping each other alive.

Every month, someone opened her door.
The next month, it was someone else’s turn.

If a woman had a new baby, the circle simply moved toward her. Ten women in her living room, holding the baby, cleaning the kitchen, spreading love across the room like warm light.

No one expected to be fed.
No one expected perfection.

The gatherings themselves were the food — nourishment for the heart, the spirit, the mind.

Looking back now, I understand something I didn’t fully see then:
These circles were our social protection, our therapy, our postpartum care, and our joy.

They were the reason loneliness never had space to grow.

Then I came to America — and everything changed

When I first came to the U.S., I didn’t notice the difference immediately.

But after I had my baby, the silence was undeniable.

The days stretched long.
The nights felt even longer.

No footsteps approaching my door.
No group of women laughing in my kitchen.
No sudden knock saying, “Nuna, open the door — we’ve come to sit with you.”

Motherhood here felt like walking through a new country with no map.

People were kind — very kind — but life moved fast, quietly, individually. The spontaneous togetherness that shaped my entire upbringing simply did not exist in the same way.

Everyone seemed to carry their own stress, their own calendar, their own private world tucked behind closed doors.

I cried a lot during that season — not because I was incapable or unprepared, but because I was alone.

Alone in a way I had never known.
Alone in a way my culture had never prepared me for.

And as I began supporting African immigrant mothers here — in hospitals, shelters, homes, and community spaces — I heard that same quiet confession:

“I didn’t know motherhood could feel this lonely.”
“Back home, women would be here with me.”
“Here, you go through everything by yourself.”

This is the gap I now stand inside — and the place where my work was born

My work as a cultural doula began long before I had the language for it. It started with simply sitting with women, listening to their stories, noticing the cracks where loneliness settled, and remembering what community felt like back home.

Through Maine Afro Yoga, my mindfulness and storytelling circles, and my postpartum support work, I found myself trying to recreate small pieces of what we had in Africa.

A safe space.
A soft presence.
A familiar touch.
Women gathered with their babies on their laps.
A room full of laughter.
A circle where burdens feel lighter because they are no longer carried alone.

And each time a mother tells me she feels less anxious after a grounding practice, or she laughs freely for the first time in weeks, or she meets another mother and they exchange phone numbers, I feel something quietly powerful happening.

We are rebuilding the village — one woman, one visit, one circle at a time.

What I dream for the future

I dream of a world where immigrant mothers in Maine experience community the way we did back home.

A world where women show up in each other’s homes without hesitation.
A world where babies are passed from one loving arm to another.
A world where stories are shared openly, with no fear of judgment.
A world where joy is collective and struggle is shared.
A world where no mother feels like she must hold everything on her own.

I dream of circles that grow gently and naturally — through friendship, tea, storytelling, and sisterhood.
Circles that make Maine feel less cold and more like home.

I dream of gathering the way we used to:

Ten women in a living room,
talking, laughing, praying, advising,
pouring into one another
until everyone leaves lighter.