I always though it an unkind stereotype that African women give birth and then carry on with their work.

This afternoon, I was chatting with M., the delightful woman who twice a week comes by, cleans my house and takes me from my solitary freelance hell. We talked about her impending birth.

"Aren't you tired yet,?" I asked her as she mopped the floors infront of me. I was sitting on the sofa fanning myself with a wicker fan, sweat running down my arms.

"No," M. giggled, herself sweating in the extraordinary heat.

"When I was pregant with my other son, I worked until nine months. On the Tuesday, I went to work and made breakfast for my boss. I cleaned the house as usual. Then I made the lunch." Still mopping the floors, every now and then whipping a cloth out of her housecoat andd giving something a polish, she laughed as she remembered the story.

"I carried on making the lunch until I couldn't go on. I called my boss and he took me to the hospital. At one pm, I gave birth to Mark."