Sperm Donor

By Letepe Maisela

Sperm Donor is set at the beginning of the democratic era in the new South Africa. This is during Nelson Mandela's tenure as first elected President of the liberated country in 1994. The story narrates the trials and tribulations of a young African

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookTrail Publishing
• Release date: Jul 14, 2022
• ISBN: 9781637679623

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Copyright © 2022 by Letepe Maisela.

ISBN-978-1-63767-961-6 (Paperback)

ISBN-978-1-63767-962-3 (eBook)

LCCN: 2022910516

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Born-free into the new democratic South Africa, Karabo, just 23, learns devastating and life changing news at his mother’s death bed.

This story is set at the beginning of the New South Africa during Nelson Mandela’s term as the country’s first democratically elected President in 1994. It follows the trials and tribulations of a young couple in Johannesburg’s predominately black Soweto township, faced with problems in conceiving their first child. The New South Africa however also presents its challenges and new solutions.

Sperm Donor is a work of fiction. Familiarity or similarity with any living or dead persons and organizations is purely coincidental.

PROLOGUE

M

ahlodi reversed her ancient Toyota

Corolla out of the crammed backyard into the narrow street and joined the usual Friday morning Soweto traffic. She knew where she was going even though her husband James thought she was just going to work later than usual.

What she hadn’t told him was that she had made a fateful appointment to go and get her admitted for half a day at a Fertility Clinic. There she was going to undergo the procedure called Artificial Insemination.

Mahlodi had read all the Medical Journals before making the decision and knew all about Artificial Insemination – the introduction of sperm into a female vagina or oviduct to make her pregnant by other means than sexual intercourse.

She had read that a woman needing artificial insemination can obtain sperm from her male partner. If no male partner was available or where he suffered problems such as a low sperm-count or a genetic disorder, then a woman could request sperm from an anonymous sperm donor whose semen had been conserved in a Sperm Bank.

Normally, this is done with the full knowledge and approval of the male partner if he exists.

When she read all this, Mahlodi suspected that her James either had a low sperm-count or was just simply sterile. Either way he had failed to plant his seed in three years of frequent, unprotected yet unproductive sexual activity.

As far as Mahlodi was concerned James was about to cease to exist just for the day. In the information she had supplied to the clinic at her earlier session, Mahlodi was unmarried and had no lover - not even someone she could call a serious boyfriend. She was just a desperate woman concerned about her biological clock ticking away and determined to bear a child before it was too late.

Even so, she had discussed the matter with a committee of three elderly women including own mother, all of whom agreed with her decision. Mahlodi’s mother had even insisted on accompanying her to the clinic on the big day but Mahlodi said ‘no ways’.

It was one thing to confide in the elderly relatives but that was as far she would allow any of them, including her own mom, to be involved. She was determined to complete the rest of the trip on that bumpy road all by herself.

The face-brick triple story building with a protruding Cathedral-

like tiled roof cradled by parapet walls, looked the most unlikely place for a fertility clinic. Standing on the base of a rocky hill in a Johannesburg suburb aptly named Northcliff, it was well camouflaged by thorny bushes. A brick-paved narrow driveway, lined by blossoming colourful Bougainvillea, led the way to the welcoming front of the building.

The building and its privacy exuded reassuring discretion even from the outside. Not even the most curious would suspect that within its serene brick walls lay rows and rows of deep freezers. These housed the frozen sperm and eggs which brought hope to the hopeless.

The only clue to this cache of new life was a blue electric sign board that blinked the message: ‘Welcome to Rosebud Fertility Clinic’ every few seconds.

The facility had existed for more than thirty years. It started life as a maternity hospital, exclusively for white patients, during the days of white rule and the doctrine of apartheid. But the years after 1994, as South Africa rejoiced in its Nelson Mandela-led first democratically-elected government, saw to a huge drop in admissions. The main reason was that many of its previous white clientele had emigrated from South Africa, fleeing the newly installed blackdominated Government.

The new clientele, most of whom were now Black, found little use for a maternity clinic – there were already plenty of those. They rather needed something more specialized.

In its quest for survival, the clinic management diversified into the fertility business. A feasibility study they commissioned had shown them an emerging market which was categorized as ‘the Black Middle Class’.

The sample in this segment of study, claimed ever-increasing income-earning capacity, accompanied by increasing stress levels caused by their newly adopted, highly competitive, lifestyle. With mortgages and a burning aspiration to see their kids into private schooling, parenting had become a tough career choice.

They also acquired bad eating habits. Now they wined and dined in top restaurants on overcooked food drained of basic nutritional ingredients, or guzzled fast food. Before, healthy home-cooking was the norm, but now it was exception. To make matters even worse only a few took to physical exercise.

Among the many unpleasant side-effects was a distinct drop in the reproductive arena. Females now produced fewer eggs while their men suffered from lower sperm counts. People still had plenty of sex, but the carnal act was no longer producing its primary result and the maternity wards were becoming less crowded.

In its first few years of existence the fertility clinic had seen a lot of traffic through its revolving doors. The traffic was of two types - donors and the recipients. The former were split between the male Sperm Donors and the female Egg Donors. But recipients were of course strictly female and vastly outnumbered the male donors.

Arriving at the clinic, Mahlodi found parking in the basement. She hauled her small bag containing a nightdress, gown, and some toiletries out of her car’s back seat. Though she was not going to be admitted overnight, she wanted to look the part. Taking a lift to the ground-floor reception area, she was greeted with a friendly ‘Good day Mme Malatji - Ms Malatji.’

The cheerful receptionist instantly recognized Mahlodi from her previous visit for there were still comparatively few African women booking in for artificial insemination and it was easy to keep tabs on all of them.

During her previous visit Mahlodi had been counselled about the process and its physical and psychological effects on the woman. She was also told of the legal implications of sperm donor usage and had to sign a detailed disclaimer.

At the time, the receptionist had wondered how such a gorgeous woman could be without hot blooded men out there chasing after her. Why would such a woman need a sperm donor?

Maybe she wanted to have nothing more to do with men after they messed up.

‘Men!’, she thought admonishedly.

‘It’s good to see you again ma’am, I guess you are ready for us today.’

‘Yebo – yes, today is the day.’

Mahlodi was wearing large designer sunglasses that her husband bought for her from his first salary in his teacher’s job at the Soweto Training College. She took them off as she returned the friendliness with a shy smile. The glasses according to her work colleagues made Mahlodi look quite cool. But today she felt far from cool and sunglasses came in handy by offering her a slight disguise should she be unlucky enough to bump into someone who might recognize her. She could just imagine the gossip that would be triggered by that:

‘Hey mfo, guess who I just ran into now inside the Rosebud Fertility Clinic?’

A pause followed that did not require any answer. ‘Mrs Mathematics herself - Mahlodi Malatji. Hau-hey!’ The exclamation mark had the desired effect.

‘Hau, what you talking about’, the driver of the delivery van from the pathology laboratory enquired? He had stayed in the vehicle while the assistant went inside to drop off some of the blood samples they delivered there daily

‘Yes, and she was heavily disguised, wearing enormous sunglasses and a doek over her hair and ears. She looked more like a super model than a housewife out of Soweto. There can only be one reason bro’. ‘Ha! Don’t tell me. When a woman like that visits a place like this, there can only be one reason.’

‘And what could that be?’

The assistant to the driver asked, though he had already guessed the answer.

‘Well this is a fertility clinic and they do one thing here specifically,

and that is to fertilize women who require such a service.’

The driver provided the reason like he had just solved a mysterious puzzle.

‘But mfo, why should Mrs M require such a service if…?

‘She has an official resident sperm donor called husband back home. And why is she alone? Ha! The plot thickens.’

The driver cut in even before his assistant could complete the sentence, providing the answer before the slower assistant could retort. As he said this he put the van into reverse gear to move out of the parking lot.

Mahlodi snapped out of her day-dreaming when a nursing assistant came for her. She looked furtively around to make sure no-one she knew was watching her first steps towards induced motherhood, and followed the assistant. The short-term ward was divided into cubicles and Mahlodi was led to her booth.

‘Just make yourself comfortable while I go and tell Dr Kadish that his patient had arrived. In there,’ she pointed out to the small steel stand-alone cabinet unit, ‘you can store your clothes and valuables. There is a lock and key supplied. ‘I suggest you also change into something more comfortable like a nightie if you brought one along.’ She gave Mahlodi an enquiring look.

‘Yes Sister I will. I did bring in some night clothes even though I’m not sleeping over. Not tonight’

Mahlodi hoped the nurse wouldn’t ask why she was not staying over. She didn’t and Mahlodi thought she had probably been briefed about her patient’s home situation. During her first interview some weeks back, Mahlodi had told the counsellors that she could not sleep over because she stayed with her aged mother who was chronically ill and couldn’t be left on her own.

‘OK, I was going to offer you our standard issue ward gown. You know the one that patients wear backwards, covering their whole front yet exposing their bare backs and bums,’ the nurse said with a wink.

Mahlodi was familiar with those gowns. When she first saw them during her earlier visits to hospitals and clinics, she was aghast. Much later she realized that they were actually a work of sheer genius.

She imagined the Request for Proposals (RFP) that might have gone out to budding fashion designers and the brief by hospital security that probably read:

‘Our hospital gowns have been walking out of the wards like we are a five-star hotel. Please design something that our patients will not be tempted to take home.’

Who in their right senses can take a gown like that home,

wondered Mahlodi?

‘Am I allowed to keep my little radio with me? I use it to keep pace with the outside world?’

‘Please keep it low or rather use head-phones if you have. We don’t want to disturb sleeping foetuses in the adjoining wards,’ the nurse joked.

While Mahlodi waited for Dr Kadish, the doctor was just parking at the clinic. Dr Menashe Kadish was born and raised in Israel’s West Jerusalem one of the world’s oldest cities. He was only five when the Six Day War was waged between Israel, Egypt, Jordan and Syria which led to the still festering sore of Israel’s occupation of East Jerusalem and the lands Palestine claims as its own.

Menashe went to school in Jerusalem and then qualified as a gynaecologist at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem.

A chance encounter with a South African-born Jewish woman led him to South Africa which has a large Jewish community. They met at a Kibbutz where both were doing voluntary work.

Her name was Rina and she was sent by her family to Israel to reconnect with the Jewish State and learn its culture and traditions on the ground. He was fascinated by her story and similarities between the apartheid state and that of Israel. Both were surrounded by hostile countries and nations. Both stuck to discriminatory policies and practices in their desperate quest to survive.

While South Africa had Apartheid, Israel had Zionism with both practices condemned by the United Nations and most of the civilized world. This and South Africa’s large Jewish community had brought the two regimes closer together during the era when the world finally turned against Apartheid with a series of embargos and sanctions. Israel blatantly violated those accords. It traded freely with apartheid South Africa even sharing sensitive nuclear military technology with them.

The close relations between Apartheid South Africa and Zionist Israel acted almost as a magnet between Menashe and Rina during their days at the Kibbutz. When Rina returned home to South Africa, Menashe, long mesmerized by her charm, followed. Soon after his arrival he proposed and they were married by Johannesburg’s senior Rabbi at the Oxford Synagogue.

Menashe’s arrival in South Africa coincided with the release of Nelson Mandela from twenty-seven years of imprisonment. The country was now no longer under the yoke of apartheid and democratic elections were being planned for the near future.

Menashe had fallen hopelessly in love not only with Rina, but now also with his adoptive country. When he decided to make it his home one of Rina’s uncles introduced him to a friend who was the superintendent at Rosebud Fertility Clinic. There was a vacancy for a doctor.

Parking, Dr Kadish hurried to the elevator that took him to reception. From there he would catch another elevator to his office and consulting room on the fourth floor.

New in South Africa, he had asked why was it necessary to take two elevators to travel a mere four floors. The building manager had patiently explained that due to increased levels of crime, everybody now had to go via reception. They could no longer just shoot straight from basement to the upper floors in the express elevator. This was all done to ensure the tenants and their possessions were safe. Coming from Israel a country where security was a serious pre-occupation, he immediately understood.

Resting in her cubicle Mahlodi recalled her initial briefing at the hospital. She had been told about Intrauterine Insemination, the technical name for the act of artificial insemination.

‘Ms Malatji once you and your partner have agreed to pursue this path of conception then you have to agree to fulfil certain conditions and requirements,’ she was told. Her partner would be asked to provide a sperm sample, usually on the same day that the treatment was going to take place.

But Mahlodi had no intention of dragging James along to deposit his seemingly useless sperm at the clinic. So she simply denied she had a partner.

‘I’m not married and I don’t have a man currently in my life,’ she had insisted.

Her lie dismally failed to explain how such an attractive woman oozing sensuality had failed to hook a man in Johannesburg’s dating jungle. She was a lady who could still turn many a head.

Mahlodi was also warned by her mother not to claim that her husband was dead and that she was a grieving widow. This lie could be easily undone by a demand for a Death Certificate.

‘Whoever came up with an idea of a Death Certificate,’ she asked? ‘A certificate needs to be awarded to celebrate lifetime achievements and not death.’

The rest of hospital staff on the other hand also could not stop wondering why a woman like Mahlodi could be without decent male company.

‘Maybe she is Lesbian and refusing to come out of the closet,’ a male Nursing Assistant had remarked during tea break as they discussed the claim by the beauty in Ward 5b that she had failed to find the right man

‘When and where did she ever look around? We right here!’

This was affirmed by one of them, whose rippling upper arm muscles were stretching the skimpy white V-necked shirt to strenuous proportions. As he said this he thumped at his bulging chest as proof of his manliness. His colleagues had nicknamed him ‘Rambo’ and he looked the part. It was an unlikely name for a laboratory assistant.

‘Your partner will be asked to masturbate into a specimen cup. Before all this both you and your partner or husband will be subjected to a variety of tests including HIV.’

The lecture was given by a doctor in a formal matter-of-fact tone that did not anticipate any challenging questions.

‘The qualifying semen will be further washed for any impurities and to remove dead sperm.’

‘What happens if my partner cannot masturbate successfully?’ Mahlodi asked. The doctor gave Mahlodi a blank look.

‘He has to. We do not usually allow it but we might make an exception for him to be assisted by his woman where she is available and willing.’ As he said this, he gave Mahlodi a sympathetic look that said:

‘We know you do not even have your own man ma’am.’

Mahlodi however did have one called James but she had never seen nor heard of him masturbating. She even wondered if he was capable of the feat. Luckily his sperm was not needed here.

‘The sperm is also tested against Hepatitis B and Hepatitis C as well as genetic disorders, anaemia and cystic fibrosis, which could later affect the health of the child.’

The dour lecture went on and on.

‘Are gay men also welcome to deposit their sperm into the Sperm Bank and if so are the potential recipients notified?’

The question drew some gasps and a chuckle from the class who waited on tenterhooks for the answer.

‘Well, we are a Constitutional Democracy and therefore not allowed to discriminate on the basis of race, religion, creed, sexual orientation or sperm,’ the doctor deftly responded like she dealt with this question at every briefing.

‘Well, I don’t want to sound homophobic or something but I wouldn’t like to be a recipient of a sperm from a gay donor. I would prefer a straight child if a boy,’ Mahlodi pointed out.

The doctor held her ground.

‘Unfortunately Ms.…?’ she bent down and squinted her eyes to read the name-tag on Mahlodi’s lapel. ‘Ms Malatji. I don’t make the rules here. I merely apply them.’

‘That concern of yours, you might have to take it to Constitutional Hill,’ she added sarcastically.

Mahlodi had been to Constitutional Hill, not as a complainant or litigant but as tourist to see and learn how the highest court in South Africa functioned. Situated in Kotze Street in Braamfontein, an inner suburb of Johannesburg, Constitutional Hill occupied grounds previously known as the Old Fort Prison during apartheid years. Built by the Boers in 1896 following the Jameson Raid the fort was captured without much resistance by the British in the Boer War.

Years later under the apartheid regime The Fort was initially used as a prison exclusively for white prisoners. Much later two sections, numbered four and five, were created for African male and female political prisoners. The latter batch of prisoners nicknamed it ‘Number Four.’

In the New South Africa it became the home for the South African Constitutional Court – ironically, the Constitutional Court was built using bricks salvaged from the awaiting trial wing of the former prison.

‘Talk of poetic justice!’ Mahlodi had exclaimed loudly at the moment when the tourist guide supplied this information. The lady standing next to her, a freckle-faced tourist from Canada had nodded and gave Mahlodi a high-five which she caught fractionally late.

Mahlodi considered briefly the chances of her case against homosexual sperm succeeding in the Constitutional Court. The media would have a field day labelling her all sorts of names including homophobic, bigot and attention-seeking charlatan. Radio talk shows would also wade into it knee-deep probably dividing the nation. Ultimately the 11 Judges at the court would throw out her complaint as unconstitutional.

‘What happens in my case where I don’t have a husband or partner?’ Mahlodi finally had to ask the big question.

‘Well ma’am you have come to the right place. In your case we will afford you the opportunity to select a donor of your fancy from our massive Sperm Bank. The fertility clinic can provide information about the physical attributes and psychological profile of the potential donor. This will include their ethnicity, physical build, hair and even eye colour.’

Mahlodi decided for the sake of peace not to probe further into the question of sexual orientation and instead she drew up a spec in her mind of the type of donor whose sperm she would require:

‘A six feet plus tall and handsome devil with blond hair and dreamy Chrystal blue eyes, please!’

She smiled inwardly. She imagined giving birth to a baby with such Caucasian features in a Soweto Clinic. Her mother would probably faint in the delivery room and James would say ‘fuck’ and probably stumble out of her life for good.

Anyway she already knew she would choose a donor who resembled James. He was 6’2", ebony, with broad shoulders and once had a rippling six-pack of a stomach. Sadly in its place now hung a beer-swollen belly, courtesy of numerous shebeen visits of late. Oh ja, the donor should sport a full head of kinky hair. Lastly but not least, he should have a Tertiary Educational background and a sense of humour. She however doubted if the Sperm Bank specifications went as far as a sense of humour.

‘Yes that would be my spec and hope this Fertility Clinic can deliver.’

Mahlodi concluded like she was ordering a meal in a classy restaurant downtown Johannesburg.

The duty nurse arrived back to tell Mahlodi that her Dr Kadish had arrived and it was time for her to go into theatre. She helped Mahlodi onto a wheeled gurney. Hospitals did not just allow patients to walk leisurely to theatre no matter how able bodied they might be. Rules are rules and patients are not allowed to stroll into theatre for an operation. Mahlodi was discovering that hospitals were highly regimented.

She was grateful that the procedure didn’t require any anaesthetic. She would be conscious during her procedure and that made her feel comfortable. Her greatest fear was of being put to sleep in a Fertility Clinic and for her not to wake up. What would her James think?

Her mind once more flashed back to the initial lecture she heard at the clinic. First they were told the technical meaning of the term and the process of Artificial Insemination The window of opportunity for fertilization was very narrow - as little as 10 hours from the release of the egg from the ovum. Women who wanted insemination needed to know their ovulation rhythms to increase their chances of pregnancy.

Listening to the lecture Mahlodi wondered why the population explosion was continuing unabated in the world. If the chances of falling pregnant relied on mathematical odds and good timing, how come nurses from the Family Planning clinic were kept so busy? Maybe the hundreds of women in her neighbourhood who fell pregnant at the drop of a hat could teach her some tricks?

Or was James’ Mother correct when she once suggested that Mahlodi should try having sex with James’ younger brother Matlakala. His potency was well proven. It seemed to Mahlodi the less educated, less moneyed and less sophisticated easily conceived. Did she not hear the saying: ‘The rich makes money, while the poor make children? ‘Cynical as the saying sounded, it was largely true.

Mahlodi had thought how true it was when she first married. She had spent the best part of her three-year married life envying women in her neighbourhood to whom falling pregnant seemed as simple as having a cup of tea. The irony was that most of them could not even take care of their children properly. Many were just negligent parents who often gave their babies up to welfare agencies or adoptive parents. But couples like her and James who wanted children and could care for them were left barren. It was so unfair!

‘If this procedure is successful Ms Malatji, you will conceive and nine months later the baby will be your biological product. It will also be the biological child of the man whose sperm was used whether a partner or sperm donor. If the latter, you will not know who that is because it is against the rules and the principles of confidentiality this clinic upholds,’ the lecturer droned on.

Then he gave Mahlodi a stern look and again repeated the last sentence. Finally, the briefing ended and Mahlodi began to eagerly await the real thing. Now the theory was to put into practice. She was sure she was ovulating and ready to receive the semen of an unknown donor to fulfil her life’s desire. The day had arrived for her to fall pregnant without her husband’s participation or knowledge. The Sperm Bank had delivered sperm to the required specifications and Dr Kadish was ready.

The actual process went ahead without a hitch. Soon after Mahlodi missed her period for the first time in her life. It was an awesome experience. Going back to the clinic for verification, she was confirmed to be one month pregnant.

Mahlodi decided to wait another month, just to be sure, before giving James the good news. The month passed and still no period. The main problem now became how she was going to break the news to her husband. He was oblivious to the changes going on in his wife’s reproductive system and body mass.

‘Darling, I have been to my gynaecologist this afternoon. You remember him, Dr Dube.’

She had casually started the topic one evening at the dinner table. Her husband continued chewing a stubborn chunk of steak like his life depended on it. He was also trying hard to remember the last time she called him ‘darling’ so affectionately.

‘Ja, is he the one who still wants to see me? What does he say or want from me this time?’

Her darling swallowed yet another piece of steak and was already busy slicing off the next mouthful.

‘This time he had good news for us. He confirmed that I am two months pregnant. Darling!’

She had to force out the endearment strongly this time.

The knife slipped from James’ hand and hit the tiled floor with a clang. Ignoring it James stood up and scooped his wife into his arms for a passionate embrace. Time stood still as they were locked in each other’s arms like they were years back when they started dating.

Then James started to swing her around as if they were ballroom dancing. In his student days, he was not just a good cricket player but an avid dancer as well. Tango was his specialty. In the past they used to patronize the local YMCA on Thursday evenings. There they would tango the night away.

Sadly, he now probably only danced with some of those loose women that he encountered during his frequent visits to his favourite shebeen, Mahlodi surmised sarcastically.

‘Mogatshaka - my wife! These are the words I have been waiting to hear for the past three years. You see our persistence has finally paid off. I always knew we were both capable of bringing a child into this world. Yebo! Yes! Yebo!’

James was delirious with excitement. Meanwhile Mahlodi was thinking that this was easier than she had imagined. James really believed that he was virile and that finally after so many misses he had scored. Her guilt was now mingled with a slight feeling of sorrow for him.

‘Yes my darling but I still