When I told people I was giving birth in Africa, the reactions ranged from surprised to mildly alarmed. Some smiled politely. Others gave me a look that said, “Are you sure that’s safe?” It was clear: there’s still a one-dimensional narrative out there about what giving birth in Africa looks like. But here’s the truth: giving birth in Africa, at least where I live in Abidjan, was not just safe. It was empowering, supportive, and refreshingly human-centered.

 

Now, before I go any further, I want to acknowledge something important: I live in Abidjan and had the financial means to give birth in a private hospital, one of the best in the city. That reality shaped my experience in a significant way. I’m fully aware that for many women giving birth in Côte d’Ivoire—especially in public hospitals—the experience can be drastically different, and often more challenging.

 

But this is exactly why I’m writing. The narrative that birth in Africa is inherently unsafe or substandard doesn’t reflect the full picture. My story isn’t the story—it’s one story. And I hope it expands the conversation about what giving birth on this continent can look like.

 

Here’s what I experienced giving birth in Africa — and what the U.S. could learn.

 

 

Finding a VBAC-Friendly Provider Was (Shockingly) Easy

 

For my first birth in the United States, I had planned an unmedicated home birth. I’d done the reading, chosen a midwife, and felt empowered to deliver naturally with the support of my husband. Unfortunately, despite everyone’s best efforts, I ended up with a C-section after being admitted to the hospital due to complications.

 

While I knew the decision had been medically sound, I couldn’t help but feel a lingering sense of disappointment. I had hoped for a very different experience, and part of me grieved the birth I didn’t have.

 

So when I got pregnant a second time, I knew I wanted to try for a VBAC (Vaginal Birth After Cesarean). In the U.S., that decision often comes with navigating a maze of liability concerns, hesitant providers, and outdated policies. Many doctors simply refuse to support it, often citing malpractice fears or rigid hospital rules.

 

In Abidjan, When I told my OB-GYN that I wanted to have a VBAC, I was expecting a lengthy conversation. Instead, she looked at my file, asked a few key questions, and said, “You can absolutely have a VBAC. I will support your choice.”

 

There was no defensive medicine. No fear-based counseling. No guilt. Just evidence-based care, trust in my body, and a willingness to support my autonomy.

 

Giving Birth in Africa: Midwives Run the Show — And It Works

 

One of the most refreshing parts of giving birth in Africa was seeing how midwives are truly at the center of the experience.

 

In the U.S. hospitals, midwives are present, but OB-GYNs tend to dominate, especially when anything strays from the “normal” path. Midwives don’t get a chance to practice at the top of their licences unless they have their own practice.

 

In both public and private hospitals in Côte d’Ivoire, midwives are the heart of maternal care. They follow pregnancies, prescribe treatments, manage labor, and often deliver the baby themselves. OB-GYNs are still around, but they primarily intervene when complications arise.

 

Many women choose to see midwives during their pregnancies. In public hospitals, midwives basically run the show. Throughout my pregnancy, I was followed by an OB-GYN. But when I went into labor, it was the midwives who took over—and they were exceptional. Their calm, confident presence, deep knowledge, and hands-on approach made the experience feel deeply personal and profoundly human.

 

This model not only makes care more accessible—especially for women in underserved areas—but also leads to fewer medical interventions and lower Cesarean rates overall. When midwives are trusted to lead, birth outcomes often improve.

 

 

Parental Leave That Actually Feels… Humane

 

Here’s a wild concept: here in Côte d’Ivoire, women actually get time to recover after birth and bond with their baby.

 

In the U.S., maternity leave is a patchwork of policies that vary wildly by employer, state, and circumstance. Many women return to work within just a few weeks—sometimes even days—after giving birth. The result? Burnout, mental health struggles, and disrupted bonding during a critical period.

 

In Côte d’Ivoire, maternity leave is viewed as a fundamental right—not a workplace perk. Every woman is guaranteed at least 14 weeks of paid leave: six weeks before birth and eight weeks after. That time can be extended for complications or in the case of multiple births. Plus, the national social security system provides compensation equivalent to your full salary during that time.

 

Since 2025, women working in the public sector now receive 24 weeks—nearly six months—of paid maternity leave, split into 14 weeks pre-birth and 10 weeks post-birth. That’s time to:

• Get ready before birth,
• Go to all your prenatal appointments without pressure
• Rest and recover after birth,
• Breastfeed, and bond with your baby

This removes the financial pressure to return to work too soon.

 

Imagine the difference this could make in the U.S.—not just for maternal mental health and postpartum recovery, but also for breastfeeding success, infant development, and family stability.

 

 

After Giving Birth in Africa, New Working Moms can Get a Modified Schedule

 

Another progressive policy I found amazing was the right for new mothers to leave work an hour or two early to breastfeed or simply rest. In many workplaces in Côte d’Ivoire, this isn’t just a gesture of goodwill—it’s standard practice. There’s a built-in understanding that the postpartum phase requires extra grace and flexibility. And employers respect it.

 

It’s a small policy that makes a huge difference. It means fewer babies go without breastmilk, and more mothers feel supported rather than stretched to their limits.

 

 

Giving birth in Africa means Affordable Support = A Sane Mom

 

Back in the U.S., postpartum support often feels like a luxury reserved for the wealthy. It’s something you pay for if you’re fortunate enough to afford it. Whether it’s a postpartum doula, a house cleaner, or even just someone to cook meals, help is often seen as indulgent rather than essential.

 

Not so in Abidjan.

 

Here, it’s common—and relatively affordable—to hire extra help. Whether it’s a nanny, a cook, or a cleaner, many families invest in support during those critical first weeks and months. People here don’t see it as spoiling the mother. It’s seen as practical and necessary.

 

In addition to the paid help, family support is deeply embedded in the culture. In many households, the new mom’s mother, aunt, or sister will come to stay with her for several weeks—or even months. They assist with baby care, cook nourishing meals, provide massages, and ensure the mother has the time and space to heal.

 

Again, that kind of support system isn’t about being “spoiled”. It’s about recognizing that motherhood isn’t meant to be a solo act. Motherhood is embraced as a communal effort. That kind of support allows mothers to truly focus on resting, recovering, and bonding with her baby—and it makes a world of difference.

 

 

Giving Birth in Africa Doesn’t Have to Break the Bank

 

Finally,  let’s talk numbers. The cost of giving birth in the U.S. is absolutely ridiculous! Even with insurance, giving birth in an American hospital can feel like swiping your credit card at a luxury hotel you didn’t actually enjoy.

 

With my first child, I gave birth at a public hospital and had what was considered “good” insurance. We still ended up paying over $6,000 out of pocket.

 

Now, fast forward to my second birth in Abidjan. My second child was born in a private hospital (one of the best in town) in Abidjan, in a modern maternity ward with top-notch staff and compassionate care. The total bill, after insurance? Less than $300. Yes, really. Not a typo.

 

And even if I hadn’t had insurance, the total cost of delivery would have been significantly more manageable than in the U.S. Here, the idea that childbirth should bankrupt a family simply doesn’t exist.

 

Rewriting the Narrative about Giving Birth in Africa

 

So yes, I had my baby in Africa. And no, it wasn’t scary, primitive, or somehow “less than.

 

It was intentional. Empowering. Supportive. It was, in many ways, what birth should be everywhere — centered on the mother, supported by skilled professionals, and embraced by a community that understands the magnitude of this life-changing event.

 

The U.S. could learn a thing or five. From prioritizing maternal well-being to supporting new families with generous leave policies, there’s room for a major shift.

 

I’m not naive. I know my experience isn’t universal. I had access to a level of care that many women across the continent, and even within Abidjan, don’t. But that doesn’t make my story any less true. It simply means there’s more than one narrative when it comes to giving birth in Africa.

 

We need to make space for these complexities. Yes, there are urgent issues in maternal care that need to be addressed—both in Africa and in the United States. But we also need to recognize and celebrate what’s working, especially when it centers women’s dignity, autonomy, and community support.

 

Because giving birth shouldn’t be something women survive—it should be something they feel supported, respected, and even joyful about. And I found that, not in a high-tech U.S. hospital, but in a maternity ward in Abidjan.