Chapter 1 - Scary 10

I’ll be 10 years old next week, and I’m so scared.

Everyone says it is done to keep girls “pure, caste.” When girls truly become women. But how does cutting yourself down below, in the most sensitive and private place, make one pure?

If that’s what it takes to be a woman, I’d better stay a girl. Grandmother calls it a blessing to women—a woman’s duty.

Papa says it’s an “honorable rite of passage into womanhood.” A must in Egohor tradition. Without it, no man would want me. They said only wayward women refuse tradition and bring shame to their families.

‎But I want none of it!

‎Because Sisi’s screams still echo in my head, like it was yesterday. ‎ It hunts me till today. I remember the time when that old herbalist woman came with her dirty sack of tools. She smelled of herbs and a musty, weird odour.

They had locked me in Mama’s hut, but Sisi's screams were loud enough that they still pierced the walls. She shrieked until her voice cracked, yet they didn’t stop. ‎Every time I try to sleep, it keeps replaying in my mind, especially now—endless agonizing screams.

‎ ‎After the herbalist woman left, I heard my mother crying and begging Papa to take Sisi to the hospital.

“ The bleeding won’t stop…there’s so much blood.” She pleaded.

But Father said it was not necessary, that going to the hospital was a waste of time and resources. He swore the healer’s herbal paste would stop the bleeding. Grandmother prayed louder than ever. It was as if she wanted to drown out Sade’s cries. She got what she wanted when Sisi suddenly stopped screaming.

I pounded on the door, begging. “Papa, please let me see Sisi!”

I was so scared then. I couldn’t help her because I was locked in my mother’s hut when I tried to rush into the room.

“Don’t interfere in adult matters, girl!” Papa barked. He dragged me into Mama's hut and locked it.

Minutes stretched into hours, and the sun gave way to darkness. I didn’t make my move until I heard the rumble of Papa’s snores. My hand ached from pounding on the door nonstop. Slipping out the window, I tiptoed to Sisi’s hut and peered in with the light of the mpalaka lantern in my hand. What I saw made my heart hurt.

Sisi...she’d crawled off the wooden bed and was sprawled on the floor in a pool of her own blood. It looked like she tried to crawl to the door but failed. She lifted her head when she heard me, stretched out her arm, and whispered hoarsely.

“Water... help... me”

‎ I ran to fetch a cup of water, cradled her head in my lap, and fed her drops. Tears blurred my eyes, but I fought to stay strong for Sisi.

How could Papa allow this? Why didn’t Mama stop it? Is this Grandmother’s blessing?

‎Mother found us that way. She, too, could not sleep. When she saw us, something snapped in her. She squared her shoulders, as if a new steel spine grew in her that instant.

‎”Go and get my wrapper, Amina!” She said, and I ran out to do her bidding. I had never seen that light in her eyes before.

When I came back, I saw Mama hugging my sister, in tears, whispering apologies to her.

‎”I am sooo sorry.‎ I should have done something before...; I was a coward." ‎”Hold on, my daughter, you will be alright.”

Mama quickly tied Sisi to her back with her wrapper, like a baby. She turned to me and said, ‎” Go back inside, Mina. I’ll take your sister to the Health Centre. If anyone asks, say you don’t know anything.”

‎And off she went into the night.

Sisi survived. But the cheerful sister I knew? She was no more.

What was left was a shell of her former self, one who walked more slowly than usual. Her stomach was always aching; even peeing was difficult for her. It hurt. She got married, but no babies came. They called her a barren woman. Her husband left her for a woman who could have children. They said she and several other girls in sis’s age group who underwent the same procedure had complications too. Complications from infection that day.

‎ Now it’s my turn.

‎As my birthday approaches, my heart beats furiously. I haven’t slept well since last week. I don’t want to experience the same horrors Sisi went through. I kept praying for help...an intervention. ‎I thought of running away from home, but I had nowhere to go.

Then God answered my earnest prayers.

‎The following week, a youth corps member came to our school. She came for the mandatory NYSC service that every graduate in Nigeria undertakes after graduation. She taught Biology, and in between teaching, she spoke about harmful traditional practices. Her voice was strong with conviction, and her eyes flashed when she said.

‎“Female Genital Mutilation (FGM) has killed many young girls and incapacitated others.” ‎“It is violence against the female gender. A human rights violation. It causes bleeding, infections, infertility, and even death. Girls deserve better!”

‎My heart soared with hope; I believed her. I was a witness, after all, of that fateful night when Sisi underwent that procedure. The aftermath solidified my belief. Was she the help I prayed for?

‎After class that day, I went to Miss Corper and asked a lot of questions about FGM. She answered them all and told me:

‎”Mina, if you need any help, don’t hesitate to come see me. You know where I live, right?”

‎I nodded and skipped home that day to tell Mama what I learnt. But when I got home that day, Papa was talking with the herbalist’s daughter. A descendant of that old, smelly woman from 10 years ago. To keep the family business of a traditional birth attendant, her daughter took over the family business. She attempted to upgrade their service by attending a nursing school. She was called “Nurse Eliza” behind her back. She inherited both her mother’s lack of hygiene and her quackery.

‎Many pregnant women and babies had either died or developed complications after patronizing her clinic.

I hid behind the plantain tree close to the hut and listened to her and Papa’s conversation about me. That night, I lay awake staring at the ceiling.

‎I shuddered as I imagined her touching me... there with her dirty blade. My stomach twisted and turned, and my heart felt like it was in a marathon.

And that’s when I remembered Miss Corper at school. What if I ask her for help? ‎