The throbbing in my eyes and back reminds me of bare-chested women and towering trees. That night, eyes wide open in terror, I lay in the grass, blood gushing from my genitals as though from a slaughtered animal. Since I was brought here three days ago, sleep has become nothing more than a dream. The nurses are always taking my urine samples, giving me foul-smelling medicine and measuring my uterus and blood pressure.
Of all the sleep interruptions I have suffered, Joselyn’s questions and penetrating gaze have been the most bothersome. I close my eyes, she is there. I open them, she is the first person I see. She only steps out when the nurses come to check on me. I wonder if she does not have other things to do besides sitting in that plastic chair opposite my bed, inhaling my carbon dioxide, hour after hour. The last time I sat for an hour in a bucket, my sitting facility felt like wood. If I were her, even with a gun to my head, I’d flee such a congested, death-smelling place.
I would rather be in a clean and tiled hotel, calling room service, eating smoked tilapia and drinking sparkling water. Or just doing any happy thing. I like the one I saw in Kapchorwa town as the hospital van sped its way here. Hotel Chandelier. Its buildings are tall to the sky. I had never seen so many mirrors on one wall. From the back of the van, I heard Cecilia tell the other nurses that only people from outside the country are entertained there.
Joselyn says she’s an investigative journalist with International Media Network, but when people want something from you, they say all sorts of things. I only agreed to speak to her yesterday because she brought packets of biscuits, a big bottle of Mirinda, and food she had packed in a big bowl. She has been bringing these since Monday. If it were not for my itching intestines, I would have ignored her. It is time for me to have a break from the tasteless posho and beans which Cecilia got from the hospital kitchen the other day, saying, “Chemutai, you cannot have the chicken and rice like the other patients because they are not free. Chemutai, please eat. Chemutai, don’t mind. Just eat.” I wanted to remind Cecilia that I had no one to buy me everything my rumbling stomach craved and that her food left a bitter taste in my mouth, but what would it change? Thank God, Joselyn saw me vomit the food as soon as Cecilia turned to leave. Joselyn offered to take care of my menu, for all the days she will be here, which sent happy chills deep down my drained soul.
She and Cecilia moved out and talked for a while. They closed the door and their voices against me. When they returned, Joselyn sat in the chair and kept throwing her head backwards whenever her yellow hair fell on her face. If I were her, I would cut off that hair and stop shake-shaking my head like a night dancer.
Before Cecilia left, she leaned on the white wall, and closer to my bed, careful not to shake the stand which holds the intravenous line that runs into my arm. “Chemutai, be a good girl. Chemutai, tell her everything. Chemutai, please,” she said in a tone that seemed to say that if I did not answer all the questions Joselyn asked, she would stop bringing me goodies. I know my Koko would kill me if word fell into her ears that I told this woman what she herself would never tell a foreigner, but I hope Joselyn would be long gone by the time my Koko knows I am here.
“Are you feeling a little better now, Kemiyutai?” Joselyn speaks like a peacock, through her long nose. Listening to her strains my eardrums. I hesitate to remind her that my name is Chemutai, not Kemiyutai because I know it won’t be the last time.
“Can we now talk, Kemiyutai? Are you listening to me, Kemiyutai?”
I feign sleep, ignoring Joselyn and her questions. My mind takes the form of a bird and travels to Kwoti Girls Primary School where my Primary seven classmates and I would sing songs, and run after birds and butterflies until sunset. My Koko often caned me for reaching home late, but it never stopped me from repeating it the following day.
***
I open my eyes, despite the increasing weight of my eyelids. Joselyn is scribbling something into a notebook. The green light on her voice recorder is blinking. She is wearing a Kitenge cotton dress with sketches of cow horns and big buttons at the front. A maroon jacket covers part of the ID tag clipped to her dress.
She looks up at me and smiles. “Just a few questions. Then I will leave.”
“Where’s Cecilia?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” she says. “But I’m sure she’ll be back soon.”
I wish I got paid in big currencies daily like Cecilia. This morning, I could not tell the amount or currency Joselyn gave her — I’m not a satellite to see what is done behind a closed door. The rustling of papers, whispers, and hushed laughs I heard suggested Cecilia was rewarded with two hands.
I exaggerate my yawn.
“How are you feeling?” She attempts to reach for my hand but withdraws. I would not have let her touch me anyway. Joselyn’s hands are not like mine. The scars on my hands make them rough like dry dung, while her hands are fresh and soft like a baby’s. If I were her, I would not contaminate my clean hand touching a hand that often rubs my itching wounds.
She places sheets of paper on the table in front of me. The sheets have several questions written in bold and spaced as though it is a Primary Leaving Examination paper. “Here. Take your time,” she says, handing me a pen.
The reflection from the paper flashes across my face, and thoughts of Mr Chemonges’s loudspeaker voice erupting one Friday morning while we gathered for the weekly school assembly, resurrect in my mind.
“We have given you all the knowledge you need to shine. Go with your heads high, girls and boys. Smash the exams; make your teachers proud. Raise our flag high! We cannot wait to see you with flying colours when the results come.”
As we clapped, my face beaming, I saw myself many months later, shaking Mr Chemonges’s hand, my Koko with me, surrounded by my teachers and classmates, amidst congratulatory chants and songs of jubilation.
On the path leading home, my feet barely touched the ground, my ears were deaf to the closest hooting of passing cars and boda-bodas, and the journey of twenty minutes seemed unending. The excitement made the yams and beans my Koko had kept warm in the pot less important. But for how long would this excitement last? It would not be long before my Koko returned from the plantation and said, “My Grandchild, what use is going to school when you cannot know there is no water in the pot?” My Koko never repeated a question twice. I picked up my pot and dashed. I did not know I would return home soaked in blood.
The stiffness in my right hand makes writing difficult. So I push the sheets of paper and pen back to Joselyn. She picks them and reads the first question aloud, her red pepper lips parting in slow motion to reveal her silver-crowned teeth.
“You said your Grandma sent you to the well to fetch water, not so?”
“Koko.”
“Pardon?”
“She’s not Grandma. She’s Koko. I told you that yesterday. What’s the point of writing anything down if you’re not even paying attention?” I snap, hoping my voice carries enough irritation to scare her off.
“Sorry,” she says. “There’s a lot to take in.” She stares at me as if her whole life depends on it.
I shrug.
“Did you often fetch water that late?—alone?”
“I would only be afraid if the well were many miles away.”
“As you walked past the swamps, you said you felt a strange presence. Did you run?”
“Only cowards do.” A fit of cough overcomes me. I try to draw in breath but end up wheezing. I clear my throat and cough as I attempt to sit up. Joselyn’s brow crinkles. Is she afraid that someone might hear me, or is she only worried about her stupid interview? Her eyes settle on my bruised thighs before she asks, “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” I place my hand on my stomach but feel no movement. Maybe the baby is asleep. My Koko said she would sing songs for my mother before she was born. The last time I tried singing, my inflamed throat felt like someone had just boxed me in both cheeks.
Joselyn asks me what I saw at the well.
“Their shadows as they emerged from the overgrown swamp. I set my pot on the ground and waited.’
Her phone rings.
“Sorry,” she says. Before she answers, the phone falls silent. She switches it off.
I hear footsteps outside. Joselyn jumps and glares at the door. She turns back to me and takes a deep breath.
“Sorry. What happened next?” Her voice is a bit shaken. She struggles for composure, rustled by whoever she thinks is waiting on the other side of the door.
I recall that woman’s hand; the hand which bound my face like sellotape. Her other hand bombarded my throat, mingling it like millet, as if to prevent me from screaming my lungs out. Not even flinging my arms and legs could help. Soon, the surrounding gang broke into song, so deafening that each word felt like a knife stabbing deep into my flesh. They lifted me. Took me away.
“Did you see the women?—Can you identify them?” Joselyn asks.
I grab the Mirinda from the table and sip, eyes glued to the yellow paint peeling off the plywood ceiling.
The door opens slightly, and Cecilia peeps into the room. Whatever she says to Joselyn flies out of the open window before reaching me. Joselyn keeps staring at her, her mouth wide open. Her chest rises and falls and the top of her blouse darkens with sweat. Then Cecilia slams the door.
I look down at Joselyn’s neck. Her necklace has a wooden pendant, carved into the shape of a mango. I feel my intestines growl like a malfunctioning engine. Memories of the mango tree in my Koko’s plantation swarm my mind.
***
Joselyn checks her wristwatch before saying, “did the women say anything to you?”
Her pen drops from her sweaty fingers.
“One woman’s voice, which was larger than all the voices I had ever heard, said if I resisted I would meet my mother in the grave. With the waves of the nearby Ngenge River crashing in my ears, I did not want to be offered to the river gods as a sacrifice.”
“You are not loud, Kemiyutai. What’s wrong?” She picks up her pen. “Where did they take you?” She contorts her forehead and raises her eyebrows.
“Eucalyptus. The place smelled of eucalyptus.”
My throat burns and I feel tears heavy on my eyelids. I blink, hoping to reverse the tears. I know I should not cry, after all, I am fifteen years old. But when the burning grips my stomach, my courage crumbles like a pile of bricks.
Joselyn hands me a clean white handkerchief. When I am done wiping my face, she pushes the Mirinda towards the edge of the table.
“Thank you,” I say.
My sore gums make swallowing hard, but I persist. I hand the empty bottle to Joselyn and turn to the window to watch the setting sun for a while. The trees and buildings look like ashy pyramids floating in the air.
When I turn back, Joselyn says, “You said the place smelled like eucalyptus.”
“There’s a eucalyptus forest near Kwoti.”
“Were there other people?”
“The screaming of the children, as we approached, was like the bleat of a knifed sheep.”
“I see.” Joselyn first writes in her notebook. “I guess you knew about the ceremony, right?”
“Who am I to know? Since when did girls and women become part of the elders’ council?”
“Alright. Now, but, when you got there, did you —”
“I heard a woman ask for her wembet.”
“Wembet?”
“Razor blades.”
“I see.”
“But you keep saying, I see, I see. You see what?”
“Sorry,” Joselyn says, softly, “tell me what you saw.”
“As the light from the kerosene lamp illuminated, their corpse-like selves became visible. Unclothed. Lying on the grass. At first, I thought tomato sauce had been poured all around them.”
“Are you sure you didn’t recognise any of the children?”
“I can’t remember.”
I push the blanket away. It should be getting cooler, but it is not. I ask Joselyn to turn on the fan. I caress my bulging stomach, which is beginning to ache.
I feel the baby kick and I try to smile because it is an assurance that my baby is alive. Maybe I will not be like our neighbour’s daughter, Chebet, who men said smelled like fish because all her three children died from the womb. Anyway, my Koko always says meyit lekokap ngogoi kutombo kekenye —do not count your chicks before they hatch.
I want it to be a girl, then I will name her Cheptai –a survivor. If she turns out obedient and hard-working, she will be loved by many in the community, and she will get married into a wealthy family.
If it is a boy, I know the whole village will congregate for a celebration. They will slaughter the fattest bull and the elders will sprinkle its blood around him to cleanse him and welcome him to the community. They will name him Cheptoris and raise him to be a village warrior, away from me, as boys are raised better by men, not women.
***
“Do you think,” I say, turning to Joselyn, “that the world is full of only pain or is there something more?”
“I’m sure there’s something, Kemiyutai,” Joselyn says.
“Something like what?” I ask.
“Love. Joy. Peace,” Joselyn says.
“Love,” I say, lowering my voice and looking into Joselyn’s big eyes. “Do you think my Koko loved me?”
“I’m sure she did,” Joselyn assures me.
How? The day before the ceremony, when I asked her if I resembled my mother, she said, “Your mother was not worth resembling.”
When I asked her what she meant, she picked up her cane and pointed it at me. “You! I don’t want you to end up like that woman.” She did not explain despite my insistence.
Two days after the ceremony, my Koko heard me gasp for breath as I lay on the mat, my arms too weak to chase away the flies which were lining the streams of blood that flowed from the wound on my genitals like tributaries. I told her that the vessels in my hips and legs were numb, but she did not say, “Who is that devil that did this to my grandchild?” or “Let me make you some medicine—” or “I will kill whoever did this to my Chemutai?” Instead, she began whistling while knocking her cane to the rhythm of possible madness against the cow-dung-smeared floor. “You are now a woman! Oh, my Chemutai. You are now a woman, my grandchild.” Her singing ripped me apart.
“Imagine being your Koko’s only grandchild,” I hear myself say.
“What happened to your parents?”
A heap of weight presses down my chest, making me sink deeper into the bed. I squeeze my eyes, trying to resist, but this time the tears are too determined. Within a split second, my face is a waterfall.
“I’m sorry,” Joselyn says. “What happened?”
“Koko says long ago before Ngenge River lost its pace, my mother had gone there to fetch water but took forever to return. Koko hopped to Chief Kwemoi’s home, which was next to our plantation. She asked his eldest son, Cheptoek to rush and check what had happened to my mother. On arriving, Cheptoek’s eyes fell on a maroon dress which first floated and then began to descend in the direction of the waves. He dived therein but could only recover her body, not her life. The elders gathered and split her stomach to remove the fetus. It was early, very early, in the morning. That’s why I’m called Chemutai.”
“What else do you know about your mother?” Joselyn glances at the door.
“I’ve heard others say that unlike me, she could not be traced on the night of the ceremony. It was a quiet night, with only a few stars lighting the sky. My mother sneaked out of my Koko’s hut and footed up to Kween, miles across the sky-high trees of the Elgon. The journey was so long that when she stopped walking, she fell by the roadside and became unconscious.”
“The people who bypassed her asked, ‘Who is she?’ They also asked, ‘Who is her father and who is her mother?’ My mother’s chapped lips could not say, ‘I am Cherop. Daughter of Chelimo, known for her sweet sorghum.’ She could not tell them that she was not in Kwoti with her family because she had had a dream the previous night that if she did not flee, she would be slaughtered like a goat.”
“But Cheruiyot, a lanky man with pole-like legs, did not bypass her. He carried her in his frail-looking arms, up to his home, where she stayed for months. That’s how he became my father.”
“Why was she punished then?”
“Uncircumcised women aren’t supposed to conceive. But she did.”
“What about your father?”
“What about him?”
“Is he also dead?”
“Am I supposed to know where he is? A foreigner is a foreigner.”
“A foreigner?”
“Yes. A foreigner.” One day, my Koko heard rumours that my father wanted to come and visit my mother. My Koko rushed and told Chief Kwemoi, who met the village elders under the avocado tree in his compound. Within hours, the village warriors, armed with spears, bows and arrows, had taken cover around all major roads leading to Kwoti. If my father had shown his face, the warriors would have shattered him to pieces, because he was a foreigner. Which is what I will be if my child dies. No man will touch me. The village will say I’m an outcast. I do not say these words out loud.
***
“Twelve cows, fifteen goats, thirty hens and twenty thousand shillings,” I say.
Joselyn looks up at me.
“That’s what Cherop’s family paid for me.” I rub my stomach again. A pang of hunger bites at my insides, and I glance at the bowl which sits on top of a fridge in the corner, but I recall Cecilia saying I am not supposed to eat before the operation and the taste of the saliva filling my mouth turns pepper-ish.
“How long were you two married?”
“A few weeks, considering the first man they chose for me rejected me.’’
“First man?” Joselyn’s hand grazes her cheek. ‘You were still a child. Fourteen, not so?”
“If you are circumcised, how are you a child? What stops the elders from looking for a man to marry you? The head of the one they found me was covered with grey. Even if I didn’t want to marry him, did it matter? Turns out he didn’t want to marry me either.”
“Why?”
“When the wound heals, you’re left with a thick, raised line, and a hole the size of the needle’s eye.”
“And, how come Cherop didn’t refuse?”
“Cherop was determined to cut me on our wedding night.”
“Where was that?” Joselyn stares at me with wide, unblinking eyes.
“On a reed mat he had bought from Kwoti market the previous day, that’s where we did it,” I say, trying to remember. “Cherop was bathing when he asked me to wait for him on the mat. When he entered the hut, he was naked, water dripping from his hippopotamus-dark body. I looked down at my feet and shrunk back as he advanced. He grabbed me by the shoulders and pinned me to the mat, a new Razor blade glistening in the moonlight.
“It was my first time, but I had to be brave for Cherop. There was so much blood.”
“Brave?”
“Cherop was my last chance,” I tell her. “I didn’t want to end up like Chebet.”
She says nothing.
“The next day, when I tried to urinate, it was as if a thorn had pierced my wound. I was still bleeding.”
Joselyn’s eyes are still wide, and her mouth is open. “Where is Cherop now?”
“He built himself another hut long before the rumours of our divorce circulated. Could you find out what happened to him?”
Before Joselyn answers, the door creaks open and Cecilia’s head pops into the room. She smiles at me. I wait for her to walk in so I can pretend to be mad at her.
“Where have you been?” I say when she reaches my bed. She is wearing her usual white coat over a knee-length cotton dress. There is a white badge attached to one of the big buttons on her dresses.
“Chemutai, I see you missed me,” she says.
I shrug.
“Chemutai, I hope you are feeling better,” she adds, reaching for my hand.
She turns to Joselyn and asks, “Joselyn, how is everything going so far?”
“Not bad, nurse,” Joselyn says.
Cecilia turns and heads for the door. She stops and beckons Joselyn.
“I am afraid,” Cecilia says with cracks in her voice.
“Is anyone looking for me?”
“Your time elapsed fifteen minutes ago! You should leave; else you’ll put me, my supervisor and the entire hospital in trouble,” Cecilia adds, pacing in front of the door. She whispers something to Joselyn before she leaves.
Joselyn sits and peeks at her watch, “we have to hurry.”
She asks whether I still recall the woman who brought the lamp.
“She was dark, and old,” I say. “Short, shabby hair. Scars on her forehead. Her name was Chepoyeyin. She told her daughter to hold me.”
“Daughter?”
“Chesang.”
Joselyn twists her lips like a cow chewing cud as she tries to pronounce the names while scribbling in her notebook. “What happened after that?” she asks.
I tell her that amidst slaps and blows, Chesang stripped me and forced me to squat on a piece of dried goatskin that she had laid on the ground.
Now, I hear sounds in my head: singing voices, stumping feet and heavy drumming. I don’t know why they keep returning. When they come, I normally force myself to sleep, or if Cecilia is here, ask her to recite her often charming folktales. I cannot wait for this interview to end.
***
“Are you alright?” she asks me.
I shake my head and say, ‘They had surrounded me.”
“Who?”
“Other women. They were singing and clapping like they did when a child was born.”
“What were they singing?”
I clear my throat. Then I mutter the words:
Atumung noo chamanenyu;
I sing for you, my precious one;
Tumtap kapkuko;
The song of your great grandparents;
I tume ako ngarakwek om mukulolyo mwani;
I sing with joy in my heart;
Tumto nyemakwering tai;
A song that will lead you to the future;
Makwiying muny kuloyit nye buryo bor;
It will make you live long and healthy;
Mee kwis nge koyitu wu ketitap pulaya;
You will be strong and tall like the Eucalyptus tree;
Kiny, tuum ako ani, chamanenyu, tuum, tuum, tuum!
So, dance with me, beloved, dance, dance, dance!
***
Joselyn stops writing. I wait for her to say we are done, but she does not. Instead, she lets her notebook fall. “Did you see your Koko that night?”
How could I have seen her? I stayed in the forest till the half, yellow moon faded into the dark sky. When I demanded to go back home, Chepoyeyin asked two women to lift me. They first took me to their hut, on a hill, and smeared smashed namjingong herbs around my wound. They laid me on the cow-dung floor for a while, and let me sleep. They must have carried me to our hut before I awoke in the afternoon of the next day.
Besides, did Koko have time for me? She was busy talking to the two women I found in our hut. They sat on round, wooden stools, facing my Koko, who sat on the floor, her arms planted behind to support her ageing back.
“They lied,” I say, turning to Joselyn. “The women lied that during the ceremony, the ground shook and almost broke loose. I didn’t see that happen.”
“Which women?” Joselyn asks me.
I tell her I’m tired.
She says it’s alright, but requests two more minutes.
“You said some women spoke to your Koko the next day.”
“They sounded familiar.”
“What else did they tell your Koko?”
“I don’t know. All I remember is that one woman handed my Koko two baskets filled with fermented sorghum, and maize flour ready for brewing beer. Although I love drinking ajono and gomek, the smell of both made me cry.”
“What did your Koko say?”
“She just picked her cane and danced as the women clapped.”
I do not want to face the fact that she knew, because when the women said that I was brave; and that I was more obedient than all the girls at the ceremony, my Koko knelt, raised her arms and shouted at the top of her voice, ‘Poyik chebo keny, thank you for giving me such a well-behaved grandchild.”
“What did the women say?” Joselyn asks.
“They laughed. I felt a hard lump develop in my throat. I wished their laughter could turn into two rolling stones and hit them in the face,” I say, curling my fingers into a fist.
Joselyn shuts her notebook and places it on the table. She stares up at me, her hand in front of her mouth. Her eyes look bigger and rounder as if enlarged by the revelation I have shared with her. She shoves the notebook and voice recorder into her handbag. It’s been wonderful speaking with you, Kemmy. I am humbled to hear your story. We have to stop here for now.” She smiles as she rises. “I wish you all the best, dear. We will talk more.”
I cannot believe that this interview has ended. I am grateful beyond words and relieved too.
As she opens the door to leave, a deep, hoarse voice blows into the room. “Are you Ms Joselyn?”
“Yes.” Joselyn stops.
Then I notice someone in a red beret. He is clutching a gun and has a Uganda People’s Defense Force badge on his green camouflage uniform. “You are under arrest. Move out!”
“What have I done?” Joselyn pleads, but her pleading is ignored. “Take it easy, sir.”
“Don’t say anything. Do as I say!” he orders.
I wonder how this man knew I was here. But, how could he have bypassed Cecilia? If she saw him coming, she should have notified Joselyn. Could Cecilia be sleeping on her job? I hope this man is not who I think he is because then, Joselyn would regret being here.
Joselyn steps out. The man leads her as they exit through the corridor. The stomping of Joselyn’s shoes fills my ears, and her voice echoes in my already tired head.
Shortly, the door opens and Cecilia enters. She’s on the phone.
“Sir, I warned her,” she says, slowly, sitting in the chair. ‘Sir, I told her that we had no option but to report her. Sir, she smiled and said she was doing her job. Sir, it was against her professional ethics to stop in the middle of a story. Sir, yes,” Cecilia adds, shaking her head.
***
I think the man that took Joselyn was Kwemoi’s guard. I know this because Kwemoi, the Chief of Kwoti Village, does not like these foreigners who come and spy on our elders and go and report to the police.
That hot afternoon, my Koko had sent me to the farm to fetch firewood, and also make lunch before she returned from her Saturday meetings. I picked a fat binding rope and headed to the farm as she left home, but not before I stopped at her friend’s house to get some mangoes. By now, our tree had one or two hungry-looking mangoes, because it always provided the cane with which my Koko beat me.
As I left the plantation, my pockets full of ripe mangoes, there were whispering voices coming from the other side of the plantation. I tuned my ears like antennas. I knew stepping on the dry cotton leaves would give me away to the tough-talking elders, and they would sentence me to endless caning and ploughing their plantations. So I removed my sandals and tiptoed like a hungry cat spying on mischief.
Standing behind a crowded shrub while keeping my watermelon head away from direct view, I saw Chief Kwemoi standing on an anthill. My Koko, her friend Chesamiy and three other grey-haired women sat at his feet.
“Whose village it is?”
“It is ours!” the women chorused.
“Why should any outsider tell us how to live in it, or how to live our lives? My warriors are on the lookout. Some foreigners loiter in our village saying they are touring this, touring that, yet they are only after our secrets. We will teach them a lesson.”
Reaching into his bamboo bag, he brought out a gun wrapped in banana fibres. The women gasped and scrambled back.
“Shhh, I dare you to tell anyone about this,” he warned and returned the gun.
***
Cecilia asks me how I’m feeling.
I tell her I’m tired.
“Chemutai, please relax. Chemutai, I will be right back. Chemutai, there is a blind old lady who asked to see you,” Cecilia says, leaving.
My Koko had been out of the house when Cecilia and two other nurses found me bleeding in the house, during their routine community outreach work. I am grateful they did; my Koko would have subjected me to the expert hands of the traditional healer.
I don’t want to hurt my Koko by telling her I prefer the hospital with its clean walls and bed to the dark and moist hut of the traditional healer. If she asks me what I am doing here, I will tell her I was asleep when they brought me.
I rest my head on the pillow. Close my eyes and again, mull over the idea of giving birth. I don’t want the baby to look like Cherop. Not because his eyes are too small to be noticed or his head is the shape of a grinding stone. Cherop should have known that one day his child would be born. He knew my Koko’s house, but not once did he visit.
They say I am anaemic. A caesarean section might increase my haemorrhage. Instead, they say they will cut a bigger opening between my vagina, where the baby will pass.
Is there more to my life than the cutting and sewing up of my vagina? Will my school uniform still fit? Do miracles happen? Can I have one? Please? I mumble a prayer to God and my ancestors.
When my eyelids grow too heavy, I do not resist the urge to sleep.