FREED

Nina… Nina Peters. That’s my name. There’s nothing special about me. Or is there? Some say I’m beautiful, some others claim I’m brainy. They may be right, but still I’m not deaf to the verbal venom constantly hurled at me. The stigma hovering around me is almost suffocating. In the eyes of my immediate society, a woman’s worth is based on her ability to keep and hold a man; a husband is what makes you a woman, it’s what makes you whole. I once owned a man, or a man once owned me. But not anymore. I’m a loser. A big loser. I wish things were different. I wanted things to work out between us but we were too incompatible. Eric was some sort of sex addict but I had virtually no interest in sex, so he satisfied his wanton desires with numerous girls around. For him, it was a case of anything in skirts until one of them, Lilian, finally had him all to herself.

Sometimes, I feel betrayed and think, ‘what a devil Eric is’. At other times, I wear the garment of guilt. I feel it’s my fault. I wish I wasn’t a victim, not just of a failed marriage, but of something worse. I wish I wasn’t so abused and brutalised by those dearest to me.

I can still remember the day I was cut; it’s impossible to forget a thing like that. I couldn’t understand why I had to be treated that way then.

***

It happened many years ago… the worst experience of my life. I was outside, a little far from home, playing and gossiping with other little girls when a middle aged woman came over, to whisk me away. She claimed she was taking me to Mother, so I followed her subserviently. As I walked on in reverent silence, many thoughts wandered through my young mind. ‘Why does Mother want me so soon? Does she need me to wash the grains before they are taken for grinding? Does she want to show me and my bronzed complexion off to some visiting friends? Or…’

After a short walk, she stopped at a little mud house. ‘What could Mother be doing here?’ I wondered to myself but kept mum; it was forbidden to question your elders. I followed my Guide into the small room. I got a little scared when I saw three other little girls sobbing silently at the other end of the room. I could read the pain on their faces, a deep and heart-piercing pain. Before I could take any action, another woman, younger than the one I came with, grabbed me by the arm and lay me down on a mat set on a bamboo bed. My instincts immediately told me that danger lurked. I fought hard, and screamed as loud as my small shrill voice could. A third woman close by quickly tied a piece of cloth over my mouth, and two others held down my 8 year-old body with their relatively strong arms. My heart beat so fast and vehemently that I thought I heard each heartbeat clearly. Then the middle-aged lady who doubled as the local midwife brought closer those tools that inspired a spine-chilling dread in me, as another woman put off the wide clothing tied around my tiny waist. I screamed! A surge of fear overwhelmed me as I wondered what was going to happen next.

‘Be calm, my pretty child. It wouldn’t take long,’ she said with a smile that revealed her teeth that were tan from years of living on tobacco pipes. I pleaded, but the words were unheard, thanks to the gag in my mouth. Then, it happened and very fast. With a sharp knife in her sturdy hand, she swiftly cut off my clitoris, taking part of my labia with it. The pain was indescribably excruciating. I thought I was going to die. As my blood- thick and red – flowed profusely, one of the women who had held me down released me and reached for something close to her. She then took off the gag, making my piercing cries audible. The same woman placed some pieces of dried leaves over my wound.

‘This should stop the bleeding and make your wound heal fast. Be strong, little girl,’ she said in her contralto voice. All I could do was cry, my tears flowing down my face as blood flowed down my slender thighs.

**************************

I didn’t know the term used to describe what had been done to me till many years had passed. They call it ‘washing’ in my community. Actually, I had gone through excision, a form of Female Genital Mutilation (FGM).

I kept asking Mother why she had allowed them to torture and afflict me in such a way. She finally gave the explanation years after the inhumane treatment meted out on my unfortunate self. ‘It’s a strong part of our culture and a mark of purity. Any woman who doesn’t go through ‘washing’ is filthy and would most definitely become sexually immoral. We wanted you to have your pride of place amongst us. We didn’t want you to face rejection. We didn’t want our daughter to be an outcast,’ she calmly explained. Although Mother couldn’t bear to watch the process, she had given her support because she thought it was for my good. In my birth-community, going through ‘washing’ was something that evoked a deep sense of pride and purity. The tough experience made you a real woman. At least, so we thought.

I remember how proud my family had been when I finally returned home after undergoing herbal treatment for two weeks. Not every girl survives the ‘washing’ rites, but I had survived. I was now a true daughter of the community. So, they were immensely proud.

But soon, I left the place where I was born and bred into the larger world… into enlightenment, illumination and civilisation. Then, I saw that what had been done to me was in no way a necessary good but a grave evil that mustn’t be allowed to live on. What they- including my family- thought was a shield of protection was actually an open pathway for woes. The sheer truth is there’s absolutely nothing good about FGM.

I’ve struggled with low self-esteem and depression. I often feel incomplete, like a vital part of me is gone. I face fears of various kinds. A minor cut on my skin throws me into panic as it reminds me of the day I would readily describe as the ‘worst day of my life’. I fear the thought of child birth. Two of my friends, Anne and Lucy had died during child birth due to either prolonged labour or excessive bleeding, and these were consequences of FGM. I even fear the thought of a second marriage. Aren’t all men the same? Who amongst men would lovingly and patiently help me weather through the storm of dyspareunia. Who would cope with my asexual tendencies, as I hopefully would gradually overcome them? Who would understand me, and not be like Eric who was totally insensitive to my struggles? I wish I wasn’t born into such a culture. It didn’t make me feel like a woman as intended, instead it was an insult to my dignity as a female human. Now, I only feel betrayed, abused and injured. It didn’t give me any sense of pride, instead I sense the wind of humiliation blowing over me. I feel cold shivers running down my spine anytime I reminisce about that horrible act.

Martha Gold, my friend is a victim too. The story is the same. FGM has done us no good. Her story is as pathetic as mine but the truth is we are among the less unlucky ones. Some other victims lost their precious lives, there are those who suffer from one short or long-term health condition, all because they were subjected to such a gruesome practice. Martha is my bosom friend and partner in the fight against FGM, and together we’ll enlighten the world on the evils of Female Genital Mutilation. We’ll save the girl child. Working with Martha has birthed a nascent hope in me, not only for other girls but for myself. I will live again!

Author's Note:
   Watch out for the sequel to my story: Martha Gold's story written by Remen Zack. It'll be published at My World of Fiction next week.
www.remenzack.com.
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