I was 11 when my mother told me my time had come. In our village, there was no debate about whether girls would go through it or not. They said it was about tradition, purity, and becoming a woman. But I knew all it meant was pain, excruciating pain.
My older sister had gone through it at 10 and even though she never spoke to me about it, I remember her terrifying screams and how she would walk stiffly, wincing when she sat down on the bench for weeks after. She never described what they did, but the look in her eyes was enough. Her smile and laughter went missing for a long time.
When my mother told me it was my turn, I begged her for days to not let it happen to me. She only sighed and shook her head. “It’s what must happen. No daughter of mine will skip it.” My father didn’t even enter the discussion. It wasn’t his problem.
On the Thursday morning before the weekend it was scheduled to happen, my sister and I got ready for school as usual. We had breakfast, even though I could barely eat anymore, and joined the other children, heading along the narrow bush path that led to our school.
Halfway along the path, she stumbled and said she had hurt her leg. “Help me, slow down,” she told me. The other children kept walking. When there was no one left behind us, she grabbed my wrist, her voice suddenly firmer but low.
“We’re not going to school,” she whispered. “We’re running away to the city. I won’t let them hurt you.”
Before I could reply, she pulled a bundle from her school bag. Inside were two of our dresses, headscarves, and slippers. My hands trembled so much as we changed into them.
We wrapped the veils around our faces to look less like children, then we cut off the path, pushing through bushes until my arms were scratched and my legs ached. For nearly two hours we walked, avoiding people, until the bush opened up to the main road.
It was busier than I’d ever seen it. Motorbikes, lorries, traders shouting over piles of produce. My sister scanned the lorry park before approaching a man loading sacks of rice into the back of a truck. She spoke to him for a minute and handed him some of the money she had stolen from home. The driver shrugged and let us climb in the back of his truck.
The ride to the next town felt endless. The road was rough in too many places, the wind thick with dust. With my heart pounding like never before, I kept glancing at my sister, wondering if she really had a plan. The market was huge, but somehow my sister led us straight to the bus park. We squeezed into one of the battered minibuses heading to the city wedged between baskets of vegetables and a woman with two children almost of the same age.
It was dark by the time we reached the city. I’d never seen so many lights in one place. We didn’t know where to go, until my sister led us to a church she had spotted from the road. She gave the pastor’s wife fake names and told her we were orphans who had lost their home and the woman sympathised with us and asked no more questions. She gave us food and a place to sleep.
The next morning, she took us to an orphanage. It was far from comfortable, but girls didn’t get cut here. My sister and I lived in the orphanage together for 6 years before she got sent off to the university on scholarship.
15 years after we ran away, we finally summoned the courage to go back to our village. By then we were both graduates with comfortable jobs. We took my boyfriend along for protection. Everyone was happy to see us, especially our mother, but we didn’t stay the night. We didn’t want to find out what they’d have tried after dark.
I’m married now with two children but my sister has chosen to remain single because of the pain of intercourse and the even worse pain of childbirth.
My sister risked everything to save my life. Running away as two clueless children was a huge risk. But I’m thankful to our guardian angels for keeping us from falling into the wrong hands.
My sister is my hero always and forever.
All our stories are based on true events or inspired by the lived experiences of women of African origin from across the world.
