FRAGMENTATION, GATHERING, METAMORPHOSIS (FGM)

Ayomide Oyinkansola Aderibigbe

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I stayed in the car long after I had turned off the engine and tried to regulate my breathing. A part of me wanted to turn on the car and drive as far away from this place as I could. If only my younger self could see me now, she’d probably ask what I was doing at the place I had sworn never to return to. I filled my lungs with air and told myself I was no quitter. I had promised never to set foot back here, but there was something more important to me than the promise—the drive to ensure others didn’t suffer the same fate I did. I opened the door of my silver Lexus 350 and walked toward the mud house I had grown up in. The open space in front of the house brought back so many memories. It had been home to several wrestling matches with Tunde, who was ever so willing to help me attain my dream of being a wrestler. Of course, that said a lot about who I was and why I had been beaten more than any other child in the community. My mother had always complained bitterly, pleading with me not to kill her or myself. I wondered how she would have felt seeing me in pencil heels, a suit, skirt, and braids on the hair I had so frequently threatened to cut. Definitely, she would have danced for joy and teased me endlessly. The wooden bench at the entrance caught my eye, and I wondered why it was still there. Ours was a small house, and so our visitors were received on that bench. “Mummy Ronke, this your child will put you in trouble the way she is going, oh. When are you going to do the needful?” Of all the petty traders in the association my mum belonged to, Mummy Ire was my least favourite; she never had anything good to say about me, and I had no idea why. My mother usually made her way out of the house at her friend’s voice. A wrapper with Ankara print tied firmly around her waist, a slack top on her upper body, and her scanty hair matted into three stand-alone weaves. She would shout my name loud enough to be heard miles away, pull me by the ear, and send Tunde home. Ear twists, hot slaps on our backs, and shoutings had done nothing to water down our friendship, and my mother soon came to terms with it. And so, when she sat me down one evening, I knew it had nothing to do with Tunde but Mummy Ire. “Ronke, you are becoming a big girl now.” My heart thumped as she came close to me, the smell of firewood on her clothes becoming more prominent. If my mother wasn’t shouting at me, she was beating wisdom into me. Trying to make conversation was completely alien to me, and I wondered what I could possibly have done to make her explore this method. “There is something that we do for big girls, Ronke, and next week Friday, some people are going to come and do it for you.” I loosened up, grateful that I wasn’t in any trouble whatsoever. “It is to protect you from doing some bad things and to make you a good wife to your husband.” I wondered if it was the right time to tell her that I had no interest in marriage or a husband, even though I was “just” eleven. But I decided otherwise and mouthed a quick, “Okay, ma.” I knew what she was talking about; the girls in school had talked about it in hushed voices a number of times. They had said that girls who weren’t “done” were promiscuous and dirty and would never get married. At some point, they had stopped talking to me, but I had Tunde, and so their attempt to shut me out had failed woefully. I turned on my phone’s flashlight and stepped cautiously into the hut, the faint tap of my heels against the ground breaking the silence. I pushed the door back gently and watched little mice scurry around the empty room before making their way out the window. I looked around the empty room and continued my journey down memory lane. On the D-day, my mum had woken me up at 5a.m. and I could not have been more unwilling to be up so early on a Saturday morning. “You have to eat.” My mother’s voice was unusually tender, and I was getting increasingly concerned. “Huh?” I sat up and saw a full plate of jollof rice before me. Being the middle of June, I ate the jollof rice with relish; it wouldn’t be until Christmas that I’d get such a meal again. She carried my plate away, and again, a wave of anxiety flooded my being. “Mummy, what is this thing about?” I asked, wishing I had paid more attention to the conversations of the girls in school. She said it was my entrance into womanhood and left. About two hours later, I heard her voice, alongside the voices of other women, outside the house. My door opened, and three women came in. One of them was an elderly woman with a brown bag strapped along her shoulder. “Mummy?” My voice quivered as I searched helplessly for my mother. The elderly woman dropped her bag on the wooden stool, and a number of razors slipped out. My eyes widened in fear, and I began thinking of how to escape. The other women seemed to read my mind, for they rushed to my side and pinned me down, pressing our flat mattress hard against the floor. “Stay still!” the elderly woman snapped in Yoruba, dragging up my dress and pulling my legs apart. When she removed my underwear and headed for my private part with her razor, I cried and pleaded, struggling to break free of the women’s grip. I told them I didn’t want to be a woman again and called for my mother to come and save me. I shouted that I would stop acting like a boy, and that I would be good going forward. No response, no rescue. A slice of pain travelled through my body and I thought I would go mad. I screamed so loudly, I was sure my late father could hear me from heaven. The women left the room as soon as they were done, their eyes void of the slightest sympathy. The process had been quick, but the pain, long-lasting. I groaned in agony, scared to death of looking down to see how much blood had come out of me. My mother had come in with Mummy Ire and some old women a few seconds later, and other than my mum, everyone else looked elated. They congratulated me as they cleaned me up, telling me I had finally become a woman and that I’d get a good husband who would love and cherish me. They gave my mother some gifts for me and offered a few tips. “You have to keep your legs closed to prevent the wound from opening.” “There are herbal drinks to help you feel better; make sure you take them.” My mother sat beside me when they left, and I wanted to tell her to leave me alone as she had done earlier, but I was in far too much pain. Silent tears slipped down my cheeks as I struggled to stay still. I wished for death because it hurt too much to be alive. After three months of seclusion and rest, I had nursed up enough anger and hate for a lifetime. I had battled infections and unimaginable pain. The first time I went to urinate, my mother went with me. I looked her straight in the eye and told her I hated her for not saving me. That statement should have warranted a barrage of slaps, but my mother had said nothing in response. Going outdoors after those three months made me angrier, even Tunde was not spared. I hated that he didn’t have to suffer the pain I endured to make him “marriageable” or “pure.” I hated the other girls for making it feel like an accomplishment, and I hated the world for making such an act of cruelty a tradition. When I was old enough, I went searching for answers. I would spend my time at the only cyber cafe we had in our village, trying to understand what had happened to me at age 11. The elderly woman had used a razor to cut my clitoris—the part of my vagina that was meant to allow me enjoy sex, and my labia minora—two thin, inner folds of skin in my vulva, responsible not just for playing an important role in sexual sensation and arousal but for protecting my vaginal and urethral opening from bacteria and other external contaminants, hence the infections I had battled. This was a type 2. The type 3 was worse. A girl’s vaginal opening was sealed, most times by stitching the outer lips of the vagina together and leaving a little hole at the bottom for urine and menstrual fluid. I read stories of victims and bawled my eyes out, all the while wondering who had thought up such a cruel tradition. Year after year, I saw little girls get “done” and I tried to stop it. But how could a sixteen-year-old convince multiple groups of uneducated people to give up a long-existing tradition? I was reported to my mother several times, and while we barely said any words to each other, I would read her eyes, silently imploring me to stick to the traditions of society, not for her sake but for mine. My relationship with my mother had suffered a fatal blow after the incident. I had become a shadow of myself—my energy and excitement chipped off, just like my clitoris. The only friend I had—cut off and completely ignored. I barely spoke; my life revolved around sleep, school, and the cyber cafe. It was evident that my mother blamed herself for what I had become. With age came an understanding of my mother’s decision. She had done it all for me, so I’d be respected and saved from ostracization in the community. “I forgive you,” I had said one day after a visit to the cyber cafe. “And I don’t hate you.” I added with tears in my eyes, looking at the widow who had given her all for and to me. She looked back at me, eyes moist, and I realized how much I had punished her for doing the only thing she had known to do. She passed away a few years later, after working tirelessly to make sure I completed my degree at the university. I rushed back to the present and caught my tears before they streamed down my face and ruined my makeup. Exhaling gently, I shut the door of my room and stepped outside the hut. I commended myself for being able to make the stop and slotted my key into the ignition; my meeting with the village heads would start in fifteen minutes. As my engine roared to life and I drove in the direction of the compound of the town head, I felt a new surge of motivation. And as the little children gathered around to see who was riding the “fine motor”, I felt the energy of the 11-year-old girl who wanted to be a wrestler. Though she was thirty-four now, she still believed she could be all that she put her mind to be. Including a human rights activist, working to abolish the life-long tradition of Female Genital Mutilation (FGM), one step at a time.

Ayomide Oyinkansola Aderibigbe is a multifaceted creative passionate about storytelling, music, and performance arts. She is always just a step away from creating a new world, revisiting previously imagined characters, and exploring the creative universes of others. For her, creativity is a beautiful place to get lost, and she wouldn’t have it any other way.