Maimuna children’s day just stormed away, and I hardly saw you cleave to the whisper of excitement.
I know you have forgotten how to be a child though your eyes still read 13.
I know you still want to bear the stench of being flaunted in the arms of your mother burning on both cheeks
Your loins have been set to war already, dragging you by the hair to the doors of womanhood unready.
So your father told you that Alhaji Musa would give you a better life, send you to school but you can’t give a sigh of relief as he tears apart the juices between your legs because things of this sort are meant for women and not 13 year olds.
You don’t respond to the rhythm but let him devour your privacy.
Did they know that you just received a call for the menstural world last month, and you are yet to understand your body?
Did they know that your breast are too tender and aerolas too fragile to feed a child?
Do they know that pain is all you feel as they bathe you with songs of privileges?
How would you wake Maimuna?
She looks like a story nobody would dare to read.
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