Cut by Hibo Wardere Read Free Book Online
Authors: Hibo Wardere
had laughed again. I
remember the pink woman had given me a lollipop, and I’d decided these pink people were nice after all, even if they couldn’t get their colours right.
But that was another life. There was no laughter between us anymore, there was no talk. She still tucked me up in bed at night, even when I was almost eight, but when she bent down to kiss my
forehead just like she had always done, I moved my face away or covered myself over with the sheet.
I’d answer to my aunties, I’d smile and talk and even give them hugs, and I’d look over their shoulder as I did and see the hurt in my mother’s eyes. And they’d
say: ‘You can hug your mother too, you know?’
And I’d reply: ‘I know, but I don’t want to.’
‘Why?’ they’d ask. I wouldn’t answer; they knew why. As far as I was concerned, my mother had forfeited the right to be close to me when she chose to look the other way
instead of answer my pleas. I hated her, deep inside, and no passage of time, no wounded expressions or entreaties from my aunties would change that. Nothing could shake my sense that all the
affection, all the love, all the patience she had shown me had been a deception.
Each day took me further away from the horror of that hut, and yet the memory of it was still branded on my mind. It wasn’t just to my mother that I looked for answers in those weeks and
months that followed; it was to the other girls in the school playground, the ones with whom I walked to and from
madrasa
. Sometimes I’d find a group of my friends sitting on the
yellow ground, the earth’s dust streaking their long skirts, and I’d say to them: ‘Why did they do it? Why did they cut us?’ And one by one they’d stand up and walk
away, or they’d stare at the ground as if it offered an escape from my questions. I guessed that they’d been given the same warning as me: never discuss this with anyone. And yet when I
think about it, who really does talk about such intimate things in the open air of the playground? Why did I think anyone would ever tell me why it had happened?
I lost count of the number of nights I woke up screaming from nightmares, my face covered in a film of sweat, and my cousins standing at the foot of my bed, telling me that it was OK, it was
only a dream. I’d wipe my own face and go back to sleep, but whenever I closed my eyes I’d see the images of that day playing out on the inside of my eyelids.
Repeated urine infections were brought on by the fact that my urethra was sealed over, which meant I was constantly being taken to hospital to be treated with antibiotics, as were all the other
girls I knew. And still we never spoke to one another about what had happened. They didn’t seem as keen as me to understand what had been done to us; they didn’t seem to feel as alone
or as burdened by this great, heavy secret. So I learned not to talk to anyone. I never went to another
gudnin
party, though – I couldn’t be part of the lie; I wouldn’t
pretend it was just a little cut.
The years gathered pace and my relationship with my mother continued to deteriorate. It was almost ten years after the cutting when I awoke one night and felt wet between my
legs. I’d got up in the darkness, tiptoeing my way to the bathroom, but I hadn’t wet myself in my sleep. I climbed back into bed and drifted off again. But the following morning when I
pulled down my knickers to go to the toilet, the gusset was dyed scarlet, and terror tore through me. I was bleeding, down there. I had to be dying.
I rushed back to my room and checked my sheets – they, too, were covered in blood. By the time my cousin Fatima found me, I was hysterical.
‘What’s wrong?’ she said, surely seeing the stricken expression on my face.
‘I’m dying,’ I told her. ‘I’m dying!’
She tried to calm me, to stop me from pacing the room, but the panic had claimed every rational thought I had.
‘Shut up and sit down,’ Fatima
remember the pink woman had given me a lollipop, and I’d decided these pink people were nice after all, even if they couldn’t get their colours right.
But that was another life. There was no laughter between us anymore, there was no talk. She still tucked me up in bed at night, even when I was almost eight, but when she bent down to kiss my
forehead just like she had always done, I moved my face away or covered myself over with the sheet.
I’d answer to my aunties, I’d smile and talk and even give them hugs, and I’d look over their shoulder as I did and see the hurt in my mother’s eyes. And they’d
say: ‘You can hug your mother too, you know?’
And I’d reply: ‘I know, but I don’t want to.’
‘Why?’ they’d ask. I wouldn’t answer; they knew why. As far as I was concerned, my mother had forfeited the right to be close to me when she chose to look the other way
instead of answer my pleas. I hated her, deep inside, and no passage of time, no wounded expressions or entreaties from my aunties would change that. Nothing could shake my sense that all the
affection, all the love, all the patience she had shown me had been a deception.
Each day took me further away from the horror of that hut, and yet the memory of it was still branded on my mind. It wasn’t just to my mother that I looked for answers in those weeks and
months that followed; it was to the other girls in the school playground, the ones with whom I walked to and from
madrasa
. Sometimes I’d find a group of my friends sitting on the
yellow ground, the earth’s dust streaking their long skirts, and I’d say to them: ‘Why did they do it? Why did they cut us?’ And one by one they’d stand up and walk
away, or they’d stare at the ground as if it offered an escape from my questions. I guessed that they’d been given the same warning as me: never discuss this with anyone. And yet when I
think about it, who really does talk about such intimate things in the open air of the playground? Why did I think anyone would ever tell me why it had happened?
I lost count of the number of nights I woke up screaming from nightmares, my face covered in a film of sweat, and my cousins standing at the foot of my bed, telling me that it was OK, it was
only a dream. I’d wipe my own face and go back to sleep, but whenever I closed my eyes I’d see the images of that day playing out on the inside of my eyelids.
Repeated urine infections were brought on by the fact that my urethra was sealed over, which meant I was constantly being taken to hospital to be treated with antibiotics, as were all the other
girls I knew. And still we never spoke to one another about what had happened. They didn’t seem as keen as me to understand what had been done to us; they didn’t seem to feel as alone
or as burdened by this great, heavy secret. So I learned not to talk to anyone. I never went to another
gudnin
party, though – I couldn’t be part of the lie; I wouldn’t
pretend it was just a little cut.
The years gathered pace and my relationship with my mother continued to deteriorate. It was almost ten years after the cutting when I awoke one night and felt wet between my
legs. I’d got up in the darkness, tiptoeing my way to the bathroom, but I hadn’t wet myself in my sleep. I climbed back into bed and drifted off again. But the following morning when I
pulled down my knickers to go to the toilet, the gusset was dyed scarlet, and terror tore through me. I was bleeding, down there. I had to be dying.
I rushed back to my room and checked my sheets – they, too, were covered in blood. By the time my cousin Fatima found me, I was hysterical.
‘What’s wrong?’ she said, surely seeing the stricken expression on my face.
‘I’m dying,’ I told her. ‘I’m dying!’
She tried to calm me, to stop me from pacing the room, but the panic had claimed every rational thought I had.
‘Shut up and sit down,’ Fatima