Note: This poem is based on the practice of FGM, a practice that most societies consider holy. But FGM is a sin, a sin against humanity. We must know that not only does it break the strength of women, it also breaks their souls. Please, if you are in a society where FGM is practiced then please do not sit and watch or read about it on newspapers and mourn the loss of women who go through it. Instead, educate the people on the need to leave souls untouched, in order for them to help the bodies grow.
I want to give a voice to all the unheard cries of women who had to go through FGM so that people understand their plight. And so I dedicate this poem to all the women who had to suffer because of this insanity carried out in the name of religion and tradition.
“HER TRADITIONAL NIGHT”
Alone but far from alone
she bloomed like a delicate flower.
A beautiful child
she grew in sun and shower.
Then soon came that night – that long painful night.
The night when she saw her mother weep bitter tears.
‘What is it mother? Should I weep too?’ she asked.
Just a child, she knew not of the predestined fears.
Putting her hand upon the little girl’s head, the mother caressed her.
Showed her the bed.
Said, ‘it is your traditional night love, lay down here.’
Her traditional night.
The night when several women held her hands and feet – holy act or a sin?
She could see the blade like shape approaching.
Wondered what was in between her legs – such a wrong thing?
And then began the slaughtering.. Passing a blunt and cruised blade, they rubbed through her clit.
Stuffing a cloth into her mouth,
muffled her screams and continued with the slit.
The cutting – not done yet.
The blade – not sharp, shit..
And the blood ? Flowing like piss – warm and fresh.
The little girl kept groaning in vain.
Oh ! Felt as if in front of a butcher..
And she, a pig of only ten brought in for the slaughter.
Million painful moments passed.
One woman then whispered into her ears..
‘You are now pure. You are now circumcised.’
Slowly, her screams subdued.
Her womanhood, mutilated.
And no one cared.
After all, it was all a holy sight.
After all, it was her traditional night.
Deliriums 