Weeks after Saba returned from the hospital having had treatment for her burns, the midwife entered her room holding a razor, the mother behind her. Saba had yet to understand why the midwife had become obsessed with her vagina, but the woman’s persistence about executing this rite, about ridding Saba of a piece she carried on her body unaware, made her wonder if it was for her own good, as important as washing the dirt off her skin, as necessary as amputating an infected limb. But the thing the midwife aimed her razor at as her mother restrained her was the very thing Saba touched to pleasure herself. So that afternoon, Saba called for Hagos as she fought to release herself from her mother’s grip. Hagos. Help me. Hagos?
No answer.
Saba pushed her mother out of the way. The midwife, though, blocked the door with her body. Do you want to be a prostitute? she said to Saba, fury in her eyes. Please sit down. We are doing it for your own good.