A Morning

Enid S. Abrahami

This stark tale of female circumcision cries. Just cries.

7:30 As the sun rises, a group of mothers, grandmothers and girls between the ages of one and five congregate in the compound next to mine. Each child has been meticulously washed and ritually draped in cloth of exquisite colors and intricate patterns.

8:00 The sky is crystal blue. One by one the women walk in single file en brousse to the neighboring village of Taibatou. There are nine girls all in all. One is my niece, Bintou, five years old and the oldest of the group. The others range in age from one to four years. Wrapped in different colored pagnas, each girl is carried by her mother, Bintou by her grandmother, my village “mother.” I stay toward the back of the line.

8:30 We reach a small compound made up of four huts. Three children squat around a fire eating breakfast. Another two chase each other around. They are laughing. We are ushered into one of the middle huts—dark and musty. The back door is slightly ajar—a strong stream of light blares through. The voices of women can be heard coming from the backyard. And then it begins. With a most piercing scream. So full of pain and anguish. All in the voice of a two-year-old child. Hidden behind the door. One can only imagine what is happening. My stomach turns.

8:42 A girl is carried out from the back through the hut to the front. She is wrapped in a gray sheet. It drips with blood. A drop falls on my shoe. Her face in shock. And she trembles.

8:43 Another one is carried to the back.

8:45 The horrid screams begin again.

8:48 She is carried out. Naked and profusely bleeding. Her young vagina resembles a piece of red meat.

8:49 Another one is carried to the back.

8:52 And the screams begin again.

8:57 And she is carried out. Naked and profusely bleeding. Her young vagina resembles a piece of red meat. Raw and mutilated. She moans.

9:10 I decide to go and see what takes place out back. With my own eyes. To witness and record. I am as ready as I ever will be.

9:12 Maybe not.

9:12 I step out back. A small rectangular yard, fenced and bare. There are seven women milling about. I can’t look at faces. So I look on the ground. Blood is splattered. A rusty dull knife lies near a small can of water. A strange putrid smell surveys the air and enters my nostrils. I need to sit down. Beyond the confines of this space, Africa greets me. Neighboring huts. Trees of all sorts. Dry lush brush. A crisp horizon line. So very beautiful. And so in opposition to everything happening within the borders of the crinton fence.

9:13 A girl is dragged to where we stand. It is Bintou. She locks eyes with me, for only a second. Tears roll down her cheeks. She makes no sound. Already she looks in shock. I can turn around at any moment. Grab Bintou and leave. Put it all behind me. But I don’t. I won’t. I need to be a witness. The question is for whom and why?

9:14 The moment has come for Bintou to be cut. Seven women move quickly and without hesitation. Bintou, legs forced open, arms outstretched, lies on her back in between the legs of another. Face up. Open to the sky above. She is strapped. Held down. She can’t move an inch. One just needs to look at her face. It tells all. The entire story.

The woman in charge takes the knife. Forces Bintou’s legs wider. Gets a hold on a clitoris probably too small to really grasp. The thought of grabbing Bintou and escaping floods through my mind. But I am frozen. And then it begins. Knife in right hand, she begins. Like cutting a steak. Back and forth. Back and forth. Not a clean sweep. Not quick and momentary. My head spins and nausea takes hold of me. I am determined to stay, however.

9:15 Back and forth. Back and forth. Just a piece of red raw meat. I sit on a stone.

9:17 Bintou is placed almost in front of me. Still naked. Trembling. Bleeding. I try to comfort her with my eyes. And try to erase any sign of disgust and horror from my visage.

9:24 More red meat sliced. More shrill screams. More. More More. Will it never end?

9:26 My eyes, for refuge, wander out to the Africa laying beyond, stretching across. It is unchanged. Just as it was before. Except the body surveying the landscape has forever changed. Never to be the same. Silence invades me.

9:30 There are now two sitting directly in front of me. Bintou and Khudaijaa. The oldest two. The traumatized two. Hopefully the last two.

9:33 Nope. It’s not over yet.

9:35 I can’t anymore. I stand up and make my way out to the front courtyard. Five trembling girls, shell-shocked and wide-eyed, sit in a circle around an open fire. I look from one to another. A disturbing thought enters my mind. If one or two of these girls should die would the door for challenge be opened? From this group of nine, who would they be?

9:40 I turn off my senses. I feel like sour milk. Curdled and ugly.

9:42 Women talk to me. Ask me the most trivial of questions. Are any words coming out of my mouth? I can’t tell.

9:50 It’s over. Time to leave. Head back home. Girls are picked up. And carried. And strapped to the back. The walk begins. The march commences. And the singing starts. With a head reeling I focus on the basic task of walking. Of putting one foot in front of the other. Everything around me fades just a little. Becomes a background drop. White noise. Static.

10:15 We arrive back in our village of Missirah Tabadian. To the same compound where just a few hours earlier everything seemed so different. All nine girls are laid down side by side, each with a colorful ribbon tied around her head. Marking her as excised. The village comes to see them. Like in a museum.

10:25 I return to my hut. Exhausted. Tainted. My mind is a blank and at the same time flooding.

10:30 I think I just may throw up.

Enid Abrahami lived and worked as a Peace Corps Volunteer in Missira Tabadian, a small village located in southeast Senegal, West Africa, from 1998-2000. Upon completing her Peace Corps Service, Enid decided to become a nurse with the hope of returning some day to the developing world to provide sustainable health care and education to underserved areas. She is a proud single mom of a remarkably curious two-and-a-half year-old boy, Mika, and a gentle fox-like dog she rescued from the streets of New York. This story is one that is featured in her memoir, Rain Washes Over Me Under the Moon.