I was in the sixth grade the first time I got it.
I went to the bathroom,
And discovered that I was bleeding.
I don’t remember if someone had talked to me about it before,
But I remember knowing that I wasn’t injured.
I told my mother and she was happy.
That’s how I knew it was a good thing.
I was having a hard time accepting the changes my body would go through.
I used to see how my mother dealt with her period,
And the blood terrified me.
I was afraid of getting it.
Most of my friends and cousins had gotten it.
I felt sorry for them when they told me the news.
I never feel shy asking him about anything.
He never turns me away.
“Let’s search for the answer together,” he’d always tell me.
Baba is amazing when it comes to respecting women.
I always thought I was special.
Or at least that is how my parents made me feel.
I used to watch the older girls from a distance.
I watched them go through through their monthly agony: their period.
Why is it wrong for people to know?
Why is it something to be ashamed of?
Why do we use euphemisms such as “I got you-know-what,”
Or “Did you get it?”
Or “Has it shown up?”
Why am I not allowed to go to church when I’m on my period?
When I was in primary school,
Mama and my teacher talked about periods.
I understood everything about them.
I finished primary school,
And still didn’t get my period.
Mama didn’t stay quiet about it.
She told all my aunts,
That I was going to middle school,
And still didn’t get my period.
This made family gatherings a nightmare for me.
All my aunts would keep asking me,
“You still didn’t get it?”
The first time I got it,
I thought I had injured my privates.
The pain, the shock of seeing blood—it was all new to me.
I had no idea what was going on.
womanhood, body image, period