Act one:
“We’re going to circumcise her, what do you think?”
“It’s up to you.”

Act two:
“We’ll shave off the hair. Open your legs wide and leave the cream on for 5 minutes, then I’ll come shave it.”
“I don’t want to do the operation.” (crying)
“Circumcision will make you more beautiful.”

Act three:
“I won’t remove the clitoris because it’s not showing. I’ll remove parts of the labia.”
“Bring these things from the pharmacy.”

Act four:
“Say: I seek refuge in the Lord of mankind, The King of mankind, The God of mankind.”
“Oh God, I don’t want to die.” (sobbing)

Act five:
“Hold her legs up.”
The girl passes out. Her mother slaps her to wake her up.

Act six:
“Our neighbors will wonder what happened when they see us holding her up like this.”
“Let them ask. We want them to know she’s been circumcised.”

Act seven:
“Congratulations, dear. She’ll be a bride soon.”

Act eight:
“The wire in one of the labium has dissolved. But the one in the other labium has been there for several months.”
“Why didn’t you tell your mother to have the doctor take it out?”
“I’m scared! I don’t want to go to the doctor and have to open my legs again.”
“I won’t tell her. I won’t take it out.”

These are the eight scenes I remember from the crime that has left me scarred, psychologically and physically, since the age of ten.
The “cosmetic procedure” my mother made me undergo has made me hate this part of my body.
I will have to get plastic surgery to fix it. But this time I’m going to an actual cosmetic surgeon.