I’m 25 and had almost lived a decent fifteen years in the ‘sacredness’ of womanhood; shredding my womb and losing a reasonable quantity of my blood five times each month, each month in each year, each year for fifteen years. My maths instinct tells me I had already used almost a thousand out of five thousand plus days of the past fifteen years to bleed from my private part, and need I mention that I had never — in any month — been spared of the excruciating pain that usually comes with it; medics call it menstruation and they say it’s normal.

With all of these, is there any better way I can prove to the world that ‘I’m no longer a girl-child but now a strong and enduring woman? This is more reason why I deserve respect from my husband, fellow women, my family members and the nation at large; not physical assault, not chiding, not sexual assault, even though, there would be few times my ‘seat of emotions’ may let my guards down and make me act like a girl-child.
It wasn’t long ago I had my first experience of childbirth. Indeed I thought the tough times of carrying my baby in my tummy for nine months and passing through such painful labour experience were blots that would never erase from my head, but, today I’m a proud mother of one, and would keep counting. Some of my colleagues at my place of work even say that I’m the real beauty of motherhood. I know it, I can feel it each time I gently slid out my bosom to feed my cutie, I can see it in his bright eyes.

Today, I give credits to the doctor and nurses that made it possible for me to keep seeing my baby boy. I won’t still hesitate to take credit from a nurse that forgot how great and ‘wonderful’ the pain of delivery is; she thought I was that girl-child not strong enough, not ripe enough or may be not bold enough to have my own child. This nurse stationed herself at the terminal of provocation, and at each point of my ‘inevitable undoing’, she spanked me so hard and threatened with curse words. She told me I would just die and not live to see my baby if I bore down too soon. She told me how it wasn’t her fault that my husband, my own husband, was so cruel to me for impregnating me. Each time I started experiencing a new contraction within my tummy, amidst the unbearable pain, I would pray to God not to allow her come close to me because I saw her as a source of misfortune. I even thought if I would even die in that labour room, she would be responsible for my death. Although I thought I would forever live with that awful memoir from the labour room, but it didn’t take up to thirty minutes, after my delivery, to forget them all. Hmm. The joy of womanhood!

Now I imagine, if you say I was wrong to have wailed, trembled and roared like a rebellious lioness on the delivery table, was that nurse right to have beaten and cursed me the way she did?

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