At age 4,I'm seated on the tiniest chair supported with pillows fumbling around my pink ruffled dress, I'm giggling and whispering inaudibly at my father's glasses sitting on the tip of his nose,mother is serving hot pap accompanied by bean cakes on a cold Saturday morning.
At age 6, Tilda,Ayo and I playing the "big circle no circling" game outside the compound,shouting and screaming for joy.
At 9,Mrs Lulu,the terror is standing close to my desk,scanning furiously at the mess I made in my mathematics book,her cane swinging like a banana leaf hanging loosely.
At 11,the teacher's boy walks me home with numerous offer of icecreams and candies that tastes like honey and milk in exchange for a peck.
At 13,the dim light in the shabby room,filled with dirty laundries is the only witness to the continuous strokes performed by the mid finger of the teacher's boy,setting my throat on fire and my thighs opening wider.
At 15,the dead drunk man who lives next door always flaunting his huge manhood at me for a taste but ends up emptying himself inside me against the promise of just a tip.
At 18,the doctor opens the volcano of a ruptured womb,of a womb that is meant to produce seeds but has sacrificed lives at the quack doctor's tiny shop.
At 23,mother arranges 3 or 2 families daily who wish to take me as a life partner but have me partner with their partners.
At 26,I am at the dinning room whisking the restless kids hands from emptying the bowls of soups and pressing the bells of the room,where their mother and my husband made them.
At 29,Father now sits on the long couch at the verandah reading his papers,his old glasses threatening to fall off his nose and mother,she rants bitterly of how much shame I am for not guarding my matrimonial home.
At 33,the Psychologist now administers new diets,environment and new sessions with the new Psychologist,who looks exactly like the Neighbour's son, the Neighbour whose tip went deeper than a thrust.
At 38,series of tests,chemotherapies,radiotherapies and doctor's reports of how malignant the tumour was spreading in my brain. Mother's eyes looking bloodshot housing fresh salty water as she stares at death gripping me.
Now at 44,without a man and a child to stroke my bald head,I'm scribbling furiously on my notepad,telling the tales of how an innocent child metamophorsed to this dying,old girl.
The tales of innocence, tales of deception and manipulation, The tales of desperation and regret,tales of rejection, The tales of excruciating pains,tales of fear and death,
Now I am telling the tales that should send cold shiver down your spine, I'm telling you *FIERY TALES*
Oluwashikemi ✍ Inspired by Hafeedhoh(May your soul find peace in the grave)������
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