“Look at her, dirty thing!”
“Get away from here! You smelly harlot!”
I try to block out these insults as I walk by. Mama is in front of me, holding my hand even as I cower behind her. Sadness engulfs me. I am not an Ashawo. They open their mouths to mock me when it is one of their sons that put me in this position. Had he not raped me, I wouldn’t have given birth at my young age and also have vesicovaginal fistula: big grammar for the big problem I have. I am not an Ashawo.