Amina held the sickly child in her arms- the third one in two years and all products of rape. She had buried two the year before. Onome’s corpse was discarded of yesterday, tossed into a bush; Amina had never cried so much in her life. Her only confidante was gone.
She had fled home two years ago, away from Baba’s stern teachings and Mallam Garba’s bethrotal, all for freedom in another man’s land. Freedom at a terrible price! And as the rickety lorry bore her to an uncertain future, she knew she could never return home- not now, not ever.