The Rita Side

"Good morning Ma." It is the fourth time that I am greeting, and I already know there will be no reply. Mama has been staring at the wall since last night. I sit beside her on the ragged foam and attempt to find the object of her attention. The wall is not painted like the rest of the house. There are cracks that run from end to end adding some finesse to the uneven patches of brown dust on the wall. "Mama won't you eat something?" I ask her as I tear my eyes away from the wall. She does not flinch. Since she has chosen to ignore me, I decide that it is best to take my leave. I walk into the kitchen in search of anything. Even water. I find a little water in the storage bucket at the corner and pour it into a pot. It is another garri and palm oil day. It has been for a week now. Unbothered by the mundane routine we have acquired, I search for the box of matches and try to light the wick. First strike. Second strike. I raise the burner to

It's that terrible time of the month again; the one where I have to grab my midriff intermittently and cry out to whoever cares to listen. The one where I abandoned my bed and lay exhausted on a dusty haggard mattress with no covers, hoping that it is not dripping blood in the morning and still expecting that it is. Today is a little different. It's my sister's birthday and I should be elated, but a dark cloud hangs over my head and bitterness rises like bile from my stomach; burning my tongue as it pleases. Sleep eludes me. Hours after the rest of the world has retired, I toss and turn and wait for dawn. I have changed my underwear twice tonight. I have even reinforced the blood cloth between my thighs with pads of tissue, but the thick fluid still finds a way out to the world like the truth seeking light and a scorned woman in search of justice. It slithers out of my body deliberately  until it has penetrated every item of clothing I have worn and it has drawn yet