I was not surprised at her decision, my Nne. I was not surprised at all, because I knew I survived against her wish.
I remember every attempt she made to do away with me, each one painful and potent but unsuccessful.
At her first attempt, she drank some burukutu, which made me so queasy, I rejected it, causing her to throw up. She cursed me with each hurl of her bowel.
For her next attempt, she took lime juice mixed with potash powder.
After that was the baking soda mixed with some kind of tonic water. An overdose of Antibiotics followed, all of these only succeeded in bruising a part of me.
I remember the gasps from the women who helped in my birth, saw the fear on their faces when I squinted at them, and knew that there was something wrong with me.
Though I survived, I was deformed.
I survived and I retaliated, my anger appeased by her loud screams during labour.
I retaliated, thinking the battle over, or at least expected that there will be a short reprieve. I was wrong.
She gave the toughest blow and won the battle when she dumped me at the cold stream to die, mere hours after my arrival.
I tried crying for help, but I could only whimper. I would suffer for fighting for my survival, yet I did not regret being alive, even if for just a few hours. At least I survived. At least I fought back.
Then I hear approaching footsteps, footsteps which sounded unbelievably familiar.
I was not surprised when she dumped me, my Nne, but I was surprised that she came back for me. Maybe she realized that we were alike.
Like my Nne, I am a fighter, like my Nne I am a survivor.
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