I am certain I heard “it’s a girl” coming from a young male doctor in blue clothes, wearing glasses.
I couldn’t believe I was a mother, at 16 years old.
The hospital bed was soft, but blood stained, beeping from the machines filled the room.

All I heard was blurred out screaming and a car screeching to a stop.
I had been badly burnt on both my legs by hot cooking oil.
I felt strong hands pick me up and I saw tears rolling down my sister’s cheeks as I was rushed into our neighbour’s rusty Toyota truck.

As I ran down the dusty gravel road barefoot, I felt like he was following me, almost catching me.
Zimbini’s lips were so dry and pale looking from hunger and dehydration but he kept on running after me, breathing heavily.

I was holding his saucy and appetizing kota (bunny chow), the blue plastic protected it from getting dirty by my unwashed hands, he caught me and we both laughed and shared the kota.