“I hate that I have to be in this place. It’s cold, it smells funny, and the atmosphere here screams sickness and death,” I thought as I sat in the seats made of hard, cold steel, looking around this old hospital.
But then I was disturbed by the nurse, literally screaming: “Next person in line, please!”

Her voice sounded so annoyed; one could tell she didn’t want to be there, but she had no choice.

I always wonder why someone would want to work with people when they don’t have patience or kindness.

Anyway, I was next in line. I signed and got into a room with a female doctor who also didn’t seem nice.

“I actually have to be on my break now, girly, so please state your case so I can be out of here,” she said, looking straight at me, her eyes wide open and kinda scary.

I didn’t have a choice. I stated my case. She turned away, took out a form, and literally threw it on my lap.

Puzzled as to what to do, I looked at the form. As I was about to ask her, she snapped: “Don’t tell me you don’t know how to read and fill in a form while you’re able to spread your legs wide enough to get yourself pregnant!” She looked disgusted and angry.

As I think of it, she didn’t know how I got pregnant or why I wanted to get an abortion. But she was quick to judge and be as harsh as she could.

Anyway, the terrible day of my life was set for Thursday. Although I wanted to get it done then and there, at least it was two days before Sunday.

“Morning, Miss Abara. I see you came early for your appointment. Glad you’re showing commitment,” said the doctor.

I was actually glad I didn’t get that cruel woman again. Dr. Jones seemed welcoming, and for a change, he acted like he loved his job.

Well, I was about to abort—actually kill—my first baby. The thought really hit me so hard, I couldn’t eat well over the last two days.

I kept looking at him or her growing inside of me, but I also saw all the disgusted faces, all the spit, and worse—my mom’s face.

“I’m still young. I can get another baby in the future,” I thought as I laid on my back, spreading my legs wide for the procedure to start. I was already months pregnant and had to do the surgical procedure.

I didn’t feel much. All I felt was the missing piece inside of me. I felt like I didn’t only get rid of the baby, but a huge part of myself.

“Mom won’t find out. Actually, no one will. This chapter of my life is closed,” I thought.

But it was never going to be that easy. A secret always has a way of storming out.

Where there’s fire, surely there is smoke, they say. I think my mom knows that saying too. Because despite me denying all the accusations—even taking a pregnancy test—she still insisted that, over the school holidays, I had to go with her back home to do the Iria ceremony.

The Iria ceremony is a Nigerian tradition for young girls’ transition to womanhood. I am proud of my Nigerian culture, but I couldn’t risk my mom’s dignity back home. Being found a non-v-dot is a shame—an abomination, to be precise.

I had to find a way not to participate in this ceremony. Mom had specified it involves virginity testing for young girls. I gloated about still being a virgin when I was defending myself against the pregnancy rumors, thinking that would shut her up, but I guess I made everything worse.

I even thought of hymenoplasty to restore my virginity. It was so damn expensive, but it seemed like the only way. I had to find a way to gather money.

There I go, into another “turbulence.”

As I sit under this tree alone, jotting down my life while classmates are in groups playing, laughing, and unentangled in the sh** I am, I think of how I got here.

I did drugs. I drank alcohol. I was raped and kept quiet. I lost my best friend. I had an abortion. And now, I’m barely making it academically. On top of it all, I have to raise money for a hymenoplasty.

It’s funny how everything can change with just one bad decision.

They say we learn from our mistakes. It seems like I have a lot to learn from.

I never wish for what happened and is happening to me to happen to even my worst enemy. If I weren’t as tough as I am, I would’ve gone insane.

But I guess God really doesn’t give you weight you can’t handle. LOL. Life can make you even quote your mom’s famous words.

Rather fix your mistakes and speak up than let them build up into a huge, messy lie.