You slightly touch your belly. It’s strike day four. Papa’s forehead shines in the distance as he raises his hands.
“Fellow Nigerians”. His voice makes you retch. It is a mixture of Hennessy and hypocrisy.
You bend over and let out soft moans. You can feel Natalie’s eyes on your skin. You feel it every month when you bend like this. Her silence doesn’t annoy you. She is like that.
You feel a grip on your arms. “Madam, hope no problem”. The grip is so tight that you can hardly breathe. You are certain it belongs to a man and you want to sue him for battery. Yeah, battery. Mr. Olajumoke, your torts lecturer mentioned it last December.
“I’m fine. Thanks” you wrench his fists away from your arms without looking up. Your gaze is dim. You can hardly make out your dark brown slippers from the brown sands on the ground. You blink your eyelids and that leeching tear drops.
Who pulled me into this battle? You ask yourself.
Two hands wrap themselves around your breast, pulling you up away from the swirling dust thumped up by the swarm of legs.
