Mara Ngounou
The smoke from the cooking fires still haunts me sometimes, curling in my memory like it did in my grandmother’s kitchen all those years ago. I was nine, sent to the village for the long holidays. It was supposed to be a break from city life, but it turned into something far darker.
I remember the evening it began. My cousin, barely older than me, pulled me aside, her face pale and drawn. “Grandmother pressed a hot spatula to my chest,” she whispered. I thought she was lying or exaggerating. How could something like that happen in the name of care?
It wasn’t long before it was my turn. The first time, she felt my chest, frowning at the small beginnings of my womanhood. “It’s time,” she said, her voice calm as if we were discussing supper. When I saw the glowing spatula in her hand, my knees went weak.
The pain was indescribable. I screamed until my throat gave out, but no one came. Days turned into weeks, each one worse than the last. She bound my chest so tight it hurt to breathe. I ran once, hiding in the forest until nightfall. When they found me, my uncle promised protection.
That night, he came into the room where I slept. His hands weren’t like my grandmother’s, but they hurt just the same. The blood, the disbelief, the betrayal—it all merged into one endless nightmare. I tried to tell someone, anyone. But they laughed. “You’re just a child,” they said.
For years, I carried those scars—not just on my chest but deep inside me. Then, at 24, I stumbled into a workshop hosted by an organization for women like me. It was the first time someone listened to my story without judgment.
Now, at 32, I live in Yaoundé, Cameroon, and I’m the one standing in classrooms and community centers, telling girls the truth no one told me: Your body belongs to you. Today, I spoke to a group of third graders. Their faces were so young, their questions so raw.
“Will it stop?” one girl asked after everyone else had gone. I knelt down and looked her in the eye. “It will stop,” I said. “If we stand together, it will stop.”