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At First, There Was No Blood: Unlearning Afro-womanism | Adebola Makinde

At First, There Was No Blood: Unlearning Afro-womanism | Adebola Makinde


ISSUE 6 | NOVEMBER 2022 | Y


Your mother was puzzled. “Which blood?” she asked. 

Your father surveyed your fiancé’s face to find answers. His curiosity ate deeply as his looks made your yet-to-be-confirmed husband uneasy. You imagined the questions roaming in his mind. “Did they have sex already? Was she pregnant? Why is she talking about blood?” but your father didn’t utter any of those words. Instead, he pulled up his trousers made with Atiku fabric by the waist and laid back.

“Did you miss your menstruation?” your mother asked again. This time, she came to sit beside you and you started sobbing. 

You were twelve when you had your first menstruation. That day, your father had an accident that would be an issue in court. It lasted two years but a ruling is still yet to be announced as is typical of the Nigerian judiciary. Your mother, the one you barely had any connection with was the first to get informed in your nuclear family. You saw the tears behind her eyes, so heavy and willing to travel down her cheeks but she immediately began to roll on the floor just before you could confirm you weren’t suffering a terminal disease. For a moment, you saw a smile creep on her dusty cheeks. She, in five minutes, had told you of how you were born and how you’re her only daughter who’s fast growing to become a woman – the African kind. 

You knew those stories. They usually came up on Sundays. Your mother had a delay before she gave birth to you as her surviving child after the first. They were clichés but you grew fond of them. It helped you imagine they were your actual parents at times they had chosen to be inconsiderate. 

At that instant, you knew you could tell your friends that you’re not entirely different from them. Unlike them, you had a low haircut at intervals and preferred your brother’s oversized clothes. The environment had successfully helped you view yourself as one of the guys’ (men) fold. You were majorly masculine except for the breasts that had sprouted as early as the previous year before your menstruation. You had felt like an outcast when feminine conversations occurred. You always had inaccurate opinions or inexperienced judgements. For once, you could talk about the pain you felt when blood came out of the innocent vagina. But yours wasn’t for seven days like our friends complained about. It was lesser. 

The excitement was short-lived. Someone familiar rushed in. He worked at a bar your father frequently visited and asked for the whereabouts of your mother who was right in front. He had no clue she was whom he sought but he instantly exploded like a bomb. Like the first time you got scared of being fatherless, you, at this time again relieved yourself of the pain that came from witnessing your father beating your mother. The first time, he was arrested unjustly right in front of your house. He was only on pants and had gone to settle a dispute that disturbed the neighborhood. The news broke your grandmother’s heart but you hoped he never came back. He should stay far away from your mother who in turn visited him with food and clothes. 

When the police came around for an investigation, they asked you as the older one at home at that time about your father’s suspicious moves. You said nothing and didn’t intend to share even if you knew. Then, you wanted him to be safe. You maybe loved him. Somehow. 

This one could have claimed his life. The strangely familiar individual announced that your father had fallen from a motorcycle when he tried to catch a debtor who owed your family a huge sum of money. Your father was unfortunately dragged on the tarred stony road by the cyclist who had no idea that he was already off the seat. Onlookers would eventually call his attention but your father had lost consciousness and his nose was chopped off with bruises in asymmetrical patterns on his face. 

When your mother heard the news, this time she cried uncontrollably. The tears flowed freely down her cheeks. You pitied her especially but got caught up in a knot of emotions. You couldn’t be happy knowing that you already became a ‘woman’. You weren’t sad that your father didn’t die. You weren’t happy that he didn’t get to know what a big day it was for you. And you wished again that he gave your mother peace. 

She hurried to prepare ragged clothes for you as she tore them in rectangular patterns. She held all of them together and ordered you to pull your pants down. She soaked it and gave you another pant already joined with the homemade pad.  

***

“Do not tell mummy…” It was late at night and you just woke because of the palm covering your mouth. You wanted to protest but it was a household voice. You were frightened. “…and daddy”, the voice lowered. You cooperated. As the offender reached for your ‘private part’, the feeling of a body glued on yours left you without comprehension. You were about seven and that was the first night of the other experiences. 

The next morning approached but you were the last to get off the bed. There was no one beside you and everyone had resumed their daily activities. No one acted as if something occurred overnight. You couldn’t explain it to your mother since she talked to your brothers more. You didn’t even understand what happened so there was no suitable definition for the painful night experience. 

Some visitors had occupied the empty rooms in your house but they slept downstairs. It was impossible for your parents to not hear the sound of doors creeping in case any of them was the perpetrator. You were unsure of whom it could be. The visitors were a family friend who came for an event but your dad invited them over since they were stranded for the night. They were nice people. 

In school, you wanted to ask your friends if they had experienced the same thing. When their glances met yours, you turned away because of the unwritten misery on your face. They had smiles and were alive while you looked lost and curious. You told no one but longed to hear a whisper from someone saying “it’s going to be all right.”

***

It was a month after your birthday. You had clocked 18. That was your best birthday to remember. Your boyfriend was all sweet and chill. You felt special and didn’t need stories. The atmosphere was tense between the both of you. Your eyes were luring and his silence was romantic. The absence of any noticeable action generated scenery of adoration as you stared at each other occasionally. He sat at a distance while you were on the bed. 

The room was spying and neither of you wanted to announce whatever happened after. The bed was well laid in a fine spread. He reached for you and you laid down. His body covered yours while you smooched. Your mind ran through the painful experience you’ve had in the past. You still proceeded. It was love and you were doing it willfully. For the first time. And it was good. You would have thought your mother had lied to you about romance by not telling you how good it was but your horrible experiences justified her. 

***

When you were eleven, your aunties sat down to interrogate you. They had been startled by the heap of dirty clothes in the room. “Here, we value our cultures. One child cannot be a disgrace for us especially that you’re even a girl, you’ll have no choice”, one of them had said. 

“As a girl, you have to help your mother. It’s customary.”

Another wondered if you’d started menstruation. “A dirty girl!” they rebuked you. Then, you had to wash the underclothes of your younger brothers while you learned to wash your clothes clean. It was the hardest thing any adolescent could do – taking responsibility. They began to lecture you not to allow anyone to touch your ‘private parts’ after your mother said you didn’t know what menstruation was – at that time. 

Your mother chipped in. “Your private parts are for you. Do not let anyone implicate your destiny.”

***

“Your body is your property.”

You were 15 and done with high school. The anxiety you had was about how to cope with new friends in the university. You had aced all your exams and everyone was proud of you, even your extended family. You also got several honors and recognitions. Leaving home at that point was a sober moment for your parents while you could kill just to get away from the place you called home. 

Eventually, you would have to go to school. An entirely different geographical area. Everyone had their ways of proving they’d miss you but your father was surprisingly the softest of them all. 

“Shout.”

“Shout thief! Thief!!” 

He held your hands firmly to let you know that he’d miss you. He told you to scream for help if a guy tried to assault you. You wish you had a perfect father. The one who cared for his children in his way but was not mean to his wife. You tried not to let yourself think he was a saint. You attempted to stand and he gave his last advice. 

“Men are smart. Do not have privacy with any of them.”

***

Many other girls would have received the same advice from their parents or anyone who cared about them. You knew the importance of these admonitions as it is essential to African homes especially matters that dealt with sexuality, gender roles, and the making of a perfect ‘wife material’ – your parents were no different when it came to that. Like the exaggerated reaction of your mother when you told her about seeing your menstruation for the first time and the advice that your father gave you before leaving for school. 

Your aunts were no exception. That’s the way a family structure is built in that, it takes a village to raise a child. 

***

It was hard to make friends in school. Many had stern looks and had already formed their groups in which you had reservations to fit in. You were not sure you wanted friendship with girls. They were rather intense for you and too emotional in your honest assessment. Your folks didn’t want you around men but you’d lived with them your entire life. You decided to be a rebel. They had no clue what the new world was like. People were rational in recent times. 

Your first friend became your boyfriend and you thought it was safe. You shared previous experiences and you both had petitioned against your fathers. It was great to have been understood. 

He told you he watched porn and got addicted to masturbation. You told him porn wasn’t good for his health. You hid your knowledge about porn. You had found it on an aunt’s phone. Your younger brother showed you while he was ignorantly looking at cartoons until the next video happened to be a sex tape. You seized it from him and told him to skip all other sexual content meanwhile, you looked up the website. 

He invited you to his house on a sunny afternoon. You made out with him. He talked you into it but you had nothing against him. It was best not to dig up memories of your struggles against rape and assault.  

You already had different sexual histories. From different guys. The feeling that aroused after the foreplay was fear. You realized that you may not be ready to explain that there may be no blood – the proof of being a virgin. You were unsure yourself. And it was never your fault. You were afraid that every road led to sex. Nonconsensual sex. 

Anxiety had seized you. Your thoughts were invaded by his creepy tone. He wanted sex. As you reached for the door, he held you back and loosened his belt. 

He gazed at you as though you were an object he could own to himself. 

“Would you shout?”

“You know you have a reputation and you do not want to be caught…”

He paused as he lowered to kiss your neck and held your fists tightly. 

“…having sex with a man,” he derided softly. 

You gave in to his threats and got contained with spite. He was manipulative and you didn’t want a bad name in the new solace you had worked hard for. Being away from home was a big-time achievement for you – the regular night drama of a couple’s wrestling you now missed but didn’t want to watch anymore. You had sex with him and your relationship was dented by repetitive coerciveness. You ended affairs immediately.

***

“How does a woman get pregnant?” You asked, staring at your mother’s tummy. You were scared of having another sibling. The family in the next house had so many kids and they never stopped having a naming ceremony. You deeply wanted a sister but, you were more concerned about not being like your neighbors. 

She laughed hysterically. 

“You’re still young.”

“When you eat too much, your stomach would get big.” 

At that moment, you were worried and didn’t want to eat too much. She had however just explained why her tummy was bigger than usual.

“Just make sure you keep yourself.

“Your husband would be proud to see blood in your vagina.” 

This conversation was between a mother and her yet-to-be-teen daughter. 

***

The generator in the house had developed a fault. Usually, your elder brother sorted that out but it wasn’t in his control since he wasn’t technician. Your rebellious capacity started when you became a teenager. You poked your nose into books, people, and the slightest change in the neighborhood and why you had to take responsibility for your lame brothers. 

The generator repairer asked you questions about your friends, school, and everything a teenager jawed with their parents. He was the definition of a friend but he always was awkward. Your world was small and everyone understood what you said even when you mixed English with Yoruba, your indigenous language. He barely understood English neither did he speak it. You casually chit-chatted in your inaccurate sense of Yoruba. 

He summoned you over to the yard where the generator was. He dropped his sack which made a loud noise of clattering metals. You identified the spanner. He walked up to you licking his lips. Big. And black. He attempted to kiss you until he was interrupted by your younger brother’s approaching footsteps and you revolted. You retaliated with a thunderous slap and settled to cry after you left. 

***

You’re 23. Sober and self-reflecting among your female friends. It was a girls’ time out and you frankly didn’t want to be there. Your seven years relationship had just ended and you needed to feel alive. Your friends discussed work, marriage, and fashion trends – it was quite fine by you. You played along until you burst out crying. 

They helped you drink and assured you the best start was 23! No teenage relationships but more mature ones. You told them about your sex life with your latest ex and you had doubts if you were still a virgin. Even after the numerous body counts. Coming out strong made your friends gratified although you didn’t tell them about the other horrible experiences and particularly, your first boyfriend. You may live with it forever. 

Your father had said there would be a blood feast after your wedding. That only happens when your husband tells them you’re a virgin. Only then would they be fulfilled. Your grandparents were proud when your father’s sister got married. Her husband testified she was a virgin to your grandparents. 

As far as you could remember, no one noticed your first sexual experience. There was no blood. You now lived with the hope that there’d be blood when your husband calls for sex, else, tell your parents of your sexual history. Painstakingly.

***

You’re 25. They were devastated. They looked at you with disgust and regret. And they disowned you. It seemed as if the only value you are to them was giving you out for marriage whereas, you’ve failed to keep yourself. 

You snapped out of the imagination. They were overjoyed that you wanted to discuss “something important” with them. After you dropped the call, you reckon they had an inkling about introducing your fiancé to them. But they wouldn’t be entirely wrong. 

They were right before you. You sat with your boyfriend you had met a year ago and intended to shock them all. You were about to tell them about your sexual history. You started, “At first, there was no blood.” 

Adebola Makinde is a Nigerian creative writer and journalist. She writes about gender, tech and society. Her works have been featured in Nigerian national dailies, Document Women and a forthcoming investigative debut with Minority Africa. She is driven by equity and inclusion of minorities such as women, People with Disabilities and the diaspora. She hopes to attain an appointment with any of the United Nations, Nigeria Ministry of Foreign Affairs or the World Bank. 

When she’s not writing, she’s analyzing global economic trends, ego-surfing, reading autobiographies or binge-watching historical series. She tweets @just_debola. 

Unlearning Afro-womanism – Adebola Makinde

Your mother was puzzled. “Which blood?” she asked. 

Your father surveyed your fiancé’s face to find answers. His curiosity ate deeply as his looks made your yet-to-be confirmed husband uneasy. You imagined the questions roaming in his mind. “Did they have sex already? Was she pregnant? Why is she talking about blood?” but your father didn’t utter any of those words. Instead, he pulled up his trousers made with Atiku fabric by the waist and laid back.

“Did you miss your menstruation?” your mother asked again. This time, she came to sit beside you and you started sobbing. 

You were twelve when you had your first menstruation. That day, your father had an accident that would be an issue in court. It lasted two years but a ruling is still yet to be announced as is typical of the Nigerian judiciary. Your mother, the one you barely had any connection with was the first to get informed in your nuclear family. You saw the tears behind her eyes, so heavy and willing to travel down her cheeks but she immediately began to roll on the floor just before you could confirm you weren’t suffering a terminal disease. For a moment, you saw a smile creep on her dusty cheeks. She, in five minutes, had told you of how you were born and how you’re her only daughter who’s fast growing to become a woman – the African kind. 

You knew those stories. They usually came up on Sundays. Your mother had a delay before she gave birth to you as her surviving child after the first. They were clichés but you grew fond of them. It helped you imagine they were your actual parents at times they had chosen to be inconsiderate. 

At that instant, you knew you could tell your friends that you’re not entirely different from them. Unlike them, you had a low haircut at intervals and preferred your brother’s oversized clothes. The environment had successfully helped you view yourself as one of the guys’ (men) fold. You were majorly masculine except for the breasts that had sprouted as early as the previous year before your menstruation. You had felt like an outcast when feminine conversations occurred. You always had inaccurate opinions or inexperienced judgements. For once, you could talk about the pain you felt when blood came out of the innocent vagina. But yours wasn’t for seven days like our friends complained about. It was lesser. 

The excitement was short-lived. Someone familiar rushed in. He worked at a bar your father frequently visited and asked for the whereabouts of your mother who was right in front. He had no clue she was whom he sought but he instantly exploded like a bomb. Like the first time you got scared of being fatherless, you, at this time again relieved yourself of the pain that came from witnessing your father beating your mother. The first time, he was arrested unjustly right in front of your house. He was only on pants and had gone to settle a dispute that disturbed the neighborhood. The news broke your grandmother’s heart but you hoped he never came back. He should stay far away from your mother who in turn visited him with food and clothes. 

When the police came around for an investigation, they asked you as the older one at home at that time about your father’s suspicious moves. You said nothing and didn’t intend to share even if you knew. Then, you wanted him to be safe. You maybe loved him. Somehow. 

This one could have claimed his life. The strangely familiar individual announced that your father had fallen from a motorcycle when he tried to catch a debtor who owed your family a huge sum of money. Your father was unfortunately dragged on the tarred stony road by the cyclist who had no idea that he was already off the seat. Onlookers would eventually call his attention but your father had lost consciousness and his nose was chopped off with bruises in asymmetrical patterns on his face. 

When your mother heard the news, this time she cried uncontrollably. The tears flowed freely down her cheeks. You pitied her especially but got caught up in a knot of emotions. You couldn’t be happy knowing that you already became a ‘woman’. You weren’t sad that your father didn’t die. You weren’t happy that he didn’t get to know what a big day it was for you. And you wished again that he gave your mother peace. 

She hurried to prepare ragged clothes for you as she tore them in rectangular patterns. She held all of them together and ordered you to pull your pants down. She soaked it and gave you another pant already joined with the homemade pad.  

***

“Do not tell mummy…” It was late at night and you just woke because of the palm covering your mouth. You wanted to protest but it was a household voice. You were frightened. “…and daddy”, the voice lowered. You cooperated. As the offender reached for your ‘private part’, the feeling of a body glued on yours left you without comprehension. You were about seven and that was the first night of the other experiences. 

The next morning approached but you were the last to get off the bed. There was no one beside you and everyone had resumed their daily activities. No one acted as if something occurred overnight. You couldn’t explain it to your mother since she talked to your brothers more. You didn’t even understand what happened so there was no suitable definition for the painful night experience. 

Some visitors had occupied the empty rooms in your house but they slept downstairs. It was impossible for your parents to not hear the sound of doors creeping in case any of them was the perpetrator. You were unsure of whom it could be. The visitors were a family friend who came for an event but your dad invited them over since they were stranded for the night. They were nice people. 

In school, you wanted to ask your friends if they had experienced the same thing. When their glances met yours, you turned away because of the unwritten misery on your face. They had smiles and were alive while you looked lost and curious. You told no one but longed to hear a whisper from someone saying “it’s going to be all right.”

***

It was a month after your birthday. You had clocked 18. That was your best birthday to remember. Your boyfriend was all sweet and chill. You felt special and didn’t need stories. The atmosphere was tense between the both of you. Your eyes were luring and his silence was romantic. The absence of any noticeable action generated scenery of adoration as you stared at each other occasionally. He sat at a distance while you were on the bed. 

The room was spying and neither of you wanted to announce whatever happened after. The bed was well laid in a fine spread. He reached for you and you laid down. His body covered yours while you smooched. Your mind ran through the painful experience you’ve had in the past. You still proceeded. It was love and you were doing it willfully. For the first time. And it was good. You would have thought your mother had lied to you about romance by not telling you how good it was but your horrible experiences justified her. 

***

When you were eleven, your aunties sat down to interrogate you. They had been startled by the heap of dirty clothes in the room. “Here, we value our cultures. One child cannot be a disgrace for us especially that you’re even a girl, you’ll have no choice”, one of them had said. 

“As a girl, you have to help your mother. It’s customary.”

Another wondered if you’d started menstruation. “A dirty girl!” they rebuked you. Then, you had to wash the underclothes of your younger brothers while you learned to wash your clothes clean. It was the hardest thing any adolescent could do – taking responsibility. They began to lecture you not to allow anyone to touch your ‘private parts’ after your mother said you didn’t know what menstruation was – at that time. 

Your mother chipped in. “Your private parts are for you. Do not let anyone implicate your destiny.”

***

“Your body is your property.”

You were 15 and done with high school. The anxiety you had was about how to cope with new friends in the university. You had aced all your exams and everyone was proud of you, even your extended family. You also got several honors and recognitions. Leaving home at that point was a sober moment for your parents while you could kill just to get away from the place you called home. 

Eventually, you would have to go to school. An entirely different geographical area. Everyone had their ways of proving they’d miss you but your father was surprisingly the softest of them all. 

“Shout.”

“Shout thief! Thief!!” 

He held your hands firmly to let you know that he’d miss you. He told you to scream for help if a guy tried to assault you. You wish you had a perfect father. The one who cared for his children in his way but was not mean to his wife. You tried not to let yourself think he was a saint. You attempted to stand and he gave his last advice. 

“Men are smart. Do not have privacy with any of them.”

***

Many other girls would have received the same advice from their parents or anyone who cared about them. You knew the importance of these admonitions as it is essential to African homes especially matters that dealt with sexuality, gender roles, and the making of a perfect ‘wife material’ – your parents were no different when it came to that. Like the exaggerated reaction of your mother when you told her about seeing your menstruation for the first time and the advice that your father gave you before leaving for school. 

Your aunts were no exception. That’s the way a family structure is built in that, it takes a village to raise a child. 

***

It was hard to make friends in school. Many had stern looks and had already formed their groups in which you had reservations to fit in. You were not sure you wanted friendship with girls. They were rather intense for you and too emotional in your honest assessment. Your folks didn’t want you around men but you’d lived with them your entire life. You decided to be a rebel. They had no clue what the new world was like. People were rational in recent times. 

Your first friend became your boyfriend and you thought it was safe. You shared previous experiences and you both had petitioned against your fathers. It was great to have been understood. 

He told you he watched porn and got addicted to masturbation. You told him porn wasn’t good for his health. You hid your knowledge about porn. You had found it on an aunt’s phone. Your younger brother showed you while he was ignorantly looking at cartoons until the next video happened to be a sex tape. You seized it from him and told him to skip all other sexual content meanwhile, you looked up the website. 

He invited you to his house on a sunny afternoon. You made out with him. He talked you into it but you had nothing against him. It was best not to dig up memories of your struggles against rape and assault.  

You already had different sexual histories. From different guys. The feeling that aroused after the foreplay was fear. You realized that you may not be ready to explain that there may be no blood – the proof of being a virgin. You were unsure yourself. And it was never your fault. You were afraid that every road led to sex. Nonconsensual sex. 

Anxiety had seized you. Your thoughts were invaded by his creepy tone. He wanted sex. As you reached for the door, he held you back and loosened his belt. 

He gazed at you as though you were an object he could own to himself. 

“Would you shout?”

“You know you have a reputation and you do not want to be caught…”

He paused as he lowered to kiss your neck and held your fists tightly. 

“…having sex with a man,” he derided softly. 

You gave in to his threats and got contained with spite. He was manipulative and you didn’t want a bad name in the new solace you had worked hard for. Being away from home was a big-time achievement for you – the regular night drama of a couple’s wrestling you now missed but didn’t want to watch anymore. You had sex with him and your relationship was dented by repetitive coerciveness. You ended affairs immediately.

***

“How does a woman get pregnant?” You asked, staring at your mother’s tummy. You were scared of having another sibling. The family in the next house had so many kids and they never stopped having a naming ceremony. You deeply wanted a sister but, you were more concerned about not being like your neighbors. 

She laughed hysterically. 

“You’re still young.”

“When you eat too much, your stomach would get big.” 

At that moment, you were worried and didn’t want to eat too much. She had however just explained why her tummy was bigger than usual.

“Just make sure you keep yourself.

“Your husband would be proud to see blood in your vagina.” 

This conversation was between a mother and her yet-to-be-teen daughter. 

***

The generator in the house had developed a fault. Usually, your elder brother sorted that out but it wasn’t in his control since he wasn’t technician. Your rebellious capacity started when you became a teenager. You poked your nose into books, people, and the slightest change in the neighborhood and why you had to take responsibility for your lame brothers. 

The generator repairer asked you questions about your friends, school, and everything a teenager jawed with their parents. He was the definition of a friend but he always was awkward. Your world was small and everyone understood what you said even when you mixed English with Yoruba, your indigenous language. He barely understood English neither did he speak it. You casually chit-chatted in your inaccurate sense of Yoruba. 

He summoned you over to the yard where the generator was. He dropped his sack which made a loud noise of clattering metals. You identified the spanner. He walked up to you licking his lips. Big. And black. He attempted to kiss you until he was interrupted by your younger brother’s approaching footsteps and you revolted. You retaliated with a thunderous slap and settled to cry after you left. 

***

You’re 23. Sober and self-reflecting among your female friends. It was a girls’ time out and you frankly didn’t want to be there. Your seven years relationship had just ended and you needed to feel alive. Your friends discussed work, marriage, and fashion trends – it was quite fine by you. You played along until you burst out crying. 

They helped you drink and assured you the best start was 23! No teenage relationships but more mature ones. You told them about your sex life with your latest ex and you had doubts if you were still a virgin. Even after the numerous body counts. Coming out strong made your friends gratified although you didn’t tell them about the other horrible experiences and particularly, your first boyfriend. You may live with it forever. 

Your father had said there would be a blood feast after your wedding. That only happens when your husband tells them you’re a virgin. Only then would they be fulfilled. Your grandparents were proud when your father’s sister got married. Her husband testified she was a virgin to your grandparents. 

As far as you could remember, no one noticed your first sexual experience. There was no blood. You now lived with the hope that there’d be blood when your husband calls for sex, else, tell your parents of your sexual history. Painstakingly.

***

You’re 25. They were devastated. They looked at you with disgust and regret. And they disowned you. It seemed as if the only value you are to them was giving you out for marriage whereas, you’ve failed to keep yourself. 

You snapped out of the imagination. They were overjoyed that you wanted to discuss “something important” with them. After you dropped the call, you reckon they had an inkling about introducing your fiancé to them. But they wouldn’t be entirely wrong. 

They were right before you. You sat with your boyfriend you had met a year ago and intended to shock them all. You were about to tell them about your sexual history. You started, “At first, there was no blood.” 


Adebola Makinde

Adebola Makinde is a Nigerian creative writer and journalist. She writes about gender, tech and society. Her works have been featured in Nigerian national dailies, Document Women and a forthcoming investigative debut with Minority Africa. She is driven by equity and inclusion of minorities such as women, People with Disabilities and the diaspora. She hopes to attain an appointment with any of the United Nations, Nigeria Ministry of Foreign Affairs or the World Bank. 

When she’s not writing, she’s analyzing global economic trends, ego-surfing, reading autobiographies or binge-watching historical series. She tweets @just_debola. 

Photo by Karim MANJRA on Unsplash

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