According to village rumours, it started out as a little itch, Arinola suddenly complained about a part of her body that wouldn't stop itching, this was the morning after her son died. 

Arinola itched till her arms had scars that rivaled maps, she itched past blood, past plasma, past pus, Arinola itched past plaster, past the bandage, reaching her already dug out flesh and itched, those who looked closely could almost see the off-white color of her bone. We all believed the itching made her less crazy, picking at her flesh helped her deal with the grief, so when she began to itch it was more painful to watch.

Arinola moved past her arms and began itching her thighs, that was the day her husband moved across their house to his new wife's room. Arinola's hands crawled past her thighs through her stomach past her breast to land on her face.

We had seen her itch before, but when her roaming hands found her face Arinola began to claw at it. This was the night the cries of the new wife's baby echoed through their walls. 

Afraid that she would pluck her eyes out, the neighbours rallied and took Arinola to a head doctor. It was few months before Arinola came back, we had all gotten used to air that was not polluted by the stench of wounds.

Arinola came back demure to a celebration, we all spoke with our eyes when we saw her, why were Arinola's hands in an iron cast? Our suspicions rose when we saw she had no scars, our dubiety became a bone lodged in our throat, we swallowed them with balls of food, pushing it down with water from the drum, we let our questions sit on our bowels.

The caretaker who followed Arinola everywhere told us the iron cast would be removed in two days, we prepared for another celebration, any form of good news deserved a party.

We all sat and watched as each bolt was unscrewed from the cast, the drums roared in the background, when the last screw fell, we began to dance in anticipation, rolling hips, with heads thrown back, our foot firm on the ground raising dust.

It was the drummer who first beat his shock into his sound, the singers shrieked theirs, we did the thing we always did with our eyes, we talked. Our heads sagged, suddenly too heavy for our necks, we willed our feet to keep moving even though the floor now felt slippery, and the dust had settled.

We had all been warned to cooperate, Arinola must never know she once had a husband or a child, Arinola must never know she once had fingers.

~Tolu-petu