Today was D-day.

I stood at the edge of my in-laws’ compound, my hands trembling as she clutched my eight-year-old daughter, Amina, close.  She looked up to me, with innocent, curious eyes, oblivious to the storm that was about to break forth in our home. She was about to experience World War 3.

Like a relentless and brace lioness, I didn’t mind who I was going to kill for the sake of my cub.

Inside the main hut, my treacherous and crazy mother-in-law, Josephine and the village elder women sat in a circle. Their voices were hushed, but I knew what they were talking about. They had already summoned the cutter, an old woman known for her ‘steady’ hands and sharp blade. 

Two weeks ago, Josephine, had visited the house, discussing that it was time for the ritual to take place.

She was going to do with Amina, what my mother did to me years ago. 

It was the tradition in the Ajua Village. Amina had clocked 8 years and my refusal in this tradition issue had caused them to speed up the process.

Once I saw Josephine retracting out of our compound, I rushed to my bedroom, confronting my husband, Yusuf” I’ll be damned if that happens to my daughter!”

He looked at me in confusion,” What do you mean?”

I scoffed at his attempt to make me feel stupid,” Don’t fight me on this, Yusuf.”

Yusuf shook his head and attempted to leave, but I stood in his way,” I don’t have time for this.” He said.

“Yusuf, she is just a child!” I let out an outburst,” She is just a little child.”

“It’s not something that I can change,” He frowned, his eyes showing determination, which scared me. He exhaled,” It’s not something we can change.” 

That last phrase scared me. We couldn't fight against tradition.

But I didn’t care. I had to fight for my daughter; No one fought for me. I lived through the problems even to date. 

My heart raced as I stepped into the hunt, my presence cutting through the tense atmosphere. My husband, Yusuf, stood to the side, his face a mask of indifference. He had avoided my pleading gaze for days, unwilling to challenge his family’s decision.

But I will stand on my own.

“I beg you,” I said, my voice cracking but firm. Josephine’s scowl deepened, looking at me in contempt, but it didn’t stop me. I knelt before the women, tears streaming down my face. “Please, don’t do this to my daughter.”

The elder women exchanged glances. The cutter, a stern woman with deep lines etched into her face, leaned forward. “Mariam, this is our tradition. Amina is of age. She must become a woman just like you and every woman in this village. It is her destiny.”

“No,” I whispered, shaking my head. “It’s not destiny. It’s pain. It’s suffering. I still have pains. It still hurts. She won't live through my pain."

My words of defiance hung heavy in the air," I won't let it."

The elder women shifted uncomfortably, but my mother-in-law remained unmoved.

“You were cut, Mariam,” another elder woman said sharply. “And yet, here you are, alive, with your children. You dishonor us by questioning our ways.”

I spoke in trembles, but my voice was steady. “I survived, but I am not whole. Do you know what it feels like to carry this pain every day? To hide the scars, not just on my body but in my heart?” My eyes locked with her mother-in-law’s. “Do you know what it’s like to cry silently on your wedding night because the pain makes you wish you could disappear?”

My words pierced the room like arrows. Even Yusuf looked down at his feet, his hands clenching and unclenching. I couldn’t tell if he wanted to hit me for dishonoring his mother or if he wanted to fight for me. 

“I want more for Amina,” I continued, her voice rising with conviction. “I want her to run freely, to laugh without fear, to grow into a woman on her terms, not because a blade forced her to be one.” She turned to the elder woman. “Please, let her stay whole. Let her be free.”

The silence was deafening. My mother-in-law scoffed at me and, slowly, she stood. I braced myself for what was to come. Yusuf looked scared like the other women were. Unlike them, I didn't care.

“You speak boldly, Mariam,” she said, her tone icy. “But bold words do not erase centuries of tradition. What will the village say if Amina is not cut? How will she marry? How will she hold her head high among her people? Her friends? How will her husband take her seriously?"

Then she asked the most important question," What makes her different?”

“She is different because she has a mother who cares.” I snapped, courage filling me. I stood up, confronting her.

“And?” Josephine fired back,” What will others say?”

I stepped closer, her voice trembling with desperation. “Let them say what they want. I will teach Amina to hold her head high because she is strong. If she marries, let it be to someone who values her for who she is, not for what tradition has taken from her.”

“She is not yet married and already frolicking with the village boys,” Josephine threw accusations.

I chuckled humorlessly at her baseless claims,” This ritual didn’t stop anyone from still doing whatever they wanted. It didn’t stop me from sleeping with your son before our wedding night. I’m sure it didn’t stop you, Josephine!”

Josephine’s eyes widened at my disrespect. I stood my ground, letting her know there was more where it came from. For a moment, no one spoke. They were still in awe of my audacity. The cutter began to remove her tools wrapped in a cloth.

It took me back to memory lane, the way I yelled and screamed for help, and no one listened to me.

"Come, child." Josephine stretched her hand to Amina. I held my daughter's hand and said with a pause between each word," Over. My. Dead. Body."

Amina clung to my dress, sensing the tension. Yusuf finally stepped forward. His voice was quiet but steady. “Mama,” he said, looking at the elder woman. “Mariam is right. We cannot let this happen to Amina. I…I cannot let it happen.”

His mother’s eyes widened in shock. “Yusuf, you—”

“I will answer to the village,” he said firmly. “But I will not answer to my daughter’s pain.”

I let out a sigh of relief and pulled Amina closer, away from the genital-cutting vultures. 

“She is to do it!” Josephine cried out. 

“No, she is my daughter. You cannot decide her future!” Yusuf snapped back, but only to receive a slap from his mother. 

The elder women murmured among themselves, but the cutter, sensing the shift, quietly moved away.

“This will bring disgrace to the community, to our family,” Josephine muttered to only our hearing. Yusuf looked at me and then his mother,” It takes one person to stand up against this.”

Tears welled in my eyes, wishing that my father would have been as bold to fight against this during my time. 

Josephine frowned and stormed away, but something told me that she was coming back in full force. But I was one step ahead by having a partner who was willing to stand with me to fight against this punishment disguised as tradition.

The next day, the sun rose over my village, casting a warm light over my home. It was like God was pleased with what I had done.

Inside, Amina played with her cousins, her laughter echoing through the walls. I watched her, tears in her eyes, knowing that she had just won an important battle in her life.

For the first time in generations, a girl in my family would remain unbroken and it took one person to stand against tradition.

One day, female genital mutilation will be nothing more than a relic of our past and a dark chapter.