Female Genital Mutilation (FGM) is a harmful practice that is considered a crime in some parts of the world. However, it continues to occur today, with higher rates reported in parts of Africa, the Middle East, and Asia. To learn more about Female Genital Mutilation, read this article.

Female Genital Mutilation involves the partial or total removal of external female genitalia or other injury to the female genital organs for non-medical reasons.

This practice of Female Genital Mutilation offers no health benefits and only causes harm, it has numerous negative effects, including death, excessive bleeding, cysts, difficulties during sex, complications during childbirth, infections, chronic pain, infertility, and psychological trauma.

There are four types of Female Genital Mutilation (FGM):

Female Genital Mutilation Type 1: The removal of part or all of the clitoris, which is a sensitive area of the female genitals.

Female Genital Mutilation Type 2: Removing part or all of the clitoris and the inner folds of the vulva, and sometimes the outer folds of skin.

Female Genital Mutilation Type 3 (Infibulation): Narrowing the vaginal opening by cutting and sewing the inner and/or outer folds of skin, often removing parts of the clitoris.

Female Genital Mutilation Type 4: Other harmful procedures, such as poking, piercing, cutting, scraping, or burning the genital area for non-medical reasons.

Amina’s Tale

It all began one morning—my tenth birthday. I grew up in the dusty city of Kano in a well-to-do family. As the only daughter among four older brothers, I lived a life that many would envy; I was treated like a princess. However, that day marked a turning point.

As was customary on my birthday mornings, my parents would sing and pray for me. My dad would ask my brothers to join in while he showered me with money. After that, he would surprise me with gifts that I had sneakily looked for in his room, and I would still pretend to be surprised. But this year, everything was different—completely different.

This time, I received only a half-hearted “Happy Birthday, Amina” from my brothers. I didn’t mind and walked gracefully to my mother’s room, only to find that she didn’t greet me with the usual cheers I had hoped for and looked forward to.

Instead, she said, “Amina, sit down.” I immediately recognized her serious tone and complied. My mom gave me a quick peck on the cheek and then told me she had something important to say. She talked about how I was becoming a woman and needed to be prepared for the changes ahead. She explained puberty and how to take care of myself as I grew older.

Most importantly, she warned me about the importance of not letting any man sleep with me so that I wouldn’t get pregnant. It felt awkward, but I had been hearing these things from the young girls in the neighborhood, and in school.

She told me that we would be going out today and taking the first step to get things done. Before I could ask her what we were going to do, Dad came into the room and asked if we were ready. Mom quickly told me to go take my bath, saying that she and Dad would be waiting for me in the car.

As I tried to process everything Mom had said, I got ready to meet them in the car, still unaware of our destination. On the way, I asked my parents where we were going, but they said nothing.

After about a thirty-minute drive that felt like twenty-four hours, we arrived in a village. I saw houses, women with wrappers clung to their chests, children playing in just their pants, and men sitting together and drinking Kunu.

We stepped out of Dad’s car and walked into the hut, and I silently begged God that it wouldn’t collapse while we were inside. A woman who appeared to be in her mid-50s greeted us and asked us to sit and wait.

While we waited, I heard screams coming from the room we were supposed to enter. Little girls like me were shouting at the top of their lungs, some were being dragged in. The sounds of their pain filled the air, and in that moment, I realized what I was about to face.

My eyes locked with my mom’s as hot tears streamed down my cheeks. I cried silently, struggling to keep my voice from breaking, but I eventually let out a loud shout, unable to contain myself any longer. The woman who had welcomed us gestured for my mom to lead me inside. Meanwhile, my dad looked straight ahead as if nothing was happening.

I cried and screamed at the top of my voice as I walked into the room. I saw girls, aged between 6 and 13, stained with blood, wailing and crying in pain, while older women tried to console them, they were all victims of female geni

The greatest shock came when I noticed a lifeless body being taken out of the room. The girl who had just undergone female genital mutilation before me did not survive. I remember hearing a loud noise, followed by a long, unsettling silence. As the girl was taken out of the room, I was signaled to lie down on the bed, which had bloodstains on it.

The woman who entered was using the same tools she had used on other girls, who also had bloodstains. I looked up at my mom and saw the fear in her eyes. She whispered that it was for my own good as I stretched out to hold her hands. They felt as cold as ice, and slowly she released my hands as she was ushered out of the room. A wave of fear wrapped around me.

The next few minutes were a near-death experience as the woman inserted the knives and scissors into my genitals. I felt the sharpest pain ever. I shouted, but my voice was soon reduced to a faint cry as I became too weak to scream. Soon, she was done. My mom came in, and I was carried out, leaving behind a trail of blood. She cleaned me up, and we headed back home.

Days turned into weeks, then months and years, and I still had not healed. I continued to experience excruciating pain in my genitals, struggled to urinate properly, and faced one infection after another. I bled abnormally, endured severely painful periods, and most importantly, I felt traumatized.

For many nights, I couldn’t sleep; I would see images of the woman who performed the procedure and the girls who were crying in my dreams. All of this was a result of undergoing female genital mutilation. I tried to manage some of these complications, but the damage had been done.

Fifteen years later, I discovered that I was unable to conceive due to complications from female genital mutilation (FGM). Finally mustering the courage to ask my mom why I had to go through that, I spoke with tears in my eyes. She explained that it was a tradition intended to control my sexual urges and prepare me for my husband. Hearing this broke my heart even more.

Determined to make a difference, I decided to share my story to educate others about the dangers of FGM and to encourage people to avoid it. You can also join the fight against female genital mutilation by raising awareness and supporting those involved with funding and any other assistance they may need.

ALSO READ: The Hidden Struggle Against Child Marriage

About Author

Gloria

I’m a graduate of the University of Benin, I studied International Studies and Diplomacy. I’m lifestyle writer, content and copy writer, content strategist, poet and spoken word artiste.

See author's posts