Our community has been free from FGM for more than thirty years now. It is safer and much relaxing to turn sixteen without looking over your shoulders for someone to usher you into womanhood. It is a much better world. But My body is still filled with chills as I watch my oldest daughter Meera continue to grow older. I remember the sick events that traumatized me to the core. I was only sixteen when I witnessed my twin sister, May, coldly mutilated in the name of being ushered into adulthood. It was supposed to be a proud moment for the family. Only it wasn’t, far from it. At the break of dawn, all sixteen-year-old girls from the village were lined up in a straight line in the open field. We were all dressed in long white cotton dresses that brushed the ground. What I saw got forever tattooed in mind. The first girl laid on the ground, looking up and putting on a brave face as she was instructed to spread her legs wide. The old woman who had performed the ceremony for decades was trusted by the elders. She took out a sharp knife, kneeled forward towards the girl who was shaking profusely. The cut was clean and fast. She let out a sharp shrill that pierced through the air. I closed my eyes and looked away. My whole body shaking as tears made its way down my cheek bones. The old lady took a piece of cloth, said a few Samburu words and wiped the blade clean. The young lady tried her best not to break down but it showed. The pain looked excruciating. The next girl was already crying. This one was particularly hard to watch. My older braver sister. I started crying as I saw the old lady forcefully spread her legs apart. She turned and moved her legs, and the woman made a mistake. She fell down with a thud as her dress turned scarlet. I screamed as I saw them carry her lifeless body. My mother held me tightly as everyone stood there in shock. We dodged a bullet. Since that day, our Samburu community have steered clear of the female mutilation. My father made sure of it. It left an unforgettable scar. To some more than others. Thirty-six years later and the practice is well forgotten but the memories still live fresh in some minds. The future has been bright but the past still holds me prisoner and haunts me. That day has taken my mind hostage and forces me to relive it every circumcision season.