By Grace Oji
“Once upon a time there lived a girl named Camille ¬ no, no not this line that has been so overused,” I thought to myself as my pen was set on my paper ready to write again.
“The idea is boiling within, but the means to bring it out,” I thought again as I rested my cheek on my left palm.
As the more still I became the scenery around me became more alive even the silent one within my clothes on my abdomen.
It was too real to ignore, the spongy feel of a soaking pad between my thighs, it was a feeling I had not known before, and as the chattering and playing young children passed by I cried within,
“I still want to play, I’m growing too fast, the only one among my friends to experience this.”
Yet, that seemed not to be as big a problem as the three boys who sat two seats behind me in the classroom. I thought of being home and secured, but before that, I would have to achieve the feat of standing up without a stain and walking up to the car park where my father was going to be waiting to pick me up.
“Okay back to my story until I know my fate.”
So quiet I sat, yet my head was full of activity and noise, and Camille, a young girl in her mid-teens stumbled upon a rose flower in their garden emitting red shining rays. She got caught in a gaze while the magical plant enchanted her being and gave her powers to cause things she willed to happen. It took her into the woods at night and she made the trees and grasses sing to her welcome as she trod softly upon the ground with an excellent appearance like a light source. It also gave her the power to mask appearances.
At that point something in me wanted to be like Camille I felt I needed magical powers at the moment. I even let myself slide into fantasies in my head about being able to stop time and become invisible to cover up any embarrassment that would likely occur. But once again the chatter of young children my age snapped me back to reality which I couldn’t wave aside by the swipe of a wand that only existed in storybooks. And again I became more aware of reality by a soft-sounding car horn from the car park, it was too familiar to miss, my father was here and it was time to go home, to rise from my seat at last.
Panicking, I had to think fast and act quick. I packed up my books from the desk but let one slip and fall onto the floor then I slid myself forward and out of the chair and squatted under my desk, my heart raced worried about whether I looked weird like something was wrong or perfectly normal that one would simply assume I was just picking up my book. And while doing so, I pulled my uniform by the hem of the backside towards the front to get a good look at it, “O my God!” I cringed while looking around to be sure no one was looking at me from the almost empty classroom.
“I wish I was Camille.” I cried to myself, and in a very short time, I could finally sigh, relieved, after pulling and tugging in that tight space. There was no stain and sudden joy filled my heart. Not just about my current victory but that it was Friday and the second day of my flow, meaning I was going to be home the next day being a Saturday and Sunday was the day the stream was going to run dry and I’ll be free at last or so I thought because it felt somewhat of a prison.
The next day was cool and quiet at home except that I decided to avoid sitting throughout the day until my legs advised me otherwise by the pain and tiredness it made me feel and I surrendered to its strong will and took a chair. Being at home I had no worries like I did back at school.
Then I took my paper and pen to meet up with Camille again who unlike me didn’t have to use such tactics as I did. I mean why should she? She’s got magic at her disposal which didn’t sit well with her mother who saw her nightly movements and secretly followed her to the woods one night where she found terrestrial plants that sang with life. Amidst this, she attempted to grab Camille and bring her home only to have her hands pass right through Camille’s hand as if she dipped inside water. She beheld her daughter order her to go home that instant. She left reluctantly and was vexed with an unbreakable resolution to bring Camille home and normal. She was welcomed by a radiant rose flower planted on the floor in front of her bedroom door. And it spoke to her saying,
“It’s your time now to be queen mother and never age again. Just like Camille.”
The line ‘never age again’ resounded in her mind to the stirring of a repelling force towards that ‘vain’ idea. “I want to be a grandma,” she replied and uprooted the flower and cast it over the white thicket fence. She tarried all night for her Camille but I went to sleep. I slept with a sweet mind till Sunday morning, waking up to the cool breeze of the day by the hours when darkness still hovered around, slowly fading away by the rays of the rising sun. The family dressed up and we drove down to the church for Christian fellowship.
Midway into the service, I began to feel a bit wet and I became torn between panic and the belief that my flow was three days as my elder sister’s own was. I strongly believed it to a good extent. I didn’t take time to notice the reactions of the girls that sat behind me whom I learned were spreading the news of my stained skirt among themselves. After service, my sister and her friends took me aside and we devised a short term solution which was for me to turn my skirt to let the stained part be in front and then cover it with my little bag as l walked about until we were home. Also, I was told to wear a pad until I saw it was dried up.
“O wow!” I exclaimed to myself, “It flows between three to seven days. And mine is surely not three days.”
I remembered Camille again and I realised it wasn’t fair for her to possess all those powers, I created her and so became bent on altering her life. She was surely going to become normal again when her mother declares war on the woods and begins an uprooting spree with those magical flowers that weren’t at all like the regular ones. Their life would be cut short and Camille will be free at last, she’ll grow up and face life’s troubles solving them like everybody else.
Truly I was enchanted by the life of the enchanted Camille, yet such means do not apply to the real world, so Camille would exist only to please the reader but not the ear listening for solutions to unending troubles. I didn’t like this menstrual period to the point I wished it came once a year. But I realised loathing it was useless I’ll probably live with it till fifty years, a very long time which rather should be spent on finding efficient ways to have it and not be set back in our daily work and duties and even our careers.
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