If you have grown up with lack, you will act like Enyinne, who has become an expert in carrying her grief with her so light it doesn’t show to the world. Those years of bread so stale its prices are reduced because it smells like paper and tastes like dust, but that’s all her mother can afford. Those years of wearing slippers for so long they thin out and the heat from the asphalt burns her soles. Those years of washing and wadding up rags to use again, because where does she expect the money for a sanitary pad to fall from? The sky?

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