But Narissa said, “This?” with a gesture at the monitor she’d been using but clearly referring to more than that. “What I just said? It’s not a Black and white thing this time. It’s a drugs and alcohol thing. You reach a point where you can’t feel. Or know what you’re feeling. At least that’s how it is for me.”
“Ah.”
Narissa shot her a quick smile. “Ta for not saying ‘I understand.’？”
Deborah felt moderately encouraged, enough to say, “I saw Zawadi on the news this morning. The Akins as well.”
Narissa grew quite still, as she’d done before when the subject of the Akins came up. When she didn’t reply, Deborah went on with, “They’re quite compelling.” Still no reply. “Have you seen them? On the telly?”
“What’s this about, then?” Narissa asked sharply. Unmistakably, a portcullis had been lowered.
“Nothing, really. I was just wondering—”
“Stop it. You’re not wondering. You’re fishing.”
“I suppose I am. Why did they bring her here, those kids? Do you know?”
“Not a clue. She probably said something to them. If you want to know, you’ll have to ask Zawadi.”
“Are you on board, then? With what’s happening with Zawadi and the parents?”
“If Zawadi says some girl’s in danger, that’s all I have to hear.”
“And then what?”
“Then . . . ? Like other people in the community, I help where I can. I wouldn’t be making this film otherwise. And anyway, cutting girls is only part of what can happen to them. I expect you know that by now.”
Deborah frowned as she thought about the implications. “Are you saying that just because her parents won’t have her cut, they might do something else? What?”
“How about ironing her breasts for a start?”
“Ironing? What on earth . . . ?”
“Breast flattening. To make sure boys don’t start looking at them.”
“But how old is Bolu? Does she even have breasts?”
“Christ. That’s not the point. Look. It’s like this: A girl’s mum takes her out to buy what she’ll need for her monthlies and that’s the signal. She’s on her way to womanhood and that means she has to be cut.”
“That can’t be the case for every girl.”
“Of course it’s not the case for every girl. But for those girls whose families follow the old ways, monthly bleeding can trigger the process of being made pure. Those girls don’t know this. Others do. And those others take action to keep her safe.”
“Are you saying that’s why Bolu was brought here? Her mum took her out to buy what she’ll need for her monthly bleeding? That’s all her mum did? That’s what she told Zawadi? Narissa, that could mean—”
“Forget it,” Narissa said. “Shit. Hell. Look. I need to work. I need to think. Go away. Okay?”
Deborah did so. But she was more uneasy than she’d been before. She left Orchid House to make her way to the Isle of Dogs, where she used her GPS to locate Inner Harbour Square.
She found Philippa Weatherall waiting for her, and the surgeon was all business: a nod of hello to Deborah, and then, “We’re in my office. It’s just this way.” Deborah followed Dr. Weatherall from reception through a door into a corridor from which three doors opened. The murmur of voices along with the sounds of preparation drifted from one of the rooms. This, she was told by Dr. Weatherall, was the clinic’s operating theatre, where two volunteer surgical nurses and a volunteer anaesthetist were readying everything for the coming procedure.
She gestured Deborah into her office. Inside, a Black couple waited, and the surgeon introduced them to Deborah. Leylo was the name of the woman, and she appeared to be no older than Deborah herself. Her husband was called Yasir. He seemed perhaps a decade older than his wife, and he also seemed far more nervous. But both of them were willing to be photographed. They signed the appropriate releases, which would allow Deborah to use both the pictures she took and their words as well as their names if she felt that naming them would strengthen the project’s intent.
Yasir rose politely and offered Deborah his chair. She demurred. She began to unpack what little equipment she needed, chatting to them as she did so. On her lap, Leylo held a brightly wrapped package with an artful bow. Deborah assumed that it was a gift from the couple to Dr. Weatherall, a thank-you for what was to come, which, if successful, would end Leylo’s chronic pain at the same time as it altered the couple’s life together. But she learned the very opposite was the case. Along with the gift of life-changing surgery, it was the surgeon’s habit to acknowledge the courage of the women who sought her out by giving them a token present.