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"You thought about all the giveaway ceremonies you had been a part of in the past – the food, the drink, the traditional dancers and most importantly, the girl's room. There are always two girl’s rooms at giveaway ceremonies. There is the communal room where the multitude of all the bride’s friends will stay for most of the event, and the deluxe room, the one with limited access and maximum secrecy. Entry to this room is strictly by invitation..."
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"I get up from bed for the first time in twenty-something hours. Obvious from the sinkhole I leave behind. The foul odour of dried sweat and stale urine force through my nostrils, smothering. Louvres are shut behind the dusty curtain. Dustbin is overflowing, mostly empty Chicken Republic packs and Sprite cans. A heap of unwashed plates in the sink..."
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"The balcony doors are already open and the morning light cuts through the dark. Your younger sister is asleep on the sofa. Her headtie is askew, her lashes are peeling, and the back of her dress is hastily loosened. The morning before, she had ordered your mother to lace the corset tighter, tighter, yes, tighter so everyone would query where her waist had gone..."
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"On the eve of the ngurario, the air was electric. Per tradition, the wedding ceremony would be held at the bride’s mother’s house, and so Anna’s aunts, cousins and close friends had descended on the home to cook and clean. We were one pair of a bevy of hands moving at speed to shell peas, pick rice, peel potatoes; cut up cabbage and spinach; scrape carrots; slice cucumber, tomatoes, onions, lettuce and radishes for salads; and prepare fruits for desert. Young male relatives would handle roasting the meat. A tent had already been set up with chairs and tables and we arranged cups, glasses, and eating utensils on a table. It was exhausting work, ending at midnight."
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"This is what happens when my dad says to me; Barakat, this is your mother. I stare as if I do not hear him – the weight of the words, their implication: I stare at her head wrapped with a multi-coloured scarf, her parched lips – the smile on them.
“As-salamu alaykum.” I finally say, my eyes staring at a broken tile and her ugly feet wriggling like worms on it. I say it rather slowly, punctuating each sound so the words, peace be upon you, lose their meaning. I say it as if I am speaking to her brown feet – to the black soot, clayed around the edges, welcoming them and thinking at once of the need to massage and wash them in water and baking soda."
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'Your body is in the corner of the lounge of Sundowners perched on a bar stool right next to the soft cushioned walls where lovers isolate themselves from the party-going crowd. The neon burgundy lights and the somewhat humid air are a little unfamiliar. On a normal night, you would be seated at the bar with your friends drinking God’s greatest gift in punch - Uganda Waragi in coconut flavour with Novida - and getting ready to dance till you drop..."
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“When you sit on a bench in Main Mall, Gaborone, you will see many things: two girls in matching tops holding hands, their faces turned to each other to trade girlish whispers; a woman bowing down to hand her grandchild a juice-box, his face glistening under six layers of Vaseline; a stall occupied by an unoccupied woman, her wares hanging on the wires beneath her shade…”
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"She walks over and whispers something in your ear but you don’t hear it because all you can sense is her. She smells like a laundry basket and onions. For the first time you note that dandruff has a smell. She giggles and you giggle back even though you haven’t heard a word, the burden of false laughter is lighter than her unbearable presence close to your ear..."
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"Her weight gain had at first been noted with approval, seen as a sign of prosperity in the home, and the obvious sign that she was well loved and looked after by her husband. However, approval changed to alarm then outright speechlessness when her size dwarfed that of the village wrestling champion..."
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"The afternoon dragged its feet with office workers beginning to trickle back from lunch, their shoes clicking against the tarred pavement. A woman bought a small bouquet for her desk. A man in a blue suit bought two bunches, with guilt written across his face. Flowers of lies, she thought, but she still wrapped them with care..."
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