The first time I collapsed in public, was on a hot and humid day in an overpopulated Dar es Salaam. I had been sent on a market run, which was the third most common errand for a girl my age. The first and second of our usual duties, are the ones that ensue after your return from the market - cooking and cleaning. So as you can tell, it was surely going to be a long day.

The market seemed a lot more congested than usual, and the sun shone on our bones, its heat radiating outwards into the bright day. Perspiring brows made people glow, their strength drained by the hot summer days. One man rested in the shade, his eyes on the foliage above, on each green leaf in that vast canopy. I watched him recline in that God given shade, a newspaper resting on his raised knees, and I envied him for a while. And as he drifted off to sleep, I scurried off to get what I was sent to buy.

A woman’s voice wooed me to a stall nearby, and I found myself staring at a face that had seemingly been hardened by the harshness of life, and the struggles of building a future for the baby that hung on her back. However, by some inexplicable miracle, she somehow managed to still have the kindest eyes.

I edged closer, picked a ripe tomato in my palm and took a moment to look around. Nyanya shing ngapi? I asked, the price of tomatoes changing by the day. Sado elfu moja, she replied, those being the good old days of the year 2007. I watched as she began to pack my order in the now prohibited polythene plastic bag, but as I waited, a sudden sense of wooziness whizzed past me. I looked to the left, and then to the right, then shook my head as if to shake it off.

After a minute of two, it came back again, and this time, it took me with it, because I remember nothing that happened after that.

I awoke to feel my body lying on the ground, and the panicked voices that belonged to the concerned faces that looked down upon me, yelled several unfounded suggestions. 

'Take her to a clinic,’ someone shouted. 

'No, it’s the heat, remove her clothes!’ another yelled. 

God forbid! I thought to myself. The layers of cloth I had used to prevent my menses from peaking onto my outer clothes would shock everyone.

Naombeni tu maji, I finally managed to utter, and the soft eyed lady whose stall I had destroyed by having fallen flat on her pile of tomatoes, arose to fetch some for me. The ordeal ended, and I eventually managed to got home safely, but the concerned look on my mother's face was one that I would soon have to become accustomed to, as the episodes kept happening.

That was the first time I collapsed, but it definitely wasn’t the last. I’ve fainted in public due to Endometriosis almost 10 times ever since; once at a bank, once in a public bathroom, twice in class, and the list goes on...

So, if I were asked to pen a letter to Endometriosis, I’d only have two words to say to it;

Dear Endometriosis.

Screw You.

Respectfully.

Tunu.

*******

This is a true story shared in honor of Endometriosis Awareness Month

#IAmAnEndoWarrior

#Endometriosis

#EndometriosisAwareness