Zikora

by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

I read somewhere that love was about this, the nuggets of knowledge about our beloved that we so fluently hold.

How you imagine something will be is always worse than how it actually ends up being,”

Nature must not want humans to reproduce, otherwise birthing would be easy, even enjoyable: babies would easily slip out, and mothers would remain unmarked and whole, merely blessed by having bestowed life.

Respect: a starched deference, a string of ashen rituals. It was my mother who sat beside my father at weddings and ceremonies; it was her photo that appeared above the label of “wife” in the booklet his club published in his honor. Respect was her reward for acquiescing.