February afternoons are the best. When the sun shines, it's almost as though it considers your skin, how much it's been burnt and all the money you've spent buying pomade to keep your color fine.Because according to mother, a dirty dark skin is a taboo, having already been stained at birth. Which explains all the uneven blotches on her face. A relative abroad sends money every two months and all mother does is buy chemicals made by the white man.She says this isn't bleaching. It's a peace offering to herself for all the times she was mocked for her color; the darkest shade of black.I'm afraid to tell her the cream doesn't cleanse her feet. The sharp contrast between the glow on her face and the unwavering blackness of her legs seem somewhat funny.But I never say so. I only breathe a sigh of relief when she pulls on her faded pair of loose pants and heads for the market. That way, no one sees her legs to make fun of her. She's my mother. I want all the good things for her.I walk swiftly with an honest appreciation of the weather and join my friends on the farm. Adoma sits two rows away from me in class and shares her lunch with me sometimes. Felicia's mother is friends with my mother.All the two women ever talk about is how effective their strange herbs are. I've seen mother bring in some herbs from town more than once. She boils it in a pot and sits on it when it cools down. I want to ask her why she performs this ritual but a child can't know such a thing, I suppose. All I hear them say is how it makes the home between their thighs more welcoming and I try to think hard about what this could possibly mean.I'd ask Felicia but she might tell the whole town that my mother has an evil pot on which she chants. She knows so much about everything but can't keep her mouth shut. Mother says it's not always a bad thing but can get her into trouble.I've learnt a lot from Felicia. I know that stars have names and the chief has more than two wives. I also know that when a girl spends too much time with a boy, especially in the evenings, the girl gets fat.I never want to get fat. You sweat too much under the arms and have to squeeze your bum into tiny car seats. And that is very very uncomfortable. I know because father was fat before the cancer and he hated public buses.The thought of father causes my lips to tremble and I swing the machete with all my might, cutting off a huge chunk of weed.I listen to the girls talk as they work. They're talking about boys again and I roll my eyes at them. No wonder Felicia is growing so big. Her breasts go ahead of her, she can barely carry them and she still chooses to spend time with that boy in the next class. I shake my head and try to imagine her sneaking around with that boy in the dark, getting fat with every second she breathes. The thought frightens me.I stretch myself and for a moment, the sun kisses my eyes, sending golden rays across my face, sliding down my neck and nestling inside my chest.I think about mama, all the little pigments she battles with, and the magic pot full of herbs. I let my mind drift back to Felicia and the boy, and I wonder how people go to war.For mama, she slits her skin open with expensive substance and keeps her sacred home warm enough for guests. Felicia opens her heart and expands only to have the school boy press her here and there and make her feel strange things.I lift my head and return the sun's kiss; preparing myself for all the wars I'm yet to fight- for my body and for my heart.