Four years going on five. That’s how long it’s been. Four years, almost five, of wearing a ring. Not any old ring, mind, but a wedding band. I need applause.
I was never one for jewelry. I have hated the feel of foreign things on my skin since I can remember. In another life, I believe I was a nudist.
So when the prospect of marriage dawned on me, I didn’t get the attendant shakes that come with being scared of the great unknown. No, it was because of the thought of wearing a ring.
That is why I believe four years of wearing this piece of metal that’s showing its full four years and a half is no mean feat.
But it has also been four years of cuts. The frigging thing has failed to fit my finger. Back then, I thought I would grow into it. I thought all I needed was a few months of good feeding and y finger would fill out.
It did not happen. I should be the most frustrating person to feed; the most annoying calf to fatten.
I am tired of the cuts. They are never severe. It is always during a mundane chore, like making the bed of one of my girls or washing a piece of laundry. The assaults always come at a time when I do not need any more grief from the world.
My ring finger is covered in little scars wrought by an evil piece of gold. Whoever made this ring should be taken to Kiteezi and tied there for a week. The design, a winner when I bought it in October 2006, is my worst tormentor now.
So I am done. I am not wearing this here thing anymore. I am taking a break. Later, when my finger has healed, I shall consider buying a ring that fits. But then again, I might decide not to.