‘These are the ads we made last year for Free Maxi Pads,’ explains my boss, a woman in her thirties. ‘We’ll continue the series with the same theme. Menstruation as—’

Revenant. Monster.

‘A very uncomfortable condition,’ she says, then emphasises, ‘without Free Maxi Pads.’

She asks everyone to put forward an ad concept. Sort of a writing contest but with no prize money. The winner has the honour of developing the idea with a team, of leading a small group. There may even be potential for a promotion.

‘Why don’t you start by brainstorming. Let’s get some thoughts on what a woman feels when she’s having her period.’

‘Cramps,’ a copywriter responds.

‘Pimples.’

‘Good. But try to connect your ideas with our client’s product.’

‘Moist. Soaked. Smelly.’

‘Dirty.’

‘Nah!’

‘Your turn, Mara.’

I think hard.

No, no, not now. Those were the words in my head when my first period came, during Ramadan. My mother had died giving birth to my sister the year before. Neither survived. All Mum left me were scraps of advice.

‘Every woman will go through it, so you have to know how to use a sanitary napkin. It’s not hard.’ Mum demonstrated in front of me. I stood with knitted eyebrows, as if observing an alien’s mucus. For me, it wasn’t just the pad that looked strange but my mother’s body, so unlike mine: full of grooves, streaks of white, veins of purple, hair like weeds. How many years before my body would fill with marks too?

‘Don’t look at me like that. It’s no harder or stranger than tying shoelaces.’

I felt a budding pride. I’d been initiated into knowledge of what happens to a woman’s body and how to handle it. I knew of important mysteries long before my friends.

But adulthood turned out to be closer than I imagined. It came when I was still too embarrassed to buy sanitary napkins at school, when I was in fifth grade. Other girls didn’t get their first period until sixth grade, or even the second year of middle school. Why did my childhood have to end so soon?

After debating with the voices in my head, I settled on a small towel that I’d brought for gym class. A clever enough solution for the moment. May you feel proud in your grave, Mum.

‘Well, Mara, your fast can never be one hundred per cent perfect again.’ So said the ustadzah, my Qur’anic recitation teacher. We sat on my living room floor, the both of us pressing our thighs tightly together. She didn’t like me to sit cross-legged.

‘Why can’t it be perfect?’ I looked down. My words were more an expression of regret than a question.