I was eleven when I watched my first CRISPR explainer. It was on a laptop borrowed from a cousin, over Wi-Fi borrowed from a neighbor, on a Sunday I was supposed to be at church. I have been in a mild state of religious devotion to gene editing ever since.
By fourteen I had done every Khan Academy biology track twice. I emailed a PhD student in Lagos with a question about guide RNAs. She wrote back. I cried. I printed the email. I still have the email.
Slow down for whom? The syllabus? The syllabus is not going to cure sickle cell. My aunt has sickle cell. Her son has sickle cell. The syllabus does not, respectfully, know them.
Slow down for whom? The syllabus? The syllabus is not going to cure sickle cell.
When my teacher asked me to slow down, I understood what she meant. She meant: be a child. Be normal. Be one of the girls at the back who write pop stars' names on their arms. I understand the invitation. I have declined it, gently, in writing.
I will slow down when the disease slows down. That is the deal I have made with myself. It is not a very teenage deal. But then, we live in a country where teenage girls are the ones bringing the water. We are already not very teenage.
The girls are talking. Get in the conversation.