Fatou was a bus conductor in Dakar. Every day, she jumped off and on the moving bus, shouting stops, collecting fares, and swinging her coin pouch like it was part of her body. She had mastered the chaos of the roads, the dust, the insults, the heavy sun. But what she hadn’t mastered, what still caught her off guard was her period. She would feel it coming like a slow storm. The backache. The wave of nausea. The hot flash behind her eyes. But in her line of work, there was no break. No rest. No clean restroom nearby. She would double-pad. Wear black. Whisper prayers. And pretend. One Thursday morning, she wasn’t fast enough. The bleeding came heavier than usual. She felt it soak through there, in the middle of her route, on a packed bus with thirty pairs of eyes. Her heart dropped. But before the panic set in, a woman sitting by the window tapped her shoulder gently. “Sister,” she said, “it is okay.” She handed Fatou her shawl. Shielded her. Whispered for the driver to pause. Min...