It was my made-up name
that gave the clue to who and what I am. Nana Wolffmüller is not on
record in the place where I was born—on Sunday morning, just past three, among
machines that beeped and wheezed, the twenty-ninth of February, twenty-four
years ago. Many births there were that leap-year day—worldwide a multitude—some
more notable than others, mine proclaimed "exceptional" in as much as it inspired
an enigmatic newspaper article:
"12 YEAR OLD VIRGIN—IN A COMA—GIVES BIRTH"
the caption read, arousing curiosity both prurient and indignant, this
"aberration" complicated further by the fact that child and host shared not a
single chromosome (tests confirmed), the baby's features Asiatic, the mother's
and her entire family's Caucasian, said mother admitted to hospital before she
hence questions begging answers arose from every quarter.