It is few months before August, the dates running all the way back to the calendars of the early 90s. In a few months from this day, she will turn 7 years old, maybe even have a big school party like her friend Lisa had weeks back. But today, while she’s still 6 years old and counting. He will satisfy the unpleasant need of his life. He will have her to himself and make her feel like he was right and she was wrong to refuse him.
So he is looking down at her as he intimidates her with his size. She’s scared, confused and lost all at the same time. ‘This is Uncle George,’ she reminds her poor little head. ‘Uncle’, Not by blood or family ties, no. But Uncle, cause he is friends with Dad and Mom. He picks her up from the floor and props her on his chest, all the time saying, “You know I’d buy you some more biscuits when I come tomorrow ok? Did you like the ones I bought today?” She nods. Barely knowing what else to do but agreed in fear.Not too far off from the house just outside, she can hear her brothers playing in the yard.
The maid is out on an errand and she is here by herself… With Uncle George, who said he had come to see Mommy. She feels his finger as they begin to find the room big enough to fit, in the wells beyond the cotton lining of her baby panties.She was in pain. He closes her mouth with his, swallowing her screams down his throat as he kisses her without shame, his finger still gliding in and out of her. It is painful. It burns like hot coals of fire. She lets the tears roll. He tells her it is right. “Am I not your best Uncle?” he asks with a smile that curves his bushy mustache into an awkward arch. She nods. She was only 6 years old. But this was to happen again three more times before her 7th birthday, each occurrence bringing with it several wraps of biscuits and candies. “Don’t ever tell your Mommy,” he’d say. “She’d beat you very hard. Do you want her to do that?” It’s many years ago. But I write this now and I tell you, that little girl was me. Because with time I overcame that. I found the strength to walk away from it and not feel like such a dirty, good-for-nothing girl as I felt every time it happened. For a couple of years after that, I asked myself several questions I was not to find answers to if I didn’t seek help. So I did! And I let it all go.
One day he came to my room and closed the door when no one was at home. He came closer and started kissing me, touching me and take off all the clothes of mine and started to touch my whole body with his tongue, I was a 6 yr old girl who doesn’t know anything about the sexual context. I got completely blanked and started wishing that everything will be fine soon. He pushed me on the wall and started humping and he pushed his enormous self inside me. I was not able to understand anything except pain. It hurts like hell, how could he do this to me? I called him uncle and what he gave me in return, such a scoundrel bloody rapist. These incidents of being molested got normal…!
Until I made sure I didn’t feel like such a wimp of a girl who couldn’t defend herself. And so I grew up into a tough, smug, tomboy of a girl. I hated boys, but I had them as best friends. My playmates were the biggest boys in the class. My toys were water-guns and toy soldiers. I wanted to be tough. I wanted to be able to defend myself. I was involved in sports, and every other thing the little girls in my peer group thought was too dirty to do. I didn’t care about dresses and skirts. I hated them. So I wanted to be dressed like my brothers, and look like a boy. For years I let myself believe -“If he was ever giving me anything, he wanted something in return.”
This was the logic with Uncle George, wasn’t it? Every time I got a present, or cookies and candies, it was because he wanted me to keep my mouth shut about everything because he wanted me to be happy because he wanted to come right back to prop me up on a wall and give me pain. So I learned to get mine. I wanted to have what I needed on my own terms. I was never to ask for help from any boy, I was never to accept gifts, I didn’t want anything if I couldn’t get it myself. I don’t exactly come from one of the richest homes. I have parents who made sure we had what we needed, and on time. I watched my dad and mom put in work, from morning till nighttime tirelessly just to make sure we were okay. It began to dawn on me very early in life, if I didn’t start getting it myself now, I might never have the chance to when I am older and I might have to depend on taking from boys. I didn’t want that! It reminded me too much of Uncle George. It brought all the pain from the past right back with hot burning tears each time I thought of it. I wanted to work. I wanted my own. I loved school, I excelled at school bringing my parents much-needed joy for all their hard earned money. But school wasn’t to be over so soon. I had two more years to be done with secondary school and then to face another four after that for a university.I couldn’t wait. At age 13 I realized I loved to read and write, so I began to write… and write even more! My dad applauded my stories, said I’d make a great writer and tried to get me published. But that was tossed in the wind as I fell in love with Eminem and focused my writing on Rap music. I took my first job as a photography model at age 15.
There’s no pride whatsoever in that. I was put in a tight situation, asked my opinion on “Child Not Bride” – and I apologize for not being able to control my emotions while I let my answers spiral out of my small mouth. We are talking about underage girls being married off and having it right by law! How do you think I feel about that having read my story now? This is rather too much of an emotional and delicate subject matter for me and I couldn’t help but relate to these young girls. And so I did say in passing without making that my focus – “Hey! I can relate, I had bad things happen to me as a child and I was molested.” If you are going to find a punchline to draw attention to your blog, on a matter such as this, as a writer – how much effort would it have been to relay the emotions under which I said it in your post? Instead, you chose to make me out to look like I was mouthing off and being proud of being molested as a young 6-year-old child! Is it just me or wasn’t that pushing a little too hard for the negative attention? I’m not asking that you care about me. I’m asking that you care about the situation, I’m asking that a woman be a woman for another woman. In an attempt to drive traffic to your site, do not portray my story for me like I was out to brag about it. In an attempt to “not care” and just be a gossip poster at least be a woman for another and not make my own story look like a cheap attempt at quotations for fame. But who am I to talk here right? I was molested!
I had my 6-year-old vagina prickled with fingers and nails that left sores for days! I felt like a total loser of a girl. I was traumatized for a long time. There are probably thousands of children in Nigeria, molested every day. By their teachers, housemaids, uncles, aunties- even their own parents! This is a serious issue, not just for the family but the society at large. I have kept this to myself for many years and never expected I’d break down emotionally and let it out in passing to express my opinion on #ChildNotBride. I almost died weeks ago in an auto crash. But I am here. Alive. I did not intend to put my sad story out like this, but it is here now and I refuse to run away from it. So while I am alive now and can use my story to hopefully inspire one person, I stand for every young girl who has gone through even a tiny bit of what I have. Talk to somebody. Anybody. Don’t keep it to yourself. Talk to your parents about it. Don’t feel bad about yourself. You must remember that you are beautiful, very beautiful. You must see yourself in the purest of forms. Everyday. To every parent out there, I implore you please, guard your beautiful children under your wings like the mother hen. You might not be able to do that 24/7 because you must go out to work and fend for them, but you must, I beg of you, be ready to ask and be there to listen.I am here. You are there, reading this. I don’t know what you have been through, but I have talked to a great many people who were molested as kids. Boys. Girls. So I do know that I am not here alone, and you aren’t either. What I went through was disgusting, but it propelled me daily to where I am now. I am not traumatized anymore. I did not let this consume me. I am asking you now not to let it consume you. We sometimes think everyone else is perfect until we hear their stories. I have no idea what yours is, but this is mine.
This is not something I’d ever wish on any child. It is not anything to be happy about. I was molested, I am not proud of it, I am proud that I rose above. I apologize for making you read such a long post. I couldn’t contain myself.