It is some months before August, the dates running all the way back
into 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 Aisha had weeks back. But today, while she’s still 6 years old
and counting.
He will satisfy the incessant needs of his groins. He will have her
to himself and make her feel like he was right and she was wrong to
refuse him. So he towers his tall lean frame above her, looking down on
her as he intimidates her with his size.
She’s scared, confused and lost all at the same time.
‘This is Uncle Emeka,’ she reminds her poor little head. ‘Uncle’. Not
by blood or family ties, no. But Uncle, cause he is friends with Dad
and Mom. Please continue.
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 buiscuits when I come tomorrow eh? Did you like the ones I brought today?”
She nods. Barely knowing what else to do but nod 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 Emeka, who said he had come to see Mommy.
She feels his finger as they begin to find room big enough to fit,in
the wells beyond the cotton lining of her baby panties.She yelps 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 moustache 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. Was. 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. But not until I made sure I didn’t feel like such a whimp 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 Emeka,
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 nightime 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 Emeka. 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
university.
I couldn’t wait.
At age 13 I realised 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. It wasn’t much
of a job but it was a period in my life where I got to know much about
business first hand. I didn’t take anything for granted. I had the
sharpest, piercing stare ready for any guy who dared look at me like he
wanted something!
“I’m not here for rubbish, I don’t have anything to give you, I don’t
want your ‘gifts’, I will get mine.” I repeatedly told myself.
At age 16 I had auditioned for 2 movie roles and was successfully
cast to act in them. On my first day on set to shoot, the director told
me he loved me and tried to touch my young tender breasts. Wasn’t that
the same thing ‘Uncle Emeka’ said many years ago?
I got up, fired him my ‘I’d kill you if you ever try that shit with
me” stare and walked away from location never to face my acting dreams
again.
By the time I turned 18, I had taught myself makeup artistry. I had
also learned how to sew clothes from watching my mom sew in the house
late at night after a long day at work. I was at university to study
Computer Science at the time and I was by now a full time business
woman. There I was, investing my N20,000 pocket money on bend-down
select clothes from Yaba to sell in school and making over 400% profits
each time.
I was finally beginning to get mine. It was “Work Eva, Work!”
I would hate to take you on a journey through a long post reading all
about my experience to where I am now as a rapper/entertainer, so I
will stop here.
Look at me. I have strived hard to get to where I am today. I did not
happen overnight. I am hardly where I want to be, but God is ever
faithful. I have done just about anything to make sure I never had to
feel like a whimp. To never feel like I had to give myself up to get
anything. To never feel like all I was good for was satisfying a man’s
needs down-south for a gift in return.
Now, I’d tell you – I never granted an interview to anyone with the
aim of revealing the fact that I was molested as a child. There’s no
pride whatsoever in that. I was put in a tight situation, asked my
opinion on “Child Not Bride” – and I apologise for not being able to
control my emotions while I let my answers spiral out of my small mouth.
We are talking about underaged 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
about 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 traumatised for a long time.
There are probably thousands of children in Nigeria, molested
everyday. By their teachers, house maids, 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 about it, I am proud
that I rose above.
I apologise for making you read such a long post. I couldn’t contain myself.
Love,
E.
#ChildNotBride
