Most Africans, looking back to their childhood, have hilarious tales to tell about their parents. Stories that were not as funny at the time they happened. Truly, typical African parents, especially Nigerian mothers are a funny lot with the characteristic uniformity they display in carrying out their parenting duties.
The children, adults that they are now, would reminisce on times when their mothers, would call out loudly for their kids who are in their bedrooms kilometers away to come give them a TV remote control or bag lying just a few feet away from them, rather than pick it up themselves; or those times children knew to keep quiet, even when right, or chance getting smacked or knocked on the head; times when the stern look on father’s face or the pointed staring from mother was all the direction you needed to know and do what was expected of you; the times when answering father or mother’s call to one of your siblings automatically qualified the one who answered to do the chore his or her sibling was being called for which would teach one to go deaf the next time you hear such call. So many beautiful memories stem from these childhood experiences which almost every other Nigerian child could relate to.
As fun as it would be to go down memory lane and recount all the childhood experiences I can think of, I wouldn’t because then you would not get to hear my own story now, would you?
My name is Dolapo and this is my story.
The few happy memories of childhood were replaced by trauma from the age of fifteen. Unlike most kids my age, I had to grow up really fast.
Unlike most kids my age, I had a job description which came with being the first daughter of a senior well-known pastor. I had to be the perfect example for other children. To accomplish that, I had to be perfect. Mum was a nurse and deaconess whose priority was to stand by every decision her husband made.
We had a very routine lifestyle. If we weren’t in school; you could be sure to find us in church more than two-third of the time. For the other times left, we would be home praying, studying the bible, doing school work, chores or whatever else my parents thought right for a “child of God”. We only got to watch television if there was a church programme showing, hence I preferred to sit television time out in my room except for those times when dad made it compulsory for every member of his impeccable family.
I soon decided that it must be true what they say; forcefully keeping someone way from something most often backfires. In most cases as I have heard, such people become hungrier to taste the fruit they are being kept away from. I wouldn’t say that was exactly the case with me but I envied those who were free to decide whether or not they wanted a bite of whichever fruit was within reach and I did come very close to tasting one of such fruits before it all came crashing down.
School time was my only reprieve from home although I still had eyes on me, watching my every move. It was the only place my parents could not attend with me even though my secondary school was owned by the church. There were strict rules and regulations other students like myself soon learnt to get around. For one, mingling between male and female students outside of doing class work was greatly frowned at. You would think one could get pregnant from talking to someone of the opposite sex.
Despite these, Tunde and I got really close. He
was two classes ahead, my boyfriend, neighbour and a school prefect. Against all odds, we had found ways to get together, make out a few times and had agreed to have sex sometime in the near future when the opportunity to spend more than a few minutes together presents itself. I looked forward to it.
It is safe to say, we soon fell into the opportunity and it was the first building block to the trauma that still haunts me so many years after.
It was a Sunday; the day of the week we spend virtually the whole day in church. We had attended the first service where dad ministered and stayed on for the other services that followed. There were church meetings every member of the family had to attend respectively afterwards. I had just finished my second meeting when mum instructed that I go home ahead of them to prepare dinner. My going home before others on Sunday to prepare food was fast becoming a norm.
I had just finished taking the bath I had decided on after getting dinner started when the doorbell rang. it could not have been mum or dad; they were not due back until almost dinner time which was about three hours away. My sister had had one meeting to go and would not be back for another hour or two. Who could it be? Most people who visited our home were congregation members who knew our Sunday routine like clockwork hence would expect nobody to be home.
It was Tunde. Remember him? My boyfriend, neighbour and school mate. He had seen me arrive home alone and had decided to check up on me. Tunde knew better than to visit my house; dad’s temper would hit the roof and I imagine that mum would have a seizure, not that she had ever had one. On some Sundays like this one, I would make dinner with an unusual speed then go see Tunde for a very short time at our hidden rendezvous spot somewhere between our houses and be back in time to not be missed. Tunde chose to brave this Sunday because he wanted to know if we were still on the same page regarding our sex date and could not be certain whether or not I would show up this Sunday.
I confirmed my commitment to our plan and was pretty sure all we intended was a quick goodbye kiss but got caught up in doing more than that. We were on the bed making out when Tunde’s uncle burst into the bedroom.
Apparently, he had seen Tunde come into the house and wanted to be certain that the suspicion he had had for a while now were unfounded. He dragged Tunde off me and sent him to the floor with a hard slap across his face before pinning me with a glare that spoke volumes. I was ashamed of being caught in the act but shivered at the thought of what my dad would do if he found out. I prayed fervently that he wouldn’t.
My prayer went unanswered. It seemed then like God was ashamed of me too and had turned deaf ears to my supplication. Tunde’s uncle returned while we were having dinner and excused my dad to have a quick word with him. Dad had only returned from church a few minutes before dinner. I knew I was in a hot boiling soup of trouble and awaited dad’s return with trepidation, shivering in my seat while my teeth clattered away.
I had barely registered the furious look on his face when the blows descended. I had gotten accustomed to dad’s beatings but this was different. I could feel the anger in his blows even as I curled up to protect myself, not that it worked much. My hands shielded my face from the blows while my ears heard but could not make much sense of the words that poured from him as he hit me. Mum did not have a clue what I had done and tried to plead on my behalf. The stool he threw at her shut her up and she became a mute spectator just like my sister. He didn’t stop until I blacked out.
I awoke to mum’s tender hands stitching my cut. Her nursing skills often came in handy after dad’s beatings. I had to stay home for a few days before I resumed school and even church.
It was that time of the month when mum expected me to ask her for sanitary pads. She knew my menstrual cycle dates because they have always coincided with hers. This month it didn’t and so, I didn’t ask. I thought nothing of it until events that followed made me realize that my parents must have concluded I was pregnant. They couldn’t have that now, could they? It would be the ultimate disgrace if word ever got out.
Very early on a Saturday morning, I got into a car with mum and off we went to a place I knew nothing about. I was not told where we were going and I had drifted even farther apart from my parents such that I was not interested in striking up conversations with either of them. I only replied when I was spoken to. They have never been the best people to talk to before now, so it was not hard to pretend they didn’t exist. They were not my friends.
After driving all morning, a far distance from the city we lived, my mum finally stopped.
A fat woman dressed in traditional attire of iro and buba (blouse and wrapper) met us at the entrance to her ugly bungalow. They must have discussed beforehand because mum simply let her lead me away after pleasantries were exchanged.
I was led into a small room with a big wooden table at its center. A young man who I presume was the woman’s assistant lifted and bound me to the table after I had pulled off my skirt as I was told to. The woman instructed the man to get ready the injection that would make me sleep while she checks me out.
I saw her reach for a mean-looking steely instrument as she parted my legs. I found my voice at this point and asked what her intention was but she only looked up from her “chore” to give me a stern look, totally ignoring my question before she continued.
The coldness of the instrument against me made me shake and got me another stern look. A sharp pain made me scream before a hand clamped my mouth shut. It was the assistant’s.
“Mistake, sorry, small mistake but you need to stay one place.” The woman rattled off quickly.
She wanted me to lie still to avoid another mistake. I tried even though I felt every prodding from her hands and wicked instrument.
After a while, she told the man in our local Yoruba language to let me go and that there was no need for an abortion.
“This one na virgin.” She offered as explanation to him.
I was dressed up and led back to my mother. We commenced our journey back to the city soon after.
Till date, I do not know if the woman had told my mum I was a virgin. I did not speak about what happened in that small room to anyone, not even my sister. Neither of my parents spoke about it too till this day, fifteen years later.
Dad did not, even on those days when he preached against abortion and violence of any kind from the pulpit, neither did Mum on those days following my ordeal when she would make me sit naked directly on the steam coming from a bucket containing very hot water. The steam was meant to heal my wounds and it did heal those I sustained in my private part but not those in my heart.
Fifteen years on, I remain traumatized. I had sex at some point in my adult life but had hated every minute of it. It had felt as if I were reliving that experience again. I see that woman standing over me with her mean looking steely instrument and as much as I try to remind myself she is in my past and not present, my efforts end up futile.
My parents are alive and well but I cannot get over what they put me through. I hate them for the damage they did to me and try my best to stay out of their seemingly perfect lives.
This is my story and I admit it, I need help!
The end
A fiction authored by 
All images used were obtained from pixabay.
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