Let’s go down to this ugly business. The faster we get done with it, we can go over to more pleasant matters. You want to know it all, the grim, the sour, the ugly, the all. Alright, let me humour you. Is it humour though when it’s no joke? When it draws no heartfelt, beautiful, melodious laughter but sighs, tears, when…?
Where do I start from? From age six? Or age thirteen? Or age fifteen? Or age nineteen How do I start telling you what I don’t want ever want to remember? How do I start to tell you about my demons, my fears, the monsters I fight everyday, the pain I’ve successfully hidden beneath my beautiful smile? How do I start from age six, fourteen years ago?
I don’t want to draw a pity party. I don’t want you to start looking at me differently. It’s life.
I just exist. I’m neither happy or sad.
I’m just there. Alive not living.
I was aged five when I knew that a cousin could carry you on his laps and sing “Jesus loves me, this I know…” while his curious fingers poke around searching for the waist band of your panties and flick across your vagina.
I learnt that big brothers could squeeze your non-existent breasts, with their eyes closed as if in meditation while you stand still like a statue, your young mind filled with confusion.
And at age six, when I first heard the words “spread your legs,” I knew that what my cousin had inside his trousers was way bigger than what my friend, Emeka showed me when we went to pee.
I gave my first blowjob at age six, I reclined on the bed and with my trembling hands, I took him in my mouth. He moaned and the ‘banana‘ I had in my mouth got way bigger that I felt it would explode and it certainly did with milkish pap-like substance landing on my mouth, my eyes, my ears, my dress.
At age six, I spread my legs because I couldn’t tell my parents.
The ones caught up with religion and religious activities that never knew the trauma I was passing through each day?
I spread my legs and felt him poke but didn’t enter so that my parents won’t find out, so I endured his scissoring till he came and the weight of an eighteen year old landed on me.
When I eventually did tell, I was told to keep quiet. Keep quiet, tell no one. As if by keeping quiet, something I passed through for two years without my parents getting any wiser would just fade away.
I hope you won’t wince when I say it was the starting point of my wanton. I had an early puberty, at age eleven and half, I started menstruating.
Chronicles of a girl who started eating adult food as a toddler.
Fast-forward. I lost my first serious lover to road accident. I never, ever talk about Shedrack. Please don’t make me tell more than I have. I really did love him. I actually started believing in the existence of love, but it wasn’t to last because maybe I’m not cut out for good things. He died. I’m alive. Just floating. I miss Shedrack. Maybe those were also gloomy days too.
Last year wasn’t really gloomy for me.
Kamsi gave me joy. She gave me hope. The feeling of a complete human being living inside me made me feel like a creator myself.
So my demons, let me tell you of them. Those faceless entities that I fight everyday. I sometime ago might just about be a nymphomaniac, thanks to Victor and his elder brother. I believe I’ve overcome that demon now.
I hate myself. But I can’t kill myself because of Kamsi obviously. I hate that all these could happen to me beneath my parent’s very own noses without them knowing. I hate that they are caught up in religious beliefs and activities that we are neglected. Sometimes, I wish I wasn’t born to them.
My darkest days are when my phone is dead, no electricity, no music, no book and I can’t grab a hold on something to keep my sanity.
And then, I feel lost. I feel like suffocating. I feel dead.
Those may be my darkest days.