… of kisses, rape, and a god of poetry

Life is full of stories.

I have been kissed before, forcefully, by a man I was close to.

It happened years ago.

My mum had just died and I drifted to someone close because he was the only one that I felt understood me.

One day he kissed me against my wish, I told a few friends, they laughed, I pretended to laugh, we called him a fag and other names.

Inside I felt dirty, I felt betrayed, I felt life is full of people who will use and use you. For days I watched him move around freely, I remembered others who had the same experience but we kept silent, wounded, afraid nobody would believe us.

He was handsome, intelligent, and had a swag girls wanted. Who would believe someone like that defiled little boys?

It took me years to open my heart to a man, it took me years to sit down and talk to men without that fear hiding in my head. I swore to myself to always stand for those going through such because of what I felt, but these last few days has been hell.

I have been sick and still yet my head can’t just leave these issues. I have cried. I have called, I have tried to know the truth because in issues like these one has to be careful but the truth is always constant, it will always come out, it does not stay hidden forever.

It is often said that ten people can’t lie the same way. As a security personnel, one of the ways to detect lies in a witness is to have the person write his statement again and again and then you pick the truth from it.

The truth is bitter.

But it is a pill I must swallow.

No man should kiss people forcefully because he gives them things, goodness should not come at a price. It is wrong and what is wrong is wrong. I’m broken but one should always stand on the truth.

For those that think I’m an ingrate, I agree, I am but it could be your sister, it could be you…

Life is a funny place.

For those  that chose to speak out, even when people doubted you because of love and loyalty, I say you are my heroes, you have done more than I was able to do.

For snitches, I also say well done. Life is a funny place.

What more can I say, I have learnt. I will heal. Life is funny, life is real. I am no longer disappointed. People will always be people.

Selah.

Oluwasegun Romeo Oriogun

Silence…

The first time you tried talking about your rape experience, it was with your reflection in the mirror. You knew it happened; knew how, knew when, knew with whom. But you filed every scene in a bowl, took it to the darkest corner of your soul and left it there. You had heard the terrible names and labels they gave to the ones who built up courage, found their words and said something.

“Slut”

“Ashawo, ynash dai scratch am.”

Forcing them to believe that it was their fault. That the skirt they wore exposed too much flesh or the jeans moulded their curves and waved their figure before the eyes of men.

“Na her dai wear short thing, why man no go follow am?”

When you heard Mama Basira talking about the rape victim you and your mum had seen on News Line sometime ago, you disappeared into your room, shaking at her words.

“Wetin she dai do for man house? Na her carry herself go.”

You could imagine her saying those words to you, putting a comma and a full stop as though it was a movie and she knew where it began and how it was going to end. You wondered, if your mum would reply as she did now, nodding her head.

“Girls of nowadays, their leg no dai stay one place.”

You wanted to tell them that sometimes, the devil is the one who barges through the doors and rains his terror on you. You wanted to tell her that your legs were in your room when  Pelumi, the driver had walked in and not the other way round. But you fed your voice to silence, giving yourself to the darkness and nightmares for years. Until today, when you shoved away the  denial  and agreed with your subconsciousness that you had been raped.

“I was raped”, you kept saying to the cold eyes that stared at you from the mirror. You wanted to tell your mom. Of course, Pelumi was long gone but you wanted to unburden, to narrate your fears and let the world know. But you knew what your mother would ask, as she did concerning that rape victim, where people like Mama Basira would place their interest.

“Why she no talk since?”

And beneath that question, lies years of your torment and anguish.

Shade Mary-Ann Olaoye