Story 2: Many Years A Slave

I became aware of the abuses when I was nine years old. At the time, it was auntie Ita’s boyfriend who was making his rounds with me. He always took his time, he’d lubricate us with vaseline, so his penetrations (through my anus) would be easy. Auntie Ita was hardly around. When she was, she never took notice of what was happening. I would have told her if she didn’t delight to scold and hit me at the slightest provocation. My parents were very busy people. My mother had to work and school at the same time, and my father was trying to make a name for himself in the business world at the time. My brother and I were mostly left in the care of relatives. As a child, I was very secretive and timid. Only once did I mention what auntie Ita’s boyfriend did to me, to a friend who lived next door. She did not say or do anything when I told her, I figured there was no point. Meanwhile, her Uncle also touched me, he was probably touching her too. Auntie Ita dated two men in the period that she lived in our house. Two men in their thirties, who took pleasure in playing with my body. The second was not as intense as the first, I guess he had less opportunity. Auntie Ita left our house, and uncle Jay came to stay. He was my father’s younger brother, in his late twenties. Uncle Jay would call me into his room, now and then, and finger me. He didn’t need to threaten more than once that he’d hurt me if I told anyone. I was a little over eleven at the time. In this period, Richard, a second cousin, also came to the house. He’s was a one-time thing. I reckon he was the only one that ever showed remorse for putting his hands on me. He did not apologize, but he could not look at me after what he did. For the others, they took their turns like they had a legal right. It wasn’t just me who uncle Jay abused, he did the same to my friends and cousins who came to spend weekends or holidays in the house. It was our little secret. I was thirteen years old the first time uncle Jay had intercourse with me. I wasn’t like the average thirteen years old, I was chubby and looked older than my age. Maybe, the reason he saw me palatable. One time, I tried to tell my parents. My dad had this USB pen, I recorded the whole scenario, but he never checked it. I grew up thinking I was a sex object, an object of lust. Everywhere I went, someone abused or tried to molest me, even my teachers at school. Many times, I didn’t protest, my mind had been conditioned to let them have their way. I was about sixteen when the abuses stopped. With the help of some friends, I found solace in drugs. I got so screwed up and I felt I could not take the abuses anymore, I started to threaten them. These men stopped abusing me, and I began to abuse myself. I had sexual intercourse with anyone who was willing and able. The Urges raged like a volcanic eruption, I had no restraint. I hated what I was doing to myself, but I didn’t stop. Around this time, I began to keep a diary. I couldn’t talk to someone, but I could always write what I was feeling, it made me free. I had less on my mind and carried a, somewhat, lighter burden. One day, I discovered I was pregnant. Surely, I did not know who was responsible, so I took the child out without tell anyone. After this, I felt terrible, I wanted out of the kind of life I was living. I was tired, tired of bearing so much burden on my own. I decided to tell my parents. My self-esteem was shattered and I felt worthless. The only life I had going for me was on social media. Somehow, it made me feel a little valuable. I thought telling my parents would be a great step towards recovery, I wasn’t exactly correct. I did not expect a pat on the back that I wasn’t a virgin, that I wasn’t pure as I ought to be. I didn’t expect them to congratulate me for not speaking up earlier, no. I expected some form of comfort for all I had had to go through, all by myself, since I was a little girl. But, all my parents were concerned about was the abortion and how it was going to affect their reputation. Truly, I do not blame them for not knowing how to react. They were shocked and afraid and, kind of, disappointed in themselves. I think my father felt it the most. Especially, when I played the video I had recorded years back. A picture of that USB pen has remained his profile picture on WhatsApp ever since. I wouldn’t say I totally regret opening up to my parents, it brought me some relief. But, I learned that the real battle was inside of me, and I had to fight those battles by myself. I’m still at it, healing, one day at a time. The urges still deal treacherously with me, but I’m learning to control my body. I’m well aware that I was badly broken in the past, but I’m coming through it all a Strong Black Woman. Anonymous
Disclaimer: The names in this story are not the real names of these people. (We were so inspired by this story, we thought it deserved a theme song: Thursday by Jess Glynne)
Additional Question and Answer Session:
  1. What will you tell a girl who is being abused by a relative or a family friend?
“‘It’s not your fault, you are not the cause of the abuse. Hold your head high and move past it. Get a grip of yourself and SEEK HELP, that you may have peace. Finally, forgive the perpetrators, for that is the first step to healing.”
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10 thoughts on “Story 2: Many Years A Slave

  1. They say time heals
    I beg to defer with that school of thought
    We heal consciously a day at a time even when we feel all right raw feelings come up that strike familiar nerves……
    Keep fighting …….
    Keep healing
    Poco a poco we make great strides

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Don’t let self guilt eat u up, forgive yourself and try to see a psychologist but be careful of who you tell your story.
    Healing process is on already

    Liked by 1 person

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