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1999
I have never really told anyone before. Sometimes I wonder whether I would have told a priest during confession if I was a devout catholic. Rape victims are usually magnets of sympathy and attraction. I wanted none of that. I wanted to be left alone to drown in my well of solitude. I wanted no affection nor attraction. My own tale is burdened with the scale of circumstances and reality.
It's funny how I still remember the little details. I remember the sound of the hinged door breaking and the color of the pink sheets that mixed with my blood. I still remember how his brows curved as sweat broke from his forehead. I still remember how my pleas fell on deaf ears. How powerless I was over an animal whose orgy of sexual excitement invigorated his ligaments and bones. I grew up in Benin. My mother was the third wife of five houses. My father was a chief. He had a duplex in ring road, Benin city. My father's house was close to the market. Benin is a hub of activity and engagement. The closest one could call tranquility is the never ending sound of lorries and busses.
Sometimes the chatter of market women blended with the noises of cars. It was a mixture of excitement. I grew up with this noise. Growing up, my parents never bothered us with religion.
My father was scarcely around. His business meetings threw him all around the country. whenever his footsteps graced the hall of our duplex, he spent his freedom pleasing our mother's in their different bedroom. My siblings and I attended a government school. I was the third of three daughters. Honestly, I was never particularly bright in academic. Since there was nobody to monitor my academic performance, my studying attitude was flippant. School to me, was a necessary burden. It was a way of escaping from the monotony of home and the platitudinous life that my mother and her Co-wives lived. Cooking and waiting for our father. And the discussions had no glow. Chatters of rhetorical questions and drab gossips. As far as I can remember, there was nothing exciting in my life till I got introduced to the poetry of the Christian religion. Our
school observed Christian fellowships on Friday. It was carried out by school perfects. I seldom listened to the doctrines. And I mumbled my lips with lack of enthusiasm whenever I was forced to pray. Everything changed the day he came to our school. His sermon left my judgment with questions that only his words could answer. I wanted to ask a question. Or raise my hands.
Anything to grab his attention so that he would know that his efforts had found a wandering soul.
I was willing to ask for directions for my lost soul but my lips closed its gate firm. Never before had I hated being so reserved. After he was done, The Principal introduced him as Pastor Williams.
He was going to be in charge of conducting the fellowship on Fridays. My heart leaped. "Fridays are never going to be the same" I thought. Pastor Williams came every Friday. He always dressed in corporate. A neatly iron starched long sleeve, always complemented with a tie, hanging over a gator ironed trousers. He made me understand the complexity of the trinity, the divinity of the Holy Spirit, and the laws of the old and New Testament. And by the end of the session, I was ready to be baptized. I started attending Pastor William's church when I was in my final year at senior class. I boarded the ship of our relationship on a platonic Leven with Pastor Williams as the sailor.
Although I was not particularly bold whenever it came to matters of discuss. I found out that the bubbles in my throat were absent whenever I was with him. With time, he became my confidante, brother and perhaps more. I guess I was too naive. It made me oblivious to the warnings of impending doom. I thought pastor Williams would maintain the platonic basis of our relationship because of the religious context that brought us together. He was a man with answers and I was an empty vessels with questions. I remember the day it happened. The rain beat the windows of the car as Pastor Williams drove me home. We sang to the gospel solos that his radios was emitting.
He was driving me home from one of the Bible studies that we attended. "Gosh!" He exclaimed "I forgot your present at home. I bought you something"
"What is it?" I sniffed in suspense
"I can't tell you" He said "That's why it's called a present. It must be a surprise. Something more or less unexpected".
"But it's late already, and the rain........”
"Don't worry Grace” “I’ll bring you home safe and sound. Trust me ".
Well, I did trust him. And that trust gave me a sense of comfort and security. I didn't object. He gave me a drink when we arrived at his place. He said it was a special cocktail. " Something special for your beautiful soul " He added. He zoomed up the stairs to bring my present as soon as he saw me drinking the cocktail. With time the bond of consciousness enveloped my eyes. Sleep warmed it's way into my heart. No. Not sleep. A deep feeling of emptiness. My bones lost their vigor. It felt like my body was giving way to something else entirely without my consent. My lips wanted to question this new found evolution but the gate that housed my words refused to open. I screamed in silence and yelled into nothingness. Pastor Williams arrived and found me in this new found state. When he picked me up, I imagined him as one of those Fulani horsemen that I saw on television. Carrying me in his hands and driving me to the hospital on a horse. Beating the rain
and challenging the winds as he sped, daring death to touch the helms of my garment. His words made their way into my fading memory. "Beautiful soul.” Pastor Williams took me upstairs. He tore my clothes off. I was shocked. I couldn't speak. My shock flowed through the stream of tears that gathered in my eyes. "Don't cry" He whispered. "We will be home before you know what's going on". That night pastor Williams took me on a journey. It felt like swimming while the waves slapped you and the tides turned on you. While I drowned out of consciousness, he held my hands and swam faster. He wanted to get to shore before I drown. And he did get to the shores of climax.
Perhaps seven or nine times. My head was spinning out of control and my legs lost their sense of irritability. I woke up on the hospital bed. The first thing I saw was my parent judgmental eyes staring at me. Piercing deep into my soul and asking questions that I will never know the answers to. They gave me solitude. More or less, I was abandoned. I was a disgrace. I guess that's why I was sent to a university outside the country. Maybe that's why my mother only called once a year.
My father never called. My mom relayed the farewells he never sent to me.
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