Silence is Not Always Golden

Silence is Not Always Golden

Silence is not always golden, sometimes. It is plain yellow and it demands that one should speak up and not remain silent. Cheta was not silent after Anthony, her Madam’s husband, raped her repeatedly. This is her story. At the first thrust, Anthony froze, time seemed to suspend itself as he remained motionless, perhaps lost in thought, contemplating the intensity of the moment. He soon let it go and started moving. He went faster and faster and closed his eyes to savour her sweetness while Cheta’s cries and pleas faded into the background. He liked her, he had always liked her from the very first time his wife brought her in. Her innocent face was the first thing that caught his attention that cold Saturday morning. Her “Good morning, sir” while kneeling to greet him melted his heart and when she tried to stand up from the respect-induced position, his eyes rested on her cleavage. He nodded in answer and watched her follow his wife into the narrow passageway leading to the bedrooms. His eyes lingered on her backside, watching the swaying of her hips. Anthony wanted to resist the temptation like any other responsible man would, he told his wife to take her back to her parents but his wife went on and on about how useful she was, her ability to do house chores well, and cook good food. “Cheta is well-behaved,” his wife had said. His wife said “well-behaved” like those elderly people who know nothing else about you, just that you walk alone on the streets, dress properly and greet them is enough to earn the title of a well-behaved child. Cheta is indeed well-behaved, enough to beg him when he locked the door that fateful day after asking her to come in and pull her clothes. “Please sir, I can do anything you want but not this.” Anthony was taken aback at her guts, the ability to tell him what she could and couldn’t do, and well-behaved enough to add “please”. It infuriated him and he landed her a slap which made her fall, he wanted to remind her that she was their maid, his maid. He has the right to tell her to eat faeces and she would obey because he feeds her and pays her parents in the village monthly salaries for her service. But he didn’t say a word, he lifted her from the floor and threw her on the bed. He undressed her roughly, his long fingers inflicting pain on her as they scratched her body. “You will tell no one of this, am I understood?” he asked. She nodded in tears, too tired to speak from his attack on her member. Anthony opened his eyes when she started wailing loudly in Igbo and saying “Nnem, bia zọpụtam (Oh my mother, come and save me)!” “Shut up!” he yelled and forced his sweaty singlet into her mouth to muffle her cries. He held her hands above her head and dug further into her body smiling devilishly to himself. Each thrust caused her more pain, filled her with hatred for him, and helped her nurse the desire to poison him. He felt fulfilled as he collapsed on her body, grunting as his fluid filled her up. He rolled off her and got up quickly. “Get up and go clean your body,” he commanded when he finally let her go. Cheta was lost for some seconds before she came to. She stood up slowly feeling her entire body on fire with tickling pain running through her abused female organ. She tried not to allow her thighs to rub against each other to avoid more pain so she walked with her legs apart. Anthony called her back to take the blood-stained sheet warning her to wash it before her madam returned. Her tears ran freely as she removed the sheet from the bed. This is her being asked to wash away the proof of her virginity which was taken away by a monster.  The world just lied to her, she knew it wouldn’t be easy but it never told her it would be this bad, she was being asked to cut her heart out and remain alive without it and to be silent. She didn’t say a word, she only nodded in agreement as usual in her well-behaved way. ****** “Are you sure you’re ready for this?” the woman from the Domestic and Sexual Violence Agency asked. “You can have more time if you want.” “I am,” Cheta replied, her hands clasped together for warmth and support. “The recording will start immediately, and many people will see this, know you, and hear your story. Are you sure you’re ready for this to happen?” the woman asked again, trying to convey the gravity of the situation. “I am, “ Cheta repeated, this time more quietly. Her strength seemed to come from an unknown source. She had woken up on the wrong side of the bed that morning, not thinking as she left the house through her room’s window to avoid the locked main door. Wearing her slippers would make her go out through the main hall and opening the door would wake someone up, so she decided to wear the only good shoe in her room, a wedged heel, and trekked the distance to the agency.  She didn’t want to think about life after speaking up, about people knowing she had been raped and abused repeatedly, or about her madam’s husband being arrested or fined; or her madam calling her a liar and slapping her in her usual way.  She looked every inch a mad woman, trekking in a nightgown and heeled shoes. Who cares anyway? She is ready to damn the world and all its standards. Anthony did it again after the first time. And then a second time too. He said he was getting addicted to her body and couldn’t control himself. He paid no attention to the fact that she no … Read more

Scars That Break Us

Scars that Break Us

Scars are the second horrible thing that can happen to anyone, the first is usually the beating. The severe kicks, slaps, punches and scratches that leave one a defeated spirit with the defences all gone and then they bring the scars. It wasn’t always this brutal. I had my family and my friends, I went to school, I laughed so hard till tears of joy ran down my cheeks, and there were happy moments and days of high-sounding prayers but it came to an abrupt end the day Dad died. Mum promised we would never leave her to go stay with someone else, we believed her. I believed her. When the peanuts she got from everyday hawking weren’t enough to keep the bread crusty; anger, anxiety and depression started to set in and Mum forgot all her promises. I was the first to leave. I went very far from home, away to stay with a woman who was supposed to be my aunt and for the first week, it was bliss then everything changed. The day her husband slapped me for giving their son Capri-Sonne instead of Viju Milk opened the imaginary door for others to follow. It graduated from slaps to blows, to punches — heavier ones, then to flogging with anything in sight- extreme flogging till my skin bled most times and the scars started to appear. It turned me into a liar, a big fat liar to cover up for the pummeled face and purple eyes, for the swollen hand and limping gait. I remember telling my teacher one time that I had hit my face on the door handle at home and it caused the swollen eyes. She knew I was lying because I was way taller than the door handle but she said nothing. What my Aunt had was pure hate; obvious decaying hatred for me no matter what I did or didn’t do. The other day, she pushed me out of her car for wearing a blouse with a big tear at the armpit, the same blouse she refused to give me money to mend. I had to trek the long distance to Church that morning because she didn’t want people to see me with her. That day was mothering Sunday and she had to appear as a pure soul worthy of praise and resemblance to the Ever Virgin Mary, Mother of our Lord Jesus Christ. A girl in tattered clothes coming down from her car with her kids beautifully dressed would ruin her day. Then it was the hunger strikes, on those days I would be banned from the Kitchen, other rooms were my sphere of play and chores but not the kitchen that housed the food. It would go on till she deems it fit to feed me, most times spanning into days. My depression absorber was my books, I read out my brain and ate the school tests and exams like yams. Maybe, just maybe my Aunt would be proud of me and reduce her brutal treatment but that was so far from it. I stopped schooling after Primary Five because I was too good for her liking. She wondered how I excelled even though other children in my class stayed back for the extra lessons and had tons of tutorials at home, I’d rush home immediately after dismissal to meet up with work before dusk yet I bagged first position at the end of each term. Because I did better than her children, I started staying at home while her kids went to school. According to her, they need the education more than I do. ****** I stood before the woman from DSVA and I explained how it all happened. The day my aunt turned into a dark monster. She asked me to wash her George wrapper for the monthly women’s meeting around 7 pm and spread it outside so it would dry before dawn. I did as I was instructed but the gods ruled against her favour that night, it rained heavily. She woke me up with a slap and asked me to go outside and get her wrappers. I dashed out in the rain but it was no use, it was soaking wet and would never dry before 8 am for her meeting. It annoyed her so much that she locked me outside for making her wrappers wet. I nearly died of cold but it won’t matter to her, I don’t matter to anyone. I lay at the entrance of the house coiled like a snake, shivering and allowing the rain to drown my tears and pain. I was soaked to the skin like her wrappers but I had no choice or anywhere to go. She finally let me in and refused to give me food. I didn’t let it bother me. I have a way of stealing her money and filling my stomach with kpo kpo Garri or akara and bread or even Indomie noodles and eggs when she leaves the house. I’d always find the money no matter where she hid it, I was that good at stealing. She brought out another wrapper and started ironing them for the meeting. She called me into her room minutes later and shut the door. I knew she was still angry because of her wrappers but I never expected what she did next. She tore my clothes and in a flash, the iron on the floor was on the left lobe of my buttocks. The sizzling sound of the hot iron on my raw skin sent me to hell as I screamed in pure agony. She lifted the iron from my body and I could see a thin layer of my skin on it. She held me to a spot with her big hands and since I was so thin, it was so easy for her to hold me and stop me from escaping. The iron came down again on my right breast and I went haywire with … Read more