It all began when my Mama became a star.
I remember holding my red toy race car as I searched for her. Mama bought it for my sixth birthday two weeks before, after I threw a massive tantrum at the toy shop. That day, she wasn’t dressed in her usual flannel gown or sitting on her favorite chair drinking coffee. She was nowhere to be found; the unattended cries of my baby sister from her crib told me that much.
Frustrated at the unanswered questions with regard to my mother’s absence, I cried myself to sleep. When I realized the deep sadness my tears brought to my father’s eyes, I stopped and became a big boy, as Mama always called me. As little as I was, I knew something was wrong when I was made to skip school and wear a black tuxedo instead. That was the day Father finally told me that heaven had taken Mama because it was her turn to be a star.
My father mourned her passing for a while and then began dating again, occasionally bringing his lady friend to the house. On my ninth birthday, he announced his intention to re-marry. He looked so happy and the twinkling smile had finally returned. How could I tell him that she had walked in on me during my bath and fixed me with an unsettling gaze that made me hurriedly fly to the safety of my room? Or the slaps she dished to my four-year-old sister for the tiniest mishap, like stepping on her foot or spilling her cereal. I felt helpless to do anything or say a word as my sister, Amy cried. All I could offer was a horsey ride on my back. This invariably made her laugh and completely forget the incidents.
I lost count of the times I stood in front of my father’s room, lacking the courage to knock on the door. When an opportunity presented itself on the wedding eve, I knew it was then or never and begged him to reconsider. He cut me short, expressing his disappointment.
“If only you can stop comparing her with your late mother, you will learn to love her as I do!”
I lost my voice that day and became quiet and withdrawn. The wedding was held as planned, with family and a few friends over. Her nails dug into my shoulders as we posed for pictures. And then she beamed a triumphant smile at me. We both knew she had won.
Days turned into weeks and then Christmas arrived. My father traveled for an impromptu business retreat and it was our first Christmas apart. I woke up to Amy’s heart-wrenching screams. I ran to her room and saw that she had wet the bed. In the spirit of Christmas, I had turned a blind eye when she gulped down several cups of strawberry juice after dinner.
It was my fault. And she was paying for it. I stared aghast as her wrists were painfully squeezed with slaps continuously dished out. When my pleas didn’t yield any result, I lunged forward to defend my sister against the beatings. She eventually stopped the punches after her fist connected with my jaw and I started bleeding. I cleaned Amy up and held her until she slept off.
I was forcefully pulled to the guestroom by my stepmother as I was returning to my room. Livid at my interference, she dragged, gagged, and tied me to the bed. Holding several objects with a twisted smile, she swore she was going to teach me a lesson. And she did, one I never forgot till today. I felt dirty, praying to pass out from the pain of the repeated forced entry. She had transformed into a monster that night, threatening a worse fate for my sister if I ever said a word to anyone.
I lost my innocence that night and endured her recurrent abuse over the years. To protect his baby sister, a little boy became a man. When I told my father, he never believed me. Instead, he laughed at me and said, “ekwuzina ife a ozo, anaghi edina umu nwoke n’ike” (Don’t ever say this again, men do not get raped). And I never mentioned it to him again.
Time was supposed to heal all wounds, right? Or perhaps mine was the one that defied all odds because these memories are seared into my brain forever.
But in them, I find strength. To tell my story regardless of what society would say. Some may say men do not get raped just as my father did while some may laugh and wonder why I waited so long to speak up. No one will understand the shame I feel, the pain I cannot disassociate from an act meant to be enjoyed, or the choking terror I experience as I recall the incidents on some nights. No one will understand how my life changed forever and how the concept of sex has become a twisted thing to me. More importantly, society will never understand that I never felt ready until now.
Today, I am ready to recount the countless horrors I faced and be the voice for those who are yet to find their courage. I am tired of being afraid to breathe or to love. Life is moving fast but I am done letting it pass me by. It has taken me twenty years to find my voice but I am ready to actively begin on my journey towards complete healing.
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Love,
Diane
