Posted at 8:58 am , on May 21, 2018
I once got hit by a truck at Roysambu. It happened fast, really fast. I was actually minding my own business on the side of the road with white earphones slack from my phone to my ears, checking out my twitter notifications; my bomb ass tweet must have gone viral or something. Suddenly, a truck came, left the wide road it was meant to be on and came straight for my face. Anyway, it was not a big deal. I recovered fully after an entire year. Momma made nice food and I added weight from 54 to 68Kgs. Oh, before I forget, the truck company refused to pay my medical bill and two years later we are still chasing each other like cats and mice in courts of law.
What I have not recovered from is a huge dick when I was five years old. A huge dick that was meant to do unspeakable things to me had my siblings not walked in from church. I remember who the dick belonged to. His face looks like his dick. He is a dickhead. He was an esteemed fellow brother at our church. He would tell my parents that he would take care of us on Sunday afternoons when they went to church meetings and functions. I remember vividly that he undressed me and chucked his dick but was hesitant to use it. I think my angels were scolding his bad behaviour in his conscience. Anyway, he took too long to decide what he wanted to do with his weapon and my brother walked in and he pretended to have been adjusting his trousers.
Posted at 6:34 pm , on November 6, 2017
I am sure you have previously heard stories from grown-up women like me speaking about rape. Mostly we lie. Make it sound like we fell on our backs and our knees trembled in fear the second it happened. Nobody ever speaks about the fight we put up before these marauders let themselves unceremoniously into our thighs. Truth is I remember being scared stiff barely able to hear my voice above the sound of my heartbeat. Mostly I remember the aftermath of the whole unpleasant ordeal, my heart contracting with indefinable fear, and I lay there motionless, looking at everything but nothing. I remember hiding in my bed with my head deep under the sheets, and it was then that I heard her speak in an interview on the television. That voice, assertive and sure taking my fear, unit at a time and turning it into a fighting spirit. She was a rape victim and had survived the worst. She was a prominent American figure, and she spoke so fiercely, and for the first time, I shed tears, not in weakness or in memory of his spiteful breath panting on and on at the nape of my neck. They were tears of jubilation, tears of conviction that made the memories fade, tears of strength. I now knew that I did not have to hide, I now knew that a rape victim could speak out and have people listen to her.
While it is said that a beautiful day begins in the morning, I can recollect that regrettable fateful day starting like any other day. It was graduation, and with our smiles, the class of 2015 tagged along with their gladness with feelings of accomplishment and raw expectations. The joy of a graceful end to four tiresome years. The Vice-Chancellor declared us graduates at the graduation square, and we threw our hats in the air ready to be productive citizens of the nation. To cement the memory of this day, I took all kinds of photos with family and fellow graduates before we excused ourselves for a final class BBQ party in the evening.