We Are Not Defined By Suffering

Suffering From Sexual Abuse

Sulfur 8. It was a hair cream with undernotes of menthol that he used to moisturise his penis before he put it on my vagina. John was smart. He knew that if he penetrated me, I would bleed and everyone would know. Instead, he only used my vagina to get off.

One time, he asked me to stroke his penis but the thing was huge. I was frightened and I said no. He didn’t persist. After two years of continuous sexual abuse, John and his elder brother, Dele moved out from their one-room apartment onto greener pastures. He was 16 years old when it started and I was 7 years old. I didn’t know that I was supposed to report it to anyone. I didn’t understand what was happening. For me, it was just something he did.

The next time someone tried to rape me, I was 12 years old. One of the relatives of the landlord, Niyi was visiting. I was playing with friends when he called me aside to say that he had a gift for me, but I had to come inside his room to collect it.

I looked in his eyes and I saw desire, lust and a barely held passion that would unravel the moment I stepped into his flat. He was between 25-30 years old at the time. I shouldn’t have known what desired looked like but I was already jaded. John had opened my eyes at a young age to sexual predators.

If you have a daughter and you ever lived in the ghettos, there is a 60% chance that someone will try to take advantage of her. 50% of that number will be successful. When it happens, she won’t tell you about it because you haven’t spoken to her about sex, neither have you told her about evil people who prey on young girls and boys.

I am not telling you this story to evoke pity but a righteous anger and indignation for every Nigerian female who has ever been sexually assaulted without recompense. We live in a society where parents consider it inappropriate to speak to their children about sex.

I talk to my 7-year-old nephew about sex all the time. I tell him what is not appropriate and to tell me if anyone tries to touch his penis. I tell him what to do when that happens and how to raise alarm. We live in a society of sexual predators. You do not have the luxury of evasion.

I had a priest, friends, and people to speak to about my experience. I had a friend in particular who taught me what it meant to forgive and the Holy Spirit who helped me dissect the situation, right down to the tiniest memory and emotion because that is how you heal. I remembered, yet, choose to let go. I share my experience so you can learn.

In the past, I asked God why he let this lot fall on me. Today, I am thankful because it has shaped me into the woman I am. I am MORE because of my experience. I am stronger, smarter and resilient because I chose not to be defined by my past.

We must change from a society that blames the survivor into one that shames the perpetrator. Men must hold each other accountable. Speak to the females in your families. Offer yourself up as safe zones to sisters and nieces.

Those who have been abused must speak up to be heard. Not enough people are talking, so the predators luxuriate in a large pool of young prey ripe for the taking. If we educate our children, watch out for family members and speak up, we create a society where predators and sexual offenders are terrified of committing such acts.

It is by a stroke of fate that most of my friends have been sexually abused too. Friend One was repeatedly abused by her mother’s younger sister (yes, women are perpetrators too). Friend Two was sexually abused by her father’s younger brother. Friend Three was sexually abused by her cousin. Friend Four was raped by a neighbour.

How do you protect your children from suffering at the hands of the enemy within? For those who were sexually abused, what is the measurement of your suffering? Did you repress it down into a box never to be opened? Do you look away when they walk by? Have you lived in fear all your life? Your suffering only ends when you take action. This is not a pity party but a call to arms.

Last I heard of John, he was happily married, hugely successful and has a beautiful daughter. Lets’ pray that the sins of the father are not visited on the child.

Suffering from Bareness

Aunty Nkoli always walked past at the same time each day on her way to church. She was a devoted member of the Divine Mercy society. She said her rosary, attended mass daily and gave like no one else. She was nice when we visited, stopped to visit with my mum on her way back from church and always had nice treats for me.

However, there was only one thing that mattered to her, a child. She was nearing forty at the time but still hadn’t conceived. It was a period when a woman had three roles. Go to school until secondary level, get married, have kids and stay home to raise kids. If she had kids, she must have at least one son, or her marriage might crumble.

She attended night vigils with my mum, prayed without season and fasted regularly. It dominated all the conversations. It was all I ever knew about her, the woman waiting on God for a child.

You might consider Aunty Ifeoma’s story bittersweet. She had gotten pregnant several times but had continuous miscarriages. At last! One took and she bore a son. I remember holding him in my arms. So precious, head full of black, shiny hair and the most soulful eyes that made me fall in love at first glance. He died. They called him an ogbanje who just came to torment his mother. She never had children. On one hand, she knew the joy of motherhood, albeit briefly. On the other hand, death snatched joy from her hands.

Both women were in my life. I knew them, spent time in their home and spoke to them. Sadly, it hit me today that I didn’t really know them. All I knew was what I saw. Two women who were desperate for children. Their husbands were awesome. They didn’t nag but pamper their wives and stood by them. They stuck it out in the traditional term, for better or worse.

Just across the street, my cousins were also battling with their own suffering. Their mother was having issues conceiving a son. After the first three girls, the pressure seemed to pour in from all angles.

Unsurprisingly, it was her fellow women who put the most pressure on her. She was miserable, sad and unhappy. She became pregnant again but bore a female. The doctor told her to stop because it was becoming more complicated. Child number 5 almost cost her life but darn it she was determined to have a male child if it killed her.

For pregnancy number 6 we all prayed. Everyone in the family was praying hard. On the night she went into labour we couldn’t sleep. In the morning, someone brought the news that she had delivered a baby girl. It was the only time when the birth of a child was communicated in such sombre tones. Everyone was sad. You would think the child had died. Her only misfortune was being the wrong sex.

Today, those who tormented her have moved on. The couple is relatively happy. They have accepted their lot in life and I dare say she is better now. A female child is not the burden it was twenty years ago but in some segments of society, you would be surprised to learn that it is.

Here are three different women. One who never experienced the joy of motherhood, a second who did but suffered the unbearable loss of losing a child and the third who had six children. Dare I say, we defined them by their situation. It was all we saw. All we knew. All they showed. Their personalities were irrelevant. Society had boxed them into a small corner but time released them from bondage.

Suffering from Poverty

There are three levels of poverty. Emotional poverty, physical poverty, and mental poverty. When I was in the university, I sometimes scraped to survive. One day, I had no money, no food to eat and no hope of finding food. I sat in a small classroom afraid that if I stood up I would faint. It was 5 pm and my last meal was at 2 pm from the previous day. I was beyond hungry.

When someone offered me food my hands shook so badly, I couldn’t connect the spoon with my mouth. I lapped up the first bite with my tongue, directly from the plate. She watched me eat with a look of pity in her eyes.

Physical poverty is a lack of food, clothing, shelter or all three. At various points in my life, I had suffered from the former. My father, on the other hand, suffered from mental and emotional poverty. It was worse than physical poverty because it affected your thoughts and soul. In the building where I lived, all the men were poor. They struggled to feed their large families and barely had enough for the next day.

There was Baba Bisi with six children. Baba Layo with six children, Mama Esther with four children and Baba Tobi with four children. They all lived in a tiny one-room apartment with their families. Sleeping arrangements were a nightmare. Three out of these families didn’t have a TV set because putting food on the table was more important. We lived in two rooms and were considered wealthy. We had a television, wore clean clothes and didn’t reek of heat.

All the men struggled with self-esteem. In time, physical poverty turns into emotional poverty. It makes you angry, bitter, sad, enraged, violent and downright terrible person to be around. Most of these men walked around with a smile on their faces because they were content with their lot. They had crossed over to mental poverty really quickly. This is the stage where you accept that poverty is your permanent lot in life and nothing you do will ever change your situation.

The families shared several characteristics. They had many children, no thoughts of child control. Sex was the only activity that uplifted them. It seemed to be an area they thrived on. They barely had enough to eat but bore enough children to make a football team.

Most of the men were violent. They beat their wives at the slightest provocation because it was the only way to unleash the anger brimming beneath the surface. They had developed a predisposition to violence over time and used it as a form of release from the emotions they struggled with throughout the day.

Conversely, my father was stuck in emotional poverty. When he wasn’t drunk, he screamed his head off at either my mother or one of us. Growing up, I had a turbulent relationship with him because he was simply unapproachable. His tongue was fire, always ready with a scathing remark. His eyes, looking for fault and his body language screaming at us not to come close.

The poverty around us had the most effect on him. He suffered greatly because he didn’t know how to deal with his situation. On the other hand, his attitude toughened us up and built our character. We were determined to rise when the opportunity presented itself and rise we did. For every negative character he displayed, we turned it into a positive in our life. We found the right spin to all three types of poverty.

Poverty is most powerful when it gets into your mind. The suffering is pure anguish. It eats you up from the inside out, destroying your self-confidence until you become a shell. It steals your hope and aspirations. When good things happen, you’re waiting for the second shoe to drop because you’ve conditioned your mind to believe that nothing good last long for you.

It’s a whole new level of suffering most people have never experienced. Sadly, most of these people are still trapped in mental poverty. Suffering is not always physical. There are levels beyond what money can control. As in all the situations mentioned here, rise above suffering. Choose to find the positive. Be ready to chase happiness. Hold on tight when you find it.

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