Life Story: How Childhood Sexual Abuse Upended My Life

My most vivid memory, the one that keeps playing in  my mind over and over is that of me stripped down to nothing. And my little twelve year old self was being commanded and directed around by these two older teens, who made me do things my emotions, brain and body were absolutely not ready for. And I remember the threats they made, of how if I dared tell my parents, they would fabricate stories and put it all on me.

I remember the fear and shame I felt, in my own home, a house built and owned by my parents. And I remember the trepidation, everyday when my parents had to go. I remember crying and begging for them to take me along. But they never stopped to listen, or see the fear and anxiety in my eyes. They assumed I was just acting up, and either screamed at me or spanked me to shut and and sit down.

For weeks and weeks, I endured the sexual abuse by Cynthia and Efe, trapped at home, between a supposed help who had become my molester and parents too busy to see the lines, talk-less of reading between them.

Something shifted in me. I was too young to understand but something changed. I became afraid of the world and I recoiled inside. Playing with my mates lost its allure and I kept to myself most of the time. I also began to wet my bed and I was absent minded all the time. My parents recognized my behavioral and mood changes, and rather than probe and find out, they began an onslaught of criticism and name calling.

Over time, Cynthia lost interest in me and the sexual abuse stopped. She moved on to older boys who were well equipped to help her find whatever sexual gratification she sought. And Efe’s family moved from our compound. I was able to breathe a somewhat sigh of relief and have a somewhat normal life again. I hung on to making good grades in school, something which will become my saving grace. But those memories never left me, and that shift that happened during the months of sexual abuse, never reversed. Something gave in me, never to correct itself.

Cynthia stayed with my family for years. By the time I finished secondary school, she had begun learning a trade. At age seventeen, I was no longer a scrawny little boy, and the timidity that had gripped my heart years prior had turned into a boiling rage. What stayed with me though, was the feeling of worthlessness and shame; and there were pockets of times where vivid pictures of Efe and Cynthia molesting me would play in my head over and over. Around that time, I began smoking weed, it gave me a level of confidence and peace I couldn’t find anywhere else. When I was high, nothing could touch me, not memories, not my parents’ verbal assault, not my self-righteous older brother, and not Cynthia’s stank persona. When I was high, I was king.

Oneday, after finding out I had passed my secondary school exams and I was on the highway to studying pharmacy in the university, Cynthia made a remark, meant to degrade me. She said, “Efe’s husband.”

Rage blinded me. I acted before I had time to even consider my actions. And she felt my fist before she saw me come for her. It took less than a minute for my mother to put herself between us. But that was a few seconds too many, because she suffered a busted lip, a couple teeth knocked out and a very black eye.

My mother was convinced I was demon possessed.

Alcohol eventually added to my drug of choice, mainly because alcohol is more acceptable socially. So when I couldn’t smoke openly, I drank myself into a stupor. Alcohol gave me the same effect as weed, courage. The only difference was, alcohol wore off much faster.

By the time I went to the University, I was a full blown alcoholic and marijuana addict. It didn’t take long for me to start mixing the two. I found a huge green glass bottle, and in that bottle, I mixed marijuana seed, leaves, cinnamon, mahogany bark, akpeteshie (local gin) and many other things to make a powerful concoction. And I found a way to navigate academic work and feed my habit. And just like that, without realizing it, I became a functional alcoholic.

My academics suffered, but not enough to require me to make drastic changes. I managed to hang in there, not doing great academically as I knew I could, and not doing badly enough to drop out of school. And at home I was still a ball of untamed fury, lashing at the least provocation. In my heart of hearts, I wished I could go back to the place where I’d been with my mother years prior, a place where she was the ying to my yang. But I was lost and didn’t know how to find my way back to my first love, my Mama.

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