It was around 2006. I was sixteen years old, living with my mom and my younger sister. Dad was working in another town far from home. Mom travelled to where Dad was very often, so whenever she was going to visit him, she would send us to live with my aunt. Sometimes she would be gone for weeks. Other times, she would be gone for months.

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My Aunt Bertha was my mom’s elder sister. She had kids but was not married. She was a very good and lively person. She didn’t treat us any differently and, if I’m being honest, we had a lot more to eat and a lot more to entertain ourselves with while we were there than we were used to at my mom’s place. Sometimes my mom would return, and we would still live with Aunt Bertha because, why not?

One night, she woke me up from the floor of the hall where all the kids were sleeping and took me to the bedroom where she slept. She pushed me onto her bed and sat on me before explaining what was going to happen to me. When she saw the shock on my face, she put a finger to her lips and told me to watch and listen to her.

She said a lot of things—some scary, some promises of what she would do for me if I obliged, and some just sweet nothings. But what has stuck in my head till today was, “You’re a beautiful boy. I have to teach you this early so when you grow up, you’ll know how to do it.”

She was bigger and stronger. The house belonged to her, so I felt I had no choice. I watched her while she did whatever she wanted to do to me. When she got up, I saw blood. I thought I was hurt or that I’d hurt her. She told me, “Do you know what this blood means? It’s a covenant. If you mention this to anyone, there will be bloodshed, and I can promise you it won’t be my blood this time.”

She took me to the bathroom, washed me, and cleaned me with a white towel. She did the same for herself, and we went back inside together. She put her arm around me and fell asleep while I lay in the bed thinking about what had just happened. I was disoriented. My heart beat fast for the rest of the night. I cried a little and slept a little before morning came.

From that day, I was very shy around her. I couldn’t look her in the eye. When she talked to me, I looked down at my feet. She treated me differently and affectionately. She would buy what I’d told my mom I needed. Even when my mom had returned and I was home with her, Aunt Bertha would visit with goodies and sometimes give me money.

That night wasn’t the last time it happened. I can remember the different places where it happened and how she urged me to take charge and do things to her. I knew what we were doing wasn’t normal. It got to a point where, no matter how she touched me, my manhood wouldn’t get up. I would beg her to leave it for another time, but she would continue until there was a slight rise, and she would use it like that.

Then we completed school, and Mom decided to move us to live with Dad. Everything stopped after we went to live with him. I couldn’t mention it to anyone. When I was at the university, I tried to confide in my best friend, but that guy was a fool. I knew he would find it funny and say silly things, so I kept it to myself.

I never stopped thinking about it, especially the first time. The blood. How she took me to the bathroom and washed it off with scented soap. I asked myself where the blood came from and why it was there. Somewhere along the line, I concluded that she was on her menstrual flow when it first happened. It made me throw up, and even today, whenever I think about it intensely, I throw up.

A few months after my graduation, we got the news that my Aunt Bertha had succumbed to the illness that had plagued her for several months. I didn’t know she was sick. I hardly heard from her or even heard her name once we left the town.

Her death struck me like a thunderbolt. I couldn’t cry, but I always felt heavy whenever she came to mind. At her funeral, when I saw her body lying in state, that was when the tears started flowing. I threw up, cried, threw up again, and cried. I was angry with her—the fact that she hadn’t lived long enough to answer the questions I had for her. I was angry that I was going to carry that burden all alone without any closure.

I thought growing older would make me dig a hole where that memory was and plant a new memory in its place, but no. Not long ago, I noticed a pattern in my life that made me believe something was wrong with me.

My relationships don’t last. I can be madly in love with a woman, and she can be madly in love with me too, but a few months later, she will disappear without any reason. I would ask them what was happening, and all they would tell me was, “It’s not about you. It’s about me. You’re a good person, but…”

Every woman I’d dated said this to me before leaving me. But this is where it gets eerie. Anytime I’m in a new relationship, I dream about Aunt Bertha. Once I wake up from that dream, my relationship starts developing cracks. They stop calling and don’t pick up my calls the way they used to. They find a reason to walk away.

Sometimes, in a dream, Bertha wears white from head to toe and walks hand in hand with me, asking if I haven’t missed her. Sometimes she appears laughing, and other times very angry, talking about things I know nothing about or fighting me over things I’ve never encountered. I wake up, and my relationship is gone.

Since I noticed this pattern, I’ve dated only one woman. That relationship lasted for six months. It was even a long-distance relationship where we saw each other only once or twice a month. I was with her when I had a dream about Bertha. When I woke up, I looked at my girlfriend’s face and whispered, “This is where you leave me.”

The cracks showed a week later. I didn’t fight. I sat back and watched her leave the way shadows stretch across walls and later disappear. I told myself, “It’s the covenant working. I know.” Because tell me, why am I thirty-six and handsome but can’t keep a relationship? I don’t have it all, but I have enough to eat tomorrow and a little I can spend on a woman I love. So why can’t I keep a relationship?

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Prayer comes to mind. My heart tells me to run to a man of God and confess. I feel the more I keep it a secret, the more the covenant will have its grip on me. I know all this, but I don’t do anything about it. I give myself excuses. I tell myself pastors will take advantage of this and waste my money. I’ve thought about seeking help from a shrine too, but I haven’t brought myself to actually do it.

Maybe this is all part of the covenant. Maybe my unwillingness to take a step is actually part of the covenant, but one day, I’ll do it.

—Andy

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