He was a friend. Someone I believed had my back. A kind man I had grown to trust. Yesterday was 25th December. And it reminded me of our story. We began on a note of kindness and trust. As the days passed, we started sharing happy moments. I enjoyed his company just as he always wanted me around him. I was happy with our friendship because he was the only friend I had since I relocated to our town.

He took care of me while we were just friends. He gave me a place to live, food, clothes, and money sometimes. During the Christmas festivities of that year, he traveled. But before he left, he gave me money to do my hair. I don’t know why I never questioned his intentions. I don’t know if it was because I was blinded by my desperation to be cared for. Sometimes loneliness sinks into your bones to the point that all you want is to feel loved.

At 6 pm on Christmas day, my kind friend called me and said, “Get dressed. I am almost home and when I arrive, I am going to take you out.” I was so excited that I did not ask any questions. I just got ready as he asked. He got home two hours after his call. I was so happy to see him after his travel. He too was happy to see me.

Since I came to his house, I hadn’t been given a tour of the town, so he promised to give me one. The town was so beautiful at night. I was overjoyed. I ogled everything I saw with him by my side. He asked me, “What do you want for Christmas?” Considering that he had already done so much for me, I didn’t want to ask him for anything expensive. I only asked him to buy me fresh pork so I could use it to cook for us. “Is that all?” he asked, “What else do you want?” I scratched my head and mentioned the name of an alcoholic beverage.

He didn’t like me drinking so he said he would buy me the drink on condition that I would drink it at home. I agreed. We bought the drink and the pork and headed home. I was all over the place, smiling and laughing. And so was he. I must admit that that was the best Christmas I ever had but it also turned out to be the worst.

I prepared the pork and we ate, then I drank the Chrome drink he bought. After two cups of the drink, I was completely wasted. I remember one thing I kept saying was, “F**k me.” I couldn’t speak clearly but the words were coming out of my mouth. My friend wasn’t drunk. I remember it so well. He was very sober. He even made the bed for me. And carefully put me to sleep.

Even when he was putting me to sleep, I was still repeating the words, “F**k me.” Before I could complete the next phrase, I felt my underwear being removed. I tried to stop him, but my kind friend didn’t stop. Rather, he yanked my hand away. Tears started flowing out of my eyes. I was helpless. Although I was drunk and could barely move, I was trying to stop him the best way I could. At least my tears should have meant something but unfortunately, it didn’t.

I hadn’t done it before so he was my first. I never thought I would lose my chastity this way. The emotional and physical pain I felt was overwhelming so I kept crying more and more. It was at that point that he stopped and asked, “What’s wrong with you?” I couldn’t answer him properly. I wanted to shout at him. Tell him he was a rapist. But the only thing I did was cry.

I needed a witness. So I called one of my Deacons in church who was like a father to me. After all the stress I went through to unlock my phone to call him, Deacon did not answer my call. I called a second time but there was no response. When I was about to dial the number for the third time, Wonder asked me, “What do you want to tell Deacon?” When I hesitated to answer him, he snatched the phone from me and put him to sleep. I heard him apologize and confess how sorry he was.

In the middle of the night, I woke up to use the bathroom but I felt a lot of pain between my legs. He put a bucket by the bed and asked me to use it. I was thankful, but at the same time, I wasn’t. How could I be? First, he forced himself on me. And now here he was acting all kind. What was I supposed to make of it?

I woke up the next morning with questions on my mind. I wanted to know why he did it. I know I was drunk but he wasn’t so what was his excuse? I asked him, “How come I’m feeling so much pain in my intimate area?” He blatantly lied to my face, “I didn’t want to do it, but you forced me, baby.” How could I have forced him when I couldn’t even put two words together? How could I have forced him when my hands were too limp to touch him? I felt more hurt and betrayed, but who was I going to tell?

It was his word against mine. If I was too drunk to remember how it even happened then how was I going to convince anyone that I did not consent to it? It seemed like a nightmare that would drag on forever. That’s why I will never share this with anyone. However, I have chosen to write it here.

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After he accused me of forcing him, I was angry. But, I was also curious. I didn’t remember how it happened, and he was my first. That was not how I expected my first time to happen. Besides, I told myself that the first man to touch me would be my husband. The fact that things did not happen this way bothered me.

So I asked my friend, “Can we do it again?” He was shocked. I didn’t bother explaining to him that I wanted to see if I would feel better if I consented to it. We did it but I felt nothing but more pain. If pain is my bowl of soup, then I’ve been feeding on pain for weeks now. Weeks are slowly turning into months. And soon, months will turn into years. I will still be here feeding on the pain I inflict on myself every time my husband touches me.

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That’s right. I married the supposed good friend who violated me on Christmas day. I don’t know why I did it, except that when he asked me to marry him, I could only say yes. He has apologized for that night and we are now married but I never feel anything when he touches me.

I don’t think I have forgiven him. I am carrying his child as I write this story, but I am still pained by what he did to me that night. I have become dead in the heart. I don’t even know if I am sharing this story to receive comfort and advice, or if I am only doing it to tell the world my story.

—Valentina

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