Today, I count it a blessing that I am in a healthy relationship with a man whose touch does not make me flinch. It didn’t happen overnight. It took a lot of healing and determination to get to this place of comfort. When he smiles at me, my heart does not flutter its wings in an attempt to take off like a bird sensing danger. He is safe, that’s what I tell myself. If you know where I am coming from and how far it took me to get here, you will understand why I deem it a great feat to accept the love the touch of a man.
When I was growing up, my parents struggled to make ends meet. My dad worked as a security guard while my mum was an adieyie. She would carry her sewing machine on her head and roam in town looking for people with clothes that needed patching up, alterations, or zip replacements. This kept both of them busy and away from the house most of the time. They couldn’t afford to take me to school yet. That left the question of who would take care of me in their absence.
We had a family friend who lived in the house adjacent to ours. Aunt Suzanne was always at home. She had a four-year-old nephew she was mothering as well. I liked to play with the child because we were around the same age, so it was convenient for my mum to leave me in her care. Her husband was a driver who also had his nephew, Owuraku, living with them. But Owuraku was big and tall. We called him bro. Owuraku because Aunt Suzanne said he was almost as old as her. He was a conductor who always went on long journeys with Aunt Suzanne’s husband.
Because of their driving schedules, we didn’t see him around often. But whenever he was at home, he would play with us and give us money to buy toffees. We would often run into his arms to be carried whenever we saw him. Sometimes Aunt Susan left us in his care when she had to make a run to the market. That’s how everything began.
There was a day he didn’t go to work. He was at home playing with us when Aunt Susan decided to go out and run some errands. As soon as she left, Owuraku gave money to the little boy and asked him to go and buy toffee. I was sitting on the floor watching TV then. This man asked me to get up and come and sit on the couch next to him. I obeyed. The next thing he said was, “Lie down and open your legs, and let me see.” At that age, I didn’t know anything about hurt or pain down there until I felt his fingers invading me.
When I tried to push him away he told me to lie still, if not I would die. “You will disappear into darkness. You will never see your mother and father again. That’s what it means to die. Do you want that to happen to you?” I cried, as I shook my head, and complied. After he finished finding whatever lost item he was looking for inside me, he told me I would die if I told anyone he touched me. I was in pain but I couldn’t talk.
That night my mum was bathing me when she tried to wash down there. I screamed in pain but she dismissed it as one of my usual antics. “You this child, you will do anything to avoid bathing. Look at the way you are screaming as if I am killing you,” she scolded. This became a routine. Every time Owuraku had access to me, I would scream during bath time, and my mother would call me dramatic.
It went on for a long time. Sometimes he would attempt to use his joystick to penetrate me but it never worked, or he would stop when he heard footsteps. I couldn’t tell anyone because I was afraid. Even when I was in pain, I did my best to hide it from the adults. It was my Sunday school teacher who saw me in pain one day and asked what was wrong with me. I was six years old then. Instead of pointing to the place that really hurt, I pointed to my abdomen. I thought she wouldn’t know, but she did.
The first question she asked was, “Did someone touch you down there?” I shook my head and said no. Of course, she didn’t believe me. “Tell me the truth,” she said as she kept repeating the question. The pressure was too much so I finally caved and said yes. She then took my hand and walked me to the confessionary. Then she called my mother. They had an adult conversation about what I said. The next thing I knew, my mother was screaming and rolling on the floor. “Owuraku has killed me o,” she wailed.
By the time we made it from the church to the house, she had told everyone what Owuraku did to me. My dad was at work at the time but they sent him for him. When he came home, he had Owuraku locked up. But his people bailed him out after forty-eight hours. They said we had to take the case to court if we wanted justice. Unfortunately, my parents couldn’t afford all that process.
Some people told them it would be better to use the little money they had to take care of my health. Aunt Suzanne also came to apologize on Owuraku’s behalf. “I can’t believe this was happening right under my nose but I didn’t see it. Please forgive me.” She also pleaded that they drop the case and settle it at home. That was the death of the justice my parents tried to seek for me.
They didn’t sack Owuraku so I was forced to see him every day he was in town. I would be on my way to school only to run into him, and be triggered by the trauma he caused me. The people in the neighbourhood also didn’t help. They warned their kids not to play with me.
I became a social pariah. And the tragic story parents told their little girls to warn them about monsters lurking in the form of friendly and playful men. The kids wouldn’t see me without asking me, “Is it true that they raped you? Was it painful?” That was the only time they spoke to me.
The assault inflicted on me was painful but the stigma made it worse, and harder for me to heal. I saw pity stares wherever I went. It was as if I was rotten tomatoes on display on the market. This made me angry and bitter toward the male gender. In JHS, I fought and insulted any boy who got close to me or made the mistake of touching me. In high school, I was the girl boys steered clear of.
It wasn’t until three years ago when I met a man who was calm and gentle in his dealings with me that I was able to tolerate a man in my space. That guy showed me that a man’s touch is not always hurtful but it can be loving as well. He dealt with all my tantrums with kindness and empathy. Slowly, I learned to trust him. Then I grew to love him. He encouraged me to share my story. “Sometimes when you shine light on your demons, they flee. When you own your truth and tell your story, you disarm it from hurting you,” he encouraged me.
We Broke Up Because Her Mother Didn’t Like Me | Hot Seat
I didn’t believe him until I shared my story openly with him. It made me feel better and lighter. I went ahead and shared it with a few others and it helped as well. Unfortunately, things didn’t work out between us but I am always thankful that he is my first love. I have a better relationship with men now because of him. And now I am with a man who is another rare gem. He treats me with so much compassion that I don’t see what that abuser did to me when he is looking at me. All I see is a safe haven.
As I stated earlier, I found out that sharing my story frees me from the shackles of my past. So I am taking the bold step to share it on a bigger stage. I also hope to reach out to parents to be more attentive to their kids. I don’t blame my mother for what happened but who knows how long this thing would have gone on if my Sunday school teacher hadn’t noticed that something was wrong?
— Akorfa
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