It was a dry, dusty hazy harmattan afternoon that December, some minutes past 1pm. I was enjoying some moments in solitude right there in my office, which doubled as a consulting room in the private dental clinic I run somewhere in Surulere, Lagos.
There was a soft rap on the door. She sauntered in.
Her sleek tall frame was bedecked in a pretty, brilliant pink, embroided gown, scarcely negotiating the near borders of her knees’ territory.
Her natural unenhanced pink lips, were almost stealing the show from a similarly hued pair of eyelids, right beneath two neatly pencilled out, wafer-thin, curly eyebrows.
And these against the background of the dazzling, flawless, sparkle of her evenly toned cocoa- brown skin, were in an open concerted rebellion, against the anti-shine force inherently ferried by the harsh harmattan winds.
We had an earlier arranged appointment for the afternoon. And there she was, right on time. It would be our third meeting. The other times we had met, over the preceding weeks, we did in an eatery in the heart of Yaba.
She took her seat right in front of me. We had a warm exchange of pleasantries.We were down to business.
Out of her petite handbag, she took out the red leather diary. She had brought it on request, promising to give me a direct mental feel of what she’d repeatedly called her ‘miserably bitter teenage years’, reading directly from the diary. The diary according to her was a copious chronicle of her life, straight from the heart. It was a 2004-themed diary.
I signalled her to get started with it at once. She opened it up. She read:
“It was the day of the Teenagers’ church commemoration of World’s Virginity day – January 24th. It was marked that fateful Saturday as a Chastity advocacy-themed conference for Teens. It was following several weeks of intense planning, preparations and publicity, all of which I had been actively involved
The mother church had given us all the support the program required. It was set to be the bomb.
The day’s events had been well mapped out already. What with the several seasoned facilitators and motivational speakers already lined up, plus the games, the food, and the interactive sessions tucked in store. It was a Saturday destined for much fun. The excitement counting down to the day was maddening.
The program venue was an ultramodern events centre down town.The colour code was a touch of red.
I was almost not going to get my red skirt in time for the program. My tailor had disappointed, even though all I’d asked her to make was a simple pleated skirt. I had earlier bought myself a white blouse and red neck scarf to match.
She however did promise to get it ready that Saturday morning. So I had hurried through my chores and rushed down to her place for the skirt. Thankfully she kept to her word. I got my skirt, and all was set for the D- day.
The program was slated for 11am. It was about 9 already.
I had just taken a warm shower, and was gussying up for the program. I was there in the room right before the mirror, strapped in my new velvety red lingerie, still clad in my white towel and shower cap, doing what girls would ever forever do before the mirror – checking myself out.
My figure of ‘8’ shape was forming well. I was much impressed – a narrow waist, wide hips, a bumpy luscious backside, and a most adorable full bust upfront. I was the perfect sweet 16 at 17.
My face had been flawless all week, but a pesky nasty pimple bent on ruining the whole show for me erupted a day prior, and was standing erectly ‘at-attention’ right up my nose.
It was a very perturbing sight, so that I busied myself with picking it off. I was overly engrossing in the chore, so engrossed I never sensed I’d got company in the room.
He had walked into the room stealthily . I never noticed. Not until he grabbed me from behind, and wrapped his arms round me . I screamed in protest. But it was a voiceless scream. He had gagged me.
The following minutes spanned in years, dreamy light years. He summarily swept me off my feet, bundled me in his massive frame.I was lost. I fought him teeth and nails. It was useless. I landed on the bed with a thud.
Then he pounced on me, and tore me through – my red satin camisole, my white towel, my briefs, my ‘gate’… my heart. He devoured me.
The cruelty in his bloodshot eyes only grew fiercer through the ordeal. His face dripped sweat, death- cold percolating globules of acidic sweat, falling in large drops on my bare chest, leaching into my very soul.
I protested and wailed and kicked, but all made a quiet noise. I was shut away in my own world, trapped beneath.
Each successive thrust came with a nauseating grunt-like heave. A heave of triumph, of the predator making a meal of a hapless prey. It was waxing in intensity. I was sinking deeper by every stroke into Hades, into hell, to my grave. I craved for death.
In moments -moments of pain, of tears and tearing, wet moments, I’d been copiously seeded by a man not my husband. It was a nightmare I’d vowed to rather die than experience.
But there was I in the aftermath of the experience forbidden , in between a rumpled, bloodstained, sweat-drenched bedsheet, with wet smelly gummy undies, a broken gate, a broken heart.
It was the World’s Virginity day, 2004… I was raped by my own Pastor …..”
(to be continued)