It was a Sunday afternoon in the year 1992. On my way back from church, I had stopped at a secondary school classmate’s house to deliver a message. She wasn’t home. Her brother, King, who was also my classmate, was home. He told me they were not back from church. After exchanging some pleasantries, I made to leave. He held me by the hand and pulled me back with, ‘Where you think say you dey go?’
I didn’t think anything of it and just casually said I was going home. I reasoned that he could deliver my message to his sister.
‘For where! You’re not going anywhere. Today is the day I have been waiting for, and I must get it.’
I was nonplussed. ‘Get what?’ His face was inscrutable and he was already panting mildly.
Ha, God! See me see issue o!
‘Abeg, leave me joo, I need to go.’ He went to the door locked it and put the key on his pocket.
‘Ah, ah, na wetin naa? Wetin happen?’ I was alarmed, and honestly, I was sure he was joking. At that point, he told me a story that had me numb for some minutes.
His friend, our classmate who I’ll name Prosper, was my boyfriend in SS2. I recall that in SS1, King had tried to chase me, but I was not keen. His more jovial friend, Prosper, was the one I went out with in SS2. King told me that hot Sunday afternoon that he had asked Prosper to help him talk to me, but it appeared Prosper came to do the job for himself. I was too shocked to talk. It all made sense then: the barely concealed resentment he had for Prosper and his mild antagonism of me the whole time in Senior Secondary.
By the time he finished his story, the young man eyes were mildly red. It was then I knew he was serious about getting his pound of flesh. I tried to reason with him and met a brick wall. We ran around in the sitting room, skirting the settees and generally regarding each other intently. Recalling the scene now, I am sure we cut the picture of a hunter and a hunted, or more like two wrestlers gauging and appraising each other, carefully planning a feint that will provide an opportunity to knock the opponent down and out. Even at that, I knew there was no escape for me because he had the keys in his pocket and the kitchen door had a heavily padlocked burglary proof on it. I prayed fervently for his sisters to show up at that moment.
I was trapped!
Somewhere along the line, he lunged at me and had me in a tight vice-like grip from behind. If it wasn’t a serious situation, I would have laughed. We struggled as he knocked me to the floor; he managed to turn me around and had both my hands behind my back like a policeman making an arrest. Boy, he was panting furiously, anger and my not wanting to, in his words, ‘relax’ sharpening his desire and making his turgidity very turgid. Still with my hands behind my back, and he pinning me down, I kept reasoning with him. I still tried to struggle, but to no avail. My strength may have surprised him because as he pinned me down, he said, ‘I no know say you get power like this o.’
I was tired. The skin on my arms were bruised. I was in pains. At that juncture, I had a ‘conference’ with myself. I figured he wasn’t letting up and his sisters, for God’s sake, were still in church. Were they the officiating priest, for crying out loud! I cursed silently and relaxed, actually. And then I told him what he wanted to hear. ‘See, make we no fight. You get condom?’
‘Eh.’
‘Wetin be eh? I say whether you get condom?’
‘You mean am?’ He had a wide grin on his face.
‘Yes naa; as you no wan gree to leave me, make we do this thing, make I dey go my house abeg.’
He was like a kid who was promised a candy. He disappeared into his room and came out miffed. He had ran out of condoms, he said. I was hopeful that he would drop the idea since there was no condom available. My bubble was burst by his next statement.
‘Make I go outside go buy,’ he said.
‘Eh.’
‘Wetin be eh? I say I dey go outside go buy condom.’
‘Okay. Oya, go naa, make I lock door, wait you.’
He laughed in my face, very amused. ‘You think say you get sense, abi?’
‘What do you mean?’ I asked with the straightest face ever.
He simply pushed me away with ‘My friend, you will stay here; I will lock the door from outside and go with the key.’
So, I paced around while he was gone. I sat down, I paced around and I sat down again. I reasoned with myself, convincing myself it was just sex. And there would be a condom, so no worries about a pregnancy or any STD. When I successfully calmed myself down, I walked to the kitchen, looked around, opened the fridge, closed it and stood in the middle of the kitchen wondering how I got there. Right now, in hindsight, this is what we call sex under duress, classified as rape; but at that time, I did not name it rape. All I thought about was how to just survive the ordeal without any bodily pains and bruises. My threshold for physical pain was, and is still is, very low. I was in survival mode.
He came back with the condom, and his sisters in tow, all three of them.
They were surprised to see me locked in, in their house, with the key in their brother’s pocket.
‘Ah, ah, Stella, what’s happening? Why are inside, locked up? Eh, King, what’s going on here?’
He did not respond; he was ticked off that his grand plan had failed. He simply walked into his room and shut the door. I followed the girls into their room and gave them a brief rundown of what happened, after which I dropped the message I came to deliver in the first place. They erupted like a volcano and made a beeline for King’s room, raining abuses on him and threatening to report him to their father.
As the ruckus went on, my own beeline was for the door. I was in my father’s house in record time. I simply got home, went upstairs and fell asleep, pronto!
This was sometime in mid-1992. I was 18.
I didn’t see King again until 2007, fifteen years later. I was in a Port Harcourt branch of the bank I worked in. I had gone downstairs to get something from a colleague and who did I find sitting in front of her but King! I had a flash of anger upon sighting him. When I said ‘You’, he simply gave me a sly smile and greeted me with, ‘Stella, how now? Long time.’ I got my emotions under control, asked of his sisters and went back upstairs to my office, completely sick.
The next time, I faced the same King-situation was the same year of the first attack, 1992, towards the end of the year, in school. This boy, I will call him Alex. As at 1992, Alex was the cutest guy I’d ever seen. He had these lips that begged to be kissed, a quiet smile, and a sure, very sure gait. I took one look at him and fell in ‘like’. Our attraction was mutual. We got talking and usually went out together to have lunch after lectures. The first time he invited me to his room, I was ecstatic, but I didn’t show it. I wanted to be his girlfriend, but I figured not to be too forward. Inviting me to his room meant, to me, that he was ready to start a relationship with me. I liked him so much and I was ready to take things slow and easy. So, imagine my chagrin when I got to his room that afternoon, and after a bottle of Sprite and some meat pie, this man went straight for the kill!
Oga, calm down naaa!
He refused to calm down o! We kissed a bit, yes, but when it became too heavy, I stopped and said no. His eyes looked like King’s own, hot and a bit red in hue. He was far-gone, and in hindsight, I blame myself for even starting any physical contact with him. We struggled. Ah, we struggled. He kept saying, ‘relax’. Why do men say that when you say no. For every time he said ‘relax’, I responded with, ‘You too, relax’. He flashed his quiet smile and the scuffle continued. I promised myself that I would not be raped that day. This promise was fueled by anger. Anger at him, actually. I was angry because I was eventually going to get to sex with him, so why was he in a hurry. And, no I won’t be rushed. I liked him for Pete’s sake. So, Lexi, relax. We’ll get to sex. I told him all this, but he was bent on getting some skin. So, I struggled and fought and clawed. I wasn’t saved by a knock on the door or anything like that, because I think his room-mates knew about the coming of a chic and made themselves scarce. He, Alex, saved me!
How?
In the middle of our over fifteen minutes scuffle, he stopped abruptly and growled, ‘Get out of my room, NOW!’
I fled!
I didn’t see him again until 1996 when he came to see his girlfriend whose room was next to mine in the hostel. I’d walked into her room one late evening and found him lying on her bed, comfortable and feeling very at-home.
‘You,’ was all I said. He smiled the same quiet smile. His eyes were wary though, like he was begging me not to say anything.
‘Oh, you know him?’ his girlfriend asked. At this point, his eyes were practically pleading. I laughed shortly and said,
‘Ah, ah, who no know Alex for this school?’
Before he left, he asked to say hi to me in my room. He came with his chic and exchanged pleasantries. I think he wanted to know my room, because, after she had seen him off, he came back, knocked on my room door, got in, locked the door and sat on my bed.
‘Abeg, no tell her anything, abeg. I’m very sorry for what happened. Please, Stella’.
‘Alex, please just go. I have better things to do with myself. I won’t tell, unless you want to tell her yourself.’
‘Thank you so much.’ He was quite relieved. ‘There is no need telling her. Thank you, Stella.’ With that he sneaked away.
That same year, 1996, a friend of mine on the same floor with me in the hostel had some visitors: friends of hers from a neigbouring university. She called me to come hang out with them in her room. I got to her room, and one look at Ugo, I was sold. He was an engineering student with a bad boy look about him. He had a deep baritone and a way of giving one a once-over in record seconds. My story with him is no different from my dalliance with Alex. He lived off-campus and invited me over. I rode a commercial bike (okada) to his crib and after a light refreshment, he jumped me. My scuffle with him was longer and even more annoying than the one I had with Alex. Throughout the struggle, he cussed me out roundly, using swear words I had never heard before. As we fought, all I kept asking myself was, ‘Why won’t these people just relax and take things easy? What’s with the hurry?’
The more we altercated, the angrier he got and the more resolved I was that he will not get ‘it’ that day or ever. Out of the blues, he pushed me away with so much force that I half-landed on the floor. He looked at me with this snide disgust on his face and ordered me out of his house! I did not flee. I waltzed out on shaky legs. That evening, I concluded I was done. I was sworn off boys for over a long time. I must have had a certain look on my face as I got to the hostel, because my friends took one look at me and rallied round me. At that point, I broke down and wailed.
I cried for the loss of my innocence, for the seeming stupidity of my naivety. Did I think they wanted me for keeps? Hell, no! All they wanted was skin. Was I not good enough for keeps? What was wrong with me? I liked him, for crying out loud. Did he not see that? Was he daft? My friends tried to reassure me that I wasn’t the problem; I wasn’t buying that. I cried so much one of them asked if I was sure he did not actually rape me. Are you deaf, lady? No, he didn’t!
He came around after some days, with profuse apologies. I refused to see him. My friends tried to talk me into hearing him out. Are you girls for real! He hung around for a while and left when he realised I wasn’t budging. The next time I heard about him, he had been rusticated from school for secret cult activities, and had sought and got admission to another university in the north, this time as a pharmacy student.
In 2008, I was in a Port Harcourt branch of my organisation. One evening after work, I walked into a pharmacy beside my house to buy drugs for my daughter. Who did I meet at the counter but the same Ugo, in flesh and blood. He became all flustered and disoriented as he looked up and saw me. He stuttered, stood up, sat down, stood up again and remained standing. The lady seated by the corner had a quizzical look on her face, wondering what was going on with him. He managed to get a grip and introduced her as his wife.
A-ha! A wife!
I looked him straight in the eye and reeled out a list of things I wanted. My list was suddenly quite long and the look in his eyes told me he knew what I was doing. I walked out of that shop with drugs and other things without paying a dime. He was kind enough to ask me not to pay, thank you! After that evening, whenever I had stuff to buy, drugs or otherwise, I always went to his shop. If he wasn’t there, I’d leave and buy from the next shop! No way was I going to use my financial resources to enrich the business of my assaulter. I saw him again in 2016, in my office complex in Abuja. I realised to my consternation, that he still gave me the creeps, but our pleasantries were a lot friendlier. We actually spent a few minutes playing catch-up: how’s business and the family? You’re now in the FCT? Oh yes, yes, nothing is happening in Port Harcourt. Okay, see you around. Yeah, later.
This is my (near)-rape story. By the time I was 22, I had had three close shaves with rape. This story is for all those – men, women, boys, girls, – who have been raped. I did not experience the brutal penetration that characterizes rape, but the build-up assault is dehumanizing enough. The feeling of powerlessness is excruciatingly humiliating.
I understand!
(Culled from ‘Biographies Are A Joke by dGrammarQueen Stella Uchechi NNODI)
dGrammarQueen Stella Uchechi NNODI
Abuja-FCT
+234(0)8163171944
LinkedIn/Twitter/Facebook/Instagram: @dGrammarQueen
