It was 1995 in Duayaw. I lived with my parents and my elder brother. Our house didn’t have electricity, so in the evening I would pour kerosene into the lantern, clean the shale, and light it. That was the only source of light we relied on in that compound house. It lit our paths and helped us see the faces of people who came by at night. It was the same light we used to study.
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My brother George loved to protect me. We attended the same school. I was in primary while he was in junior high at the same school. Whenever school closed and I was still in class, either taking notes or if a teacher was still teaching, he would wait outside until I came out, and then he would walk me home.
He fought battles for me. He pushed away bad friendships. He guided me and warned me to be careful with boys. I was very young but already looked mature. By class six, my chest was full, my hips wide, and my butt shook noticeably when I walked. Some female teachers even thought I walked that way on purpose. Even before I knew anything about sex, they warned me that if I kept walking like that, men would take advantage of me before I was ready.
That made me more conscious of myself. I walked carefully. Whenever I passed boys, I stiffened up so I wouldn’t shake and tempt them. They made me hate my body. It felt like I was living in a sinful brothel, carrying my shame around for all to see. The only time I felt peace was in the presence of my brother. With him, I felt protected. He blocked the stares and kept me grounded.
My dad tried, though unsuccessfully, to teach me how to carry myself in the house. I say unsuccessfully because he gave instructions without explanations. For example, I would wear a skirt in the house and he would tell me to change it, but never said why. He gave rules without reasons, so I always ended up repeating what he had told me not to do.
He never beat me. He only gave me mean stares—the kind that made you change direction even without words.
When my brother left for boarding school after junior secondary, I knew I was losing a great companion in my life. He had always been there with me, but suddenly, I had to live without him. He was happy when leaving home, but I couldn’t share in that happiness. I should have walked him to the station to see him off, but I stayed behind. I didn’t want to cry while saying goodbye.
That night, for the first time in my life, I had to sleep alone. I cleaned the shale, poured kerosene in the lantern, and lit it. I studied by myself. There was no one to help me with my homework anymore. When it was time to sleep, I rolled the wick down to its lowest so there would be a faint spot of light in the room.
Days turned into weeks, and I was getting used to living alone, until one night everything I had learned about being alone came crashing down on me. I had left the lantern burning dimly in the corner of my room when, in the middle of the night, I felt a hand suddenly covering my mouth and nose. I opened my eyes but the room was pitch dark. I had never seen such darkness before.
As I struggled against the hands restraining me, I realized that not only were my hands pinned, but my eyes were also blindfolded.
I fought back. I wanted to scream, but the grip on my mouth was so tight and his weight on me so heavy that I couldn’t move. He didn’t speak or even breathe for me to feel his breath. He was cold. Silent. Heavy. I couldn’t win. The pain was so intense I thought I had been paralyzed from the waist down. As I moaned in agony, he kept going and going until he exhaled loudly and got off me.
My hands were frozen from pain. I couldn’t feel my legs, but I desperately wanted to know who it was. I struggled free from the blindfold, but it was too late. I only caught a glimpse of his silhouette as he dashed out of my room. His back looked like my father’s. Even his height.
I whispered, “No, this must be just a dream.” Because I couldn’t walk, I screamed. My mom rushed in with a lantern in her hands. I waited for my dad to follow, but he came in slowly. By the time he entered, I had already told my mom what had happened.
My mom checked the stains on my bed and asked, “You mean you didn’t see his face or even a little of him? You didn’t hear his voice?” I sobbed and shook my head. “He didn’t even breathe,” I replied.
My dad’s voice was calm and slow when he asked, “Then who could have done this to a child? Wouldn’t it be one of these young guys around the area?”
My mom agreed. “No doubt about it. But how can we be sure when she didn’t see a face or hear a voice?” My dad repeated one of his old pieces of advice: “You see why I always tell you to dress well? You’re more mature than your age. I tell you, but you don’t listen.”
My mom spent the rest of the night with me and took me to the hospital the next morning. All day, I replayed the scene in my head, trying to identify the silhouette I had seen. I asked my mom, “Was dad in the room all night last night?” She retorted, “We were all sleeping. How would I know?” Then she asked why I wanted to know. I answered, “Because he came late when I screamed.”
That event is the reason I fear darkness, and why I fear being alone. After it happened, I left my room and began sleeping with my parents. Later, I moved to the hall. When my brother came home on vacation and I told him, he cried. He couldn’t find the right words. He asked if I got a glimpse of my abuser, and I almost told him he looked like dad but I didn’t. I wasn’t sure.
I never saw my dad the same way again. He grew more reserved. He didn’t talk to me the way he used to or even shout at me anymore. He just watched quietly as my mom took full responsibility for raising me.
Whenever I had to be alone, I found someone to keep me company. When no friend was available, I found a boyfriend. I refused to sleep alone. I would rather spend the night with a toxic boyfriend than spend it alone. That’s how I met my husband. At first, he treated me badly, but I clung to him until he got me pregnant and married me. He had no choice, because I told him that if he didn’t marry me, I would torment his life.
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He’s a better man now. He grew into his role as a husband, and today, when he travels and I have to go through the night alone, I cling to my kids like they’re love itself. But in truth, I’m relying on them for protection through the night.
#MyChildhoodTrauma
—Bruwaa
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