It's Okay not to be Okay

"Ada, come and see o!"

I shut my eyes tightly like her voice was causing me physical pain. Slowly and grudgingly, I pushed my jotter aside. I was preparing for the entrance exam into LUTH. It was my dream university, but I feared that, with the way my mother was beckoning on me every second, it might be just that: a dream. My father had just gotten her a new phone and it seemed like shells had fallen from her eyes. Everything was exciting to her. Whatsapp was her new home and she never failed to send all the annoying chain messages she received to everyone she knew. It was like a civil duty to her. For me she always went the extra mile by making me  read the messages with her. The more I thought of all those frustrating, wasted  minutes of my life which I spent reading falsified information from her overly bright screen, the more I realized that I had to pass or pass the entrance exam. Spending an extra year in the house would definitely be the death of me.

My mother was lying on the couch with the TV remote in her right hand and her phone in her left. As I approached her, I made sure that my countenance clearly depicted the irritation bubbling inside me. Like every other Nigerian mother in the universe, she feigned ignorance and pulled me towards the couch to look at her phone with her. I rolled my eyes when she was not looking and finally let them settle on the screen. The news headline was not unexpected, but it made my heart jump.

TWELEVE YEAR OLD GIRL IS RAPED BY HER UNCLE WHILE ON VACATION AT HIS HOUSE.

I pretended to browse through the content while my mother inserted her regular inukwa and Chineke ekwela ihe ojo. I counted 15 seconds in my head, before I stood up and muttered a quick nawa punctuated with a remorseful shake of the head. I needed her to believe that I had read the story.

"Where are you going?" she asked as I reached the door.

"Mummy, I am reading for my exams," I told her. It was usually an effective way to get her off my back, but all good things must come to an end. It did not work this time.

"Come back here, let me say what I want to say," she said. "If any man should try to force himself on you, Ada, you must tell me. Do you know what I mean?"

"Mummy, I am seventeen."

"Don't use that attitude on me, Adachikere. This is a serious matter. No man should see your legs unless you let him and the ONLY man that can see your legs is your husband, understood?" she asked and I nodded. At that point, she was pulling her right ear so forcefully that I could almost see her eardrum. I feared that she might tear it out.

"If a man tries to touch you, say no. If he does not listen, scream. Call for help. Men are too strong for us and we cannot fight them on our own, okay?"

"Okay."

"It does not matter what he has given to you or is yet to give you. It is your body and your choice. This girl might have been too young, but older people get sexually abused too. Do not let yourself become a victim," she said finally. Almost immediately, she returned her attention to her phone, while instructing me to stop obstructing her view of the television. I guess she was back to multitasking.

I returned to my room and slowly lowered myself into the seat at my table. The story hit me like a tornado and the memories I had locked up for years returned to me in a rush. I could taste the bile in my mouth and I could feel the sweat dripping down my back. I knew my sweating had nothing to do with the weather or even the fact that the windows were shut. The air conditioning in my room was in full blast.

Do not be a victim. 

Subconsciously, I stood and walked like a zombie towards my oversize bed. I let my lifeless body collapse on it and I shut my eyes just as the first few drops of tears tried to squeeze past my eyelids. They did anyway and no matter how hard I tried, the tears would not stop running down my cheeks. I could tell that a pool had formed right under my face, but I refused to move. I wanted to drown in it.

I was only twelve too.

It felt like hours had passed before I finally stood. My bones were suddenly weak and the light had left my eyes. Instinctively, I grabbed my phone and deleted the WhatsApp on my phone. If it had not existed, maybe my mother would not have reopened the wounds that had already become scars.

I have to tell her.

No I do not.

Yes I do.

It took a lot of mental debating before I made my mind up. I walked to my small bookshelf and pulled out a very dusty notebook. I sneezed as I wiped the dust off the fancy jacket. It felt less familiar than I remembered but it looked the same. I opened it carefully until I found the page I wanted and I walked out of my room.


"Mummy, I need you to read something,' I said to my mother as I returned to the couch in the living room. She had not moved from her position, but at least she was paying attention to the television this time.

"I thought you were reading," she replied absently as she glanced at the book in my hand. "When did you become a writer?"

 I gently forced the book into her hand and stood in front of the television until she gave up and took the book from me. She was stunned by the first few words on the page, but she continued reading.

Dear Diary,

(To be continued)

#TheRitaSide

PS: This is dedicated to all who were forced to give when they were too young, too dazed, too weak or too intoxicated to do otherwise.

IT IS NOT YOUR FAULT!!