FLASHBACK

This morning, I read a newspaper. This was despite my promise to never read one. And as if God intended to immediately punish me for my sin of breaking a promise, imprinted on the first page was the headline that reminded me of what I had been trying to forget. The story could have been mine. However, she was three when it happened to her. I was four years old, when mine started.

I do not remember if I was four or five years old. I also do not remember his age. However, I remember that he was matured, and that my mother forced me to call him uncle. He was my lesson teacher’s son who lived just few houses from ours. I guess he was about ten years older than I was. I genuinely liked him especially because he could plead with my mother to abandon her plans to lash evil out of me. He was a good playmate and he knew all my favourite rhymes. I remember that he had beautiful nails, nails that grew and were always neat. He was also very generous with candy. I loved candy.

I attended my daily Math and English lessons at his house. His mother, my lesson teacher, was a fair-skinned widow with long legs and hair I wanted to own. She taught other children on our street. I doubt if I learned much at my lessons, because I remember that they were boring. However, I loved to stay back after lessons to play with him and to ride his bicycle.

I do not remember when it became unsafe to play with him. I do not remember if he touched my baby nipples like some of the paedophiles in the newspapers do, or if he started with my vagina. Did he ask me to pull off my pants? Did he do that himself? Did he ask me to lie down? I do not remember knowing if it was wrong or right. Perhaps I protested the first time, or didn’t. Or maybe I protested the other times. I do not remember enjoying or disliking it. However, I know that my lesson teacher’s son touched my vagina, and probably penetrated me in the sitting room with brown looking couches that were probably cream when they were new. I remember that one of the coverings around the couch was torn away, revealing foam that had been bitten into. I remember that the sitting room also had the black and white television which disturbed my lesson at times. The television was always loud when he touched me. I also remember that he told me never to tell my mother or anyone about what he did. He rewarded me each time with sweets that I happily collected and savoured.

I don’t know if my mother ever found out on mornings when she bathed me. I don’t know if I ever told her about the painful urinations I had at four. I don’t know if I dropped any hints at all. I don’t know if I knew what was happening, if I was comfortable. I remember that after some time, it stopped. My mother changed my lesson teacher and I stopped seeing him. I do not remember why. I know that the touching ceased when I stopped seeing him, and I never worried about what used to happen. It never bothered me.

It bothered me when I grew up, and understood the words ‘rape’, and ‘sexual harassment’. I started to worry when my mother started her admonition about keeping my virginity till I was married. I worried that I would never be able to have children. I tried to prevent myself from worry, but the newspapers always reminded me, with their vivid descriptions, believable stories, and health analysis. In my attempt at self-therapy, I promised to rid myself of the papers. However, I picked one up today, three months after keeping all the promises, and the stories were still there haunting me as usual.