Last updated on October 8th, 2025 at 10:47 am
I’m driving to PortHarcourt to spend some days with Hassan. We met at the camp during my service year after school and have been inseparable ever since. I decided to drive because driving helps clear my head. And my head has been in a dense place for days now. Memories that were archived in heavily-walled storage have been seeping out, and at this rate, there are no more walls.
—
She, Constance, didn’t leave our place until I was twenty. At that time, I had almost stopped going home. My parents thought it was because of the gigs I was getting, even though I was only learning then, but it was because of Constance. Not that she could touch me again, but she tried to talk to me and act as if nothing ever happened, and I couldn’t bear it. Of course, my parents do not know to date.
My major challenge has been having to bury it. I don’t carry the shame because I know I was young and practically a child but I had to learn to bury it. Every time I share that I was abused, and maybe it’s just my experience, I’ve never been met with empathy or concern. Almost like I was crying over something silly. It came as a shock to me to see that a number of my guy friends experienced the same and boasted about it. If tables were turned, people could relate, but it’s different for the boy child.
Everyone says raising the boy child is easier, but is it? Can we not also be victims of abuse? The difference here is that people emphasize raising the girl child, even to the point of toxicity and constraint, simply because they can get pregnant. There’s a visible repercussion. Who are we leaving the boy child to? Why raise the girl child when she still has to relate with the same boy child that wasn’t raised?
I have battled with a million questions in my head, and I’m not even the tiniest bit close to getting my answers. I stopped sharing once I saw that the abuse of boys isn’t treated with the proper reaction. What hurts the most is hearing people ask if you liked it. Let me ram my fist into your jaw and you tell me if you like it.
I look in my rear mirror and unclench my jaw as I indicate to switch lanes. I’ve never told Hassan. Even though he studied psychology and his girlfriend studied social work, though they currently work in different fields, I wouldn’t want to be disappointed by my closest friend so it’s best to keep it to myself.
—
A menace and a queen. I write as the caption of my post. It’s a picture of Hassan, his girlfriend, and me. I’ve been in PortHarcourt for three days now and being with friends has helped me clear my head a little. Still, I know it’s temporary. These thoughts and my past have permeated my dreams and sleep hasn’t been much of an escape lately.
If I hadn’t threatened Constance when I clocked fifteen, when I was bigger and almost at six feet, she would have continued. I remember the shock on her face when she grabbed me while I was spreading my clothes in the compound one day and I squeezed her arm. I wasn’t going to hit her, but I towered over her and she must have gotten scared as I squeezed firm and long enough for it to hurt her.
That day, I warned her and told her I was going to break her bones and lie to my parents that she had an accident if she ever touched me or anything I owned. I watched her lips quiver as she clutched her arm and walked inside. We avoided each other since then. Sometimes, I regret not doing it earlier. I hated her touching me, yet I couldn’t do anything; I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t even tell any of my friends at school.
At this point, I already had a TV in my room, some foodstuffs and cereals; a whole kitchenette hidden from my parents. It was another reason I didn’t let them into my room again. They would have gotten really suspicious. I did all these things to avoid her. It reduced her assault but every now and then, she would still find her way, like the day I was spreading my uniform outside.
I eventually forgave my parents. In their own way, they’re good people and if they’d known, I’m positive that they’d have taken action. I didn’t lack for anything, even when I started acting out. They were patient and tolerant. More often than not, people don’t want much of their lives to change when they have children, even though that’s exactly what happens. My parents never told me but I’m almost certain that having a child wasn’t really their thing. It’s probably why they never tried for another child, which was a good idea.
As an adult, I can resonate with their love for their career, a trait I inherited from them. I also don’t imagine anything taking me away from my career right now. Knowing these things, it’s hard to be mad at them or hold my childhood against them. As a child, I was their responsibility. As an adult, my trauma and my life are my responsibilities. It’s definitely caused a little strain, like me preferring to live far from them, but we have a decent relationship.
