TW: This story contains mentions of child rape and domestic violence.
If you had told Osas she would kill a man—no, kill her father, scratch that—kill her rapist, she wouldn’t have believed you. In fact, she would have inwardly cursed you for saying such a foolish thing. But life comes at you fast, whether you like it or not.
Saturday, October 24, 2018. 10:00 PM.
Location: A shabby motel on the outskirts of Benin City
She switched on the television, tuning it to Channels TV. Simultaneously, she removed her clothes, covered with sweat and the everlasting smell of kerosene. She wrapped them in a Ziploc bag; they would be burnt in Lagos.
It would not be long before news of the fire spread. It was supposed to spread.
A funny-looking newscaster appeared on screen, a turban on her head. She wondered when Nigeria would finally upgrade and stop using green screens. Stripped down to only her bra and panties, a cigarette in her hand, she waited.
Breaking news: A house near the capital of Benin City has caught fire, destroying surrounding land and property. The owner, a Mr. Osamudiamen, a person of great standing in the community, has died after being trapped in the blaze. Police believe it was arson. Details coming up shortly.
She took a long drag of her cigarette. Sleep would come easy tonight.
1997
Osas lost her mother when she was five. She could vaguely remember her mother’s face, try as she might. The only details were clutching her mother’s hand, or the way her mother would spin her until she got dizzy and her stomach burst with laughter. It didn’t help that there were no pictures at all. It was as if her mother was a spirit in transit.
The next year, a new woman who tolerated her would take her mother’s place. Her face would be hung on the walls. She would plant herself forcefully in Osas’s life, giving her the responsibility of becoming a sister at seven. The sudden change made her weak.
A constant in her childhood was her Aunty Ivie. Although she lived in Ibadan with her husband, she would come every Christmas bearing gifts, if not a princess gown, then a fairy tale case. Osas was the child she longed for. The little girl was always in her shadow, to the point it became a running joke that she should be sent off to Ibadan.
Whenever she asked her aunty questions about her mother, the answers were patronizing. She’s as beautiful as you. Your mother is in a better place.
These answers would have sufficed, but in school she would be asked for her mother’s information, the value placed on mothers was high, or her fellow students would be picked up by their mothers while she walked the sandy path alone. Then jealousy would kick in.
She and her classmate, Efosa, would climb the guava trees after school, graze their legs, jump down, and climb all over again. Or they would carry their small legs to the field where the boys played. Children never failed to amuse themselves. They would play ten-ten, shouting and giggling when a box was missed. Efosa would ask elders for money: “Aunty, please give me money to buy ice cream.” They would run after the ice cream man on his bicycle for what was mostly water, sugar, and coloring. In her thirties, she would realize this was the freest society had ever been. People were less cautious and more accepting. She would dare not give a child money without permission from parents now. Everybody was guarded.
All this took her mind off the many things plaguing her. Of course, she would receive occasional shouting and beatings, but it was worth it.
Another Christmas came, bags and more bags of rice, chickens killed and goats slaughtered. Girls had beads in their hair, boys with freshly trimmed hair sporting a design or two. Children sported new clothes; it was the tradition.
Aunty Ivie had come, filled with gifts for all of them. She frowned when she saw Osas’s unmade hair.
“Obvi-mwen, why is your hair not done?”
“There was no time. Aunty was busy,” she replied, knowing her brothers’ hair had been trimmed.
The two of them marched to the major market. Aunty Ivie gave instructions to the hairdresser, left Osas under an umbrella, and went shopping. Around her, customers sat on wooden stools getting attachments, talking and gossiping. Her hair was parted with a wooden comb and softened with shea butter and coconut oil. Her hairdresser tucked her face between her legs to get perfect parts. From afar, you would see the different colors of umbrellas, the fluent speaking of Bini, the judgmental glare of the women. There was a beauty to having your hair done in the market, a mixture of love and culture combined.
Once her hair was done, she was given a mirror. She gasped at the sight of the shuku and the one cowry shell placed on her head.
By the time her cornrows were braided and lined with shea butter, Aunty Ivie returned.
Passing her door, Osas only heard shouting.
“Ever since Cordelia died, you people have been neglecting that girl!”
“Ivie, what is it this time? Did she tell you she’s neglected?”
“What nonsense. Her hair was not done today. Is this what Cordelia would have wanted?”
“Cordelia is dead. If you are such a wonderful parent, have your own children!”
“She is dead because you killed her!” Ivie said, storming out.
Osas shielded herself from view. At least she knew her mother’s name was Cordelia. But what about her death?
After that argument she overheard, things seemed to change.
One day she came home with bruises on her body, her face filled with snot.
“What is it? Why are you crying?”
She showed her stepmother her palm, bleeding from a flogging.
“Who did this?” her stepmother was already tying her wrapper.
“My… my teacher,” she gasped.
The two of them walked to the school. The woman grabbed the teacher by the neck.
“Wetin you do my pikin? Because she no sabi book, abi? I go call police for you, you wicked woman!”
Everybody begged her while Osas stood in awe. It was good to be defended. Her father decided she would be moved from that school immediately. She would miss Efosa, but they could always play together.
She started at Abundant Life School with a determination to master maths. She did not want to be flogged again. Her love for maths would later lead her into investment banking, where she played with numbers.
Her new teacher, Madam Benny, was a plump woman who didn’t raise her voice at students for failing. She would ask Osas about her homework and give her sweets for passing. Osas saw the woman as a god.
After school, she would stop by Efosa’s house. Her mother would give the two of them chin chin and puff puff and send them off. Efosa would ask her millions of questions about school and teachers, and groan about them not being together.
The groaning would be short-lived as they headed to the field to chase boys.
It was late when she returned one certain evening. The cocks had crowed and climbed the trees. Her stepmother waited for her outside, hands folded.
“Where have you been, and why are you coming back at this time?” she demanded.
“I finished late from school and was held up at Efosa’s house. Her mother sent us on an errand.” Even though it was a lie, she hoped it would calm her mother down. They had been watching Nollywood movies, the one where the prince’s mother is a snake, so immersed they lost track of time.
“You are a young girl; your breasts are already developing. Men should not be seeing you at this time. Now come and help me prepare food.” Her mother had recently been policing her body, telling her to remove clothes because they showed skin, going out of her way to enlarge her uniform. Osas knew her body was changing: her breasts were growing bigger, Efosa complained she had “peanuts,” she started growing hair in her pubic area, and she sweated more.
Madam Benny had taught them about body changes, about puberty and adolescence. Osas knew what she was going through was called puberty. Nobody was meant to touch her there without her permission, Madam Benny said.
“If they do, say no.” The class screamed “No!” loudly. “Tell your mommy or your daddy if anybody touches you.” She demonstrated the difference between good touch and bad touch, showing them private regions and asking students to demonstrate. Osas concentrated so she could tell Efosa all she learned.
The clock on the wall struck six, and yet her father was not back. It was tradition they ate dinner with him. The table was spread with rice and fish stew. There were even bananas. The clock showed six-thirty, and yet no sign of her father. Her brothers had started whining. They were all hungry. Her mother instructed them to eat and go to their room.
She got up to pee when she saw the side gate open. Standing there was her father, a bottle of Guinness Stout in his hand. From his gait, he was drunk. He managed to walk a little and slumped in the middle of the compound. She could see her stepmother rush to pick him up, using her strength to carry him inside.
“You want to disgrace me, eh? Staying in a beer parlor and squandering your small salary we are managing.”
“This woman, leave me alone!” he roared.
“Calm down, the children are sleeping.” Her voice took on the tone of one goading an animal.
Osas got out of bed and peeped. The bulb in the parlor illuminated everything so she could see clearly.
“This is my house; don’t you dare tell me to calm down!” he shouted again.
She moved to touch him, but he pushed her so hard she flew and knocked down the dining table. The plate of rice and stew reserved for him fell and crashed.
Osas had an urge to help her but remained rooted. They thought the children were sleeping.
“You pushed me,” her stepmother said. “You pushed me again.”
Her father rubbed his palm over his face.
“It is the devil. It is the work of the devil.”
Her mother helped herself up, the parlor in ruins.
The next day, she and her brothers cleaned the parlor. Her stepmother hadn’t come out of the room, so they were her responsibility. She had to fry some plantains for the three of them and give them some money she had saved.
This pattern went on for three days until her mother emerged. There were bruises and a plaster where her head had hit the table. “You pushed me again” played in her mind.
She remembered the time her stepmother left, under the guise of travelling for a burial. Her eyes were red and her face looked like a car had run over it. Osas didn’t understand then, but the gears were turning in her head now.
Everything went back to a new definition of normal, but the table, once steady, was now shaking.
Her father started buying them sweets and coming home on time. He even began going to church on Sundays. They were all surprised at this man who had turned over a new leaf overnight. He would drop them at school, talk to Madam Benny about how brilliant she was, give Osas more pocket money. Or he would walk her to the market and receive praise from all the women for being a good man. She loved this version of him.
Sometimes he would call her to sit on his lap while he told her stories. She found the closeness to be out of the blue, but maybe he had changed. There were no drunk episodes. They were happy.
She was eleven when she was first raped. Looking back, maybe she would have noticed the clues if she had paid attention: her father’s hand accidentally grazing her nipple, catching him peeping through the bathroom window. There were signs.
The power had gone out and the heat woke her up. She thought her father would put on the generator, so she waited. Her nightgown was soaked with sweat. She heard footsteps and thought, “finally”, but then she heard her door handle creak. A shadow appeared on the wall.
“Who is that?” she asked.
Her father revealed himself in full, the moon casting a glow on his face. She sat upright while he perched on the bed.
“Daddy, what are you doing here?” she asked, her voice shaking.
“Don’t worry, my child. Please calm down.” She could smell alcohol on his breath.
It all happened like a dream. His hand over her mouth, the sound of his belt buckle being snapped, her fussing and giving in. She would never forget the pain as he entered her. She would be scared forever.
“It was the devil,” he whispered when he was done, as he left the room full of shame.
She stayed stoic in bed until her stepmother came to look for her.
“You don’t want to go to school? Why are you still lying down?” Until she walked closer and saw the blood stains on the bed.
“You are now a woman. We have all gone through it,” she said. “Go and bathe; I’ll bring something for you.” Her legs felt wobbly as she stood. There was pain in her midsection and dried flecks of blood. She cried until her tears were exhausted. A pack of pads and a cup of steamed leaves awaited her.
“Drink; it will help reduce the pain.”
She wanted to shout that it was not her period, that it was from her body being violated by the person she trusted most, but she lost her voice. She threw the sheets away and lay in bed all day, drifting in and out of sleep.
She would go to school, do her work, and go home. She stopped playing; she stopped going to Efosa’s house. At night, her father would come and finish his business.
Madam Benny called her one day.
“Osas, are you okay?” Her face was concerned.
“Yes, ma.”
“You don’t play anymore. How is your father?”
The thought of him invoked memories. “He is fine, ma.”
She mumbled something and ran to her seat.
Efosa would come to her house, but she would send her away with excuses. She couldn’t be her old self again.
The day she heard Madam Benny was relocating, she broke all over again. She was gathering the courage to tell her about the incident when she told the class she and her husband were moving. The class would get a new teacher. The students were gloomy all day.
Osas went to the toilet and cried all over again. The only trusted adult in her life was gone. She would have to tell her stepmother. Yes, she would do something about it. She would place Osas in a room where he couldn’t touch her.
She got back from school and went to the kitchen. The dinner of yam pottage would soon be ready. She was scaling the fish.
Her stepmother was humming a gospel song, her back to the stove as she stirred to make sure the palm oil was evenly spread.
“Daddy comes to the room to sleep with me,” she blurted.
The woman turned slowly before looking at her with so much hate.
“What nonsense lie are you telling against your father? Do you know what you are—”
“But it’s the truth. The blood you saw was not from when I—”*
Her sentence was interrupted with a slap.
“Better fry that fish before I come back.”
She resigned herself to her fate that no one would believe her.
Efosa was relentless in her pursuit. She would come every day. Osas finally gave in. She didn’t want her best friend feeling neglected, but that innocent child was gone.
Aunty Ivie had finally given birth to twins, so the family never saw her. Aunty Ivie would have been her savior for all she endured. She was raped steadily for three months, after which he stopped coming. She would lie there, block out everything until he left, and go to school the next day. Nothing appeared wrong.
She enrolled for the school scholarship for bright pupils. The scholarship sent her out of state to study banking. With whatever stipend her father sent, she would manage. She kept in touch with Efosa, who went to the University of Benin. Osas never had a longing for relationships. Her boyfriends would accuse her of being “emotionless” or “closed off.” She only kept them for sex and nothing more. In uni, she maintained a close relationship with Aunty Ivie.
“Aunty, what really happened to my mother?” she asked over the phone.
“I can’t tell you over the phone.”
She boarded the bus to Ibadan the next day, spending two days on the road. It was the first time she saw her children in person. She had become an aunt. Something like pride bubbled in her chest. She would not fail these children.
Aunty Ivie had aged. It was expected. Aging was how we accumulated memories. She was given the spare room, where she slept. Whenever she heard a noise, she would wake up and look at the door knob. That paranoia would live with her forever.
In the evening after dinner, with her husband watching TV, Ivie called her into the room. Osas sat on the bed beside her. A picture was handed over to her. In it, she saw what looked like a younger Ivie and another woman. Her mother. Osas studied the picture for several minutes until a tear slid down. She had her mother’s face structure, even though the picture was fading.
“Your mother was my very good friend,” she started. “She was in love with your father. I remember the wedding very clearly. Such joyous times. She wanted to be a lecturer. Very determined.”
“How did she die?”
There was a long pause.
“Osas—” she called her by her full name.
“Just tell me, Aunty,” she pleaded.
“There was an argument. Your father loved your mother, don’t doubt that. It was heated. She tripped from the balcony. Died instantly.”
“What if he pushed her?” she said, standing up sharply. She had heard enough.
Aunty Ivie didn’t say anything.
Osas dropped the picture on the bed.
“Take it. It’s yours,”* Aunty Ivie said. *“Your mother would be very proud of you.”
She left the next day and promised to keep in touch.
Her mandatory four years in university had finished. She completed her National Youth Service in Lagos, where she was posted. There were better prospects there. A job opening for a bank teller appeared. This was the Obasanjo era; unemployment was high.
Even though she hated the bratty customers who demanded every moment from her, she liked the structure. That job would only take six hours of her time.
Efosa called her. “I’m getting married.” She was surprised.
“Congrats. How, who, where?” She had to use her break judiciously.
“We met in school, he proposed, and the wedding is happening in Benin.” Osas already knew she wouldn’t go. Not to the wedding, nor the city. She would send her money and lie it was about work.
“We should have been getting married at the same time,” she whined. *“Where is the guy you are bringing for us?”
There was no guy. She didn’t like the idea of marriage and children. She was just finding her feet; any other lifestyle was unappealing.
“There is no guy, Efosa. You are getting married for the both of us. I have to go now. My regards to your mom.”
She stayed at her banking job for two years, and by that time Efosa and her husband had moved to Lagos. Osas now worked as an investment banker; she liked dealing with numbers, taking a leap of faith.
The office TV was always on CNN; nobody really paid attention. That day, she was working on a client’s portfolio when the news caught her attention.
“Nigerians demand justice for a girl who was raped by her uncle and his son. The girl died from VVF back in 2015.”
She froze. She felt her nervous system accelerate. She felt dizzy. Standing up, she took her bag and shut down her laptop quickly. Grabbing her keys, she called Efosa.
“Where are you right now?”
“I’m at home. What’s wrong? You sound worked up.”
“I’m coming to you right now.”
Navigating Lagos traffic was no joke, but she managed to drive with her head spinning. She ran out of the car and hugged Efosa.
“Shhhhh.” She was sobbing. “Let’s go inside.”
They sat opposite each other, Osas with a pack of tissues.
“I… I…” She didn’t even know where to start.
“Calm down, I’m here for you.”
Osas let out all that had happened to her. In between breaks and sobs, she felt something heavy lift; it was freeing to tell another person. Efosa cried as well and hugged her for a long time before she finally went home.
Reaching her apartment, she felt exhausted. She would send in her leave application tomorrow.
She woke up on her thirtieth birthday. Through endless bugging, she decided to throw a party. It would be hosted in her small apartment. Who was she going to invite? Efosa and some of her work colleagues. Nothing much. There would be signature jollof rice, cake, small chops, and drinks. Oh, and she had to tell her colleague Lanre to bring his camera. The party began at five-thirty. All of them started by singing “Olufunmi ooh ma pami lekun ooh.” There was a game of dancing, cheers, popping the balloon, and more dancing.
The cake was a three-layer, velvet-tiered cake. It looked stunning. It was time to cut the cake. Lanre had brought his camera.
“Okay, before you cut the cake, make a wish.”
She closed her eyes and wished for her rapist to die.
She used her free time to do other things: check up on her step siblings, visit all the places she didn’t know about in Lagos, try out new food. When a call came in from a client about a fire that had slowly destroyed his portfolio, she had an idea.
Saturday
She drove her car all the way to Benin City. Kerosene and matches were the only occupants of her boot. The motel she checked into was shabby. It looked like the place people came for a cheap fuck. Luckily, no one would disturb her here as long as she paid. It was late at night when she slipped out of her room. She covered her artillery with a bag and took a keke to a place near her father’s house. The keke driver was paid double, and he was all smiles. He would not remember her.
She looked up at the house. The two-story building. A typical modern-day house. Nobody would know what went on inside. What she was about to do took years of planning. Her father was the only one at home. Her stepsiblings were in school, and her stepmother was on one of her church journeys. It was 10 PM; most inhabitants were asleep. She decided to douse the house so it would marinate.
The door was not hard to unlock. It was like she saw things with fresh eyes: the rickety table that had witnessed the incident, the stairs from which her mother fell, the door that made her paranoid.
She climbed the steps to her father’s room. He had aged. Developed glaucoma. His hair was graying. She stared at him as he lay in bed sleeping. He looked at peace.
“I forgive you,” were the only words she uttered.
She went back outside and set the whole house on fire, making sure to burn everything.
Sunday
She was back in Lagos. Her alarm showed she had slept for seven hours. Her phone was plugged in beside her bed. She got up and unplugged it. She saw a missed call from a foreign number. She redialed it. It was her stepmother.
“Your father is dead,” her stepmother said.
AUTHOR BIO
Pinnella Igoni is a full time feminist and part time writer. When she’s not being loud and opinionated, she could be found reading fiction
