Five years ago
Brown skin girl. That’s what he called me. He said my skin looked like brown perfection. Shades in between freshly ground curry and fine sand. He said I was a woman of contrasts as his pudgy digits stroked my laps. Brown skin that pales delightfully on the inside like an unwrapped gift. Light brown upper lips but beautifully pinked lower lips.
He said an almost inaudible whisper. He said my name was rough like vodka when you began to say it but smooth like Amarula when you reach the penultimate syllable. I could hear the hustling and bustling sounds outside the office. The universe was completely unaware of my discomfort in this little office. The ceiling fan which hung like a lone wraith was doing a beautiful job of rotating hot air around the office and some how that helped to fuel his less than honest desires.
Licking my suddenly dry lips and wiping my sweaty palms on the skirt of my skin-tight black gown, I drew back careful to pin my eyes to the floor. The desire I saw in his hooded gaze frightened and embarrassed me. This was someone’s husband.
“I’m sure those lips of yours will taste like honey.”
“Sir?” I said in a way that made the three letter word sound like an accusation.
“From the first day I set eyes on you, I’ve been dreaming of sampling those lips of yours…”
Sir, please may I register my course now?”
“Do you know that you look like you were poured into that gown?” He continued so unperturbed that one might assume I had said those words in my mind. Standing up, he made his way purposefully towards me.
“But I think I like it better off…” With that, he grabbed my hips, pulled me to his proud pot belly and made to establish a connection between our buccal cavities. I twisted and turned. Resisted and struggled. But I was no match for this brief man whom Eros had donned instantaneous strength. Summoning all the strength and courage I had in me and all the experience gathered from watching Jackie Chan movies, I kneed him in the family jewels and as he slumped to the ground in pain, I made a run for it.
I am 23 years old but my life pretty much had the same routine. When people complain about being ugly, I laugh. As cliché as it sounds, pretty hurts. When you’re pretty, you lose your identity. Most people see you in an ethereal light. Lacking in flaws. To them, perfection aspires to be you. To others, you had nothing to offer apart from your beauty. Beauty and brains was just too unfair. Then to the last group of people, you are nothing hut an object of sexual satisfaction. To them, you have no identity. You’re just another pretty girl to warm the sack. I would take being ugly any day. Maybe then people would learn to love the individual I am not the face I have.
The secretary gave me a quick once over and with grudging approval signalled for me to enter the door behind her. Thanking her, I made my way to the closed door and saying a brief prayer, I tapped the door with my knuckles. Once. Twice. Three times. Then, I opened the it and entered the huge office.
“Well my dear, you’re overly qualified for the job if there’s quite a thing as that and judging from your curriculum vitae, I can confidently say that the company would be very lucky to have you in its employ and the fact that you are quite a stunner is an bonus.”
I shifted uncomfortably in my seat as his eyes took on a lustful gleam.
“Thank you sir” I replied morosely.
“You’re more than welcome” he replied with a grin that had a Cheshire cat quality.
I didn’t get the job. Mr Onyenkwe tried pulling a fast one on me and I retaliated with a defeaning slap that had him swearing quite colourfully. The Secretary stood as I was leaving. Her plain Jane face was a mix of understanding sympathy and exasperated irritation. Maybe that was how she had got her job, I mused as I took in her flawless yellow paw paw skin and voluptuous figure but like the 21st century youth would say, I ain’t about that life.
Seven years ago
I stared wide eyed at the huge duplex before me. The house was simply magnificent. The perfect background for Facebook and 2go profile pictures.
I spun around and smiled when I saw my mother’s youngest sister, Aunty Vivian. I ran towards her and she enfolded me in her huge bosom. I inhaled deeply. The vanilla scent of her perfume and the flirty scent of Tony Montana powder combined to give a scent that left one’s olfactory senses giddy.
“Nne nne. Kedu? How was the journey?”
As soon as I replied she tugged at my arm gently and steered me towards the house, “Come, you need to bathe and eat.”
As I crawled into bed, I sighed like a cream fed cat. Aunty had really gone all out to make me feel welcome I thought as I rubbed my full stomach which was deceptively flat. I gingerly lowered myself on the huge bed and lay supine. I lay still for a few minutes as I was afraid of throwing up. Along the line, Morpheus intervened and I fell asleep.
I was dreaming. Of Donald and the light touches I imagined he would tenderly indent my skin with. But when the caresses became more daring and persistent, I knew something was amiss. Everything happened so fast: my eyes snapped open and widened in shock when I saw that it was my Aunt’s husband who was fondling my breasts. I made to scream but he used a rough and leathery palm to clamp my mouth shut. I clawed, kicked and struggled in muffled fright all to no avail. My slender 16 year old frame was no match for him. Tears raced down my cheeks as he tore my panties and in one furious thrust, broke the thin film of my innocence. I let out a muffled scream but he continued pumping in and out of me, finalizing the decadent act. I felt tainted. Dirty. Ugly. Used and useless. The pain was unbearable. It felt as if “It” was hitting my womb. I just wanted it out of me. With every thrust, I felt like less of a human. This was not how I had imagined it would be.
I stared at the trees as they raced past our bus. Aunt had been so furious she had sent me packing without a bath. With each shimmy and turn, the dried blood intensified the friction between my thighs. No one believed me. Uncle Ben had somehow twisted the truth:
“Baby, I’m serious. She called me when I was reading to come and do something about a faulty socket in her room. Next thing I know, she throws herself and me and when I refuse to grant her wishes, she tore her undies…”
I couldn’t utter a word. The pain was too much it was a tangible knot at the base of my throat. Tears rolled soundlessly down my cheeks and collected at my jaw as this man wove an elaborate quilt of lies.
“I swear, I was as surprised as you, maka chukwu. Umuaka ogwugwu oge a (End time children). It is a shame that at sixteen the girl is already a nymphomaniac and it is showing all over her. Look at her. Just negodu how big her breasts are. Its obvious that all those small small boys have pressed them within an inch of their lives” he concluded with a sad shake of his head. The man deserved a Grammy.
Unfortunately, my Aunt was that gullible. So without much ado, I was bundled off to the motor park with nothing hut stinging eyes, a bleeding heart and an unwelcome soreness between my thighs.
“Abakpa liberty. Abakpa. Abakpa. Fine girl okwa Abakpa? Enter here… Na only one person e remain.”
Nodding, I entered the front passenger seat only to be told to get down as someone was already there. Nonchalantly, I got down and made for another bus with a free front passenger seat.
“Ah ah? Aunty? You no dey go again?” asked the confused conductor as he held on to my hand bag preventing me from boarding the other bus. Smiling, I shook my head from side to side and tried to free my bag from his grip to no avail. He scratched his bushy hair which had tinted tips and tugged me towards the bus but I dug in my heels making his efforts difficult. When he saw I was adamant, he let go of the bag and I staggered a bit. As I made to pick the bag, he gave my backside a huge smack.
” Al these stupid girls. Dey struggle for front seat anyhow. As if to say their Papa get bicycle sef. Umu idiot. If you see am you go think say na reasonable person. You no go know say the only thing him pass na to carry nyash like something wey them draw for French textbook. Anu ofia. Bros! Bros! Abakpa….”
I shook my head at the little tirade if the frustrated conductor and continued towards the other bus whilst rubbing my stinging derrière.