Prey

The first time Uncle Donald had come to visit us, he’d seemed like the angel that God decided to leave back on earth.

He was perfect, had the dentition of a man who read his Bible three times every day and knew how best to treat people, especially those who were less privileged and lived in low-income communities like me.

He loved to talk about a lot of things, but most importantly, he never missed a chance to establish his loud convictions and belief systems. Politics was his staunch sermon, and politicians were the demons in his story.

It was in his mouth that I first heard big words like “Nepotism”, “political debauchery” and so much more.

He’d always exclaim very loudly, “God’s punishment for evil politicians is coming. All those who revel and thrive in evil shall burn in the furnace of fire. There shall be no escape and hiding place for hypocrites of all color, shapes, and sizes.”

The fervor of his speech always caused my heart to pulsate in excitement. I loved his sermons. He was no pastor. But he was actively a staunch devotee to good deeds. He loved to remind the world that there was something vile and evil about looting country funds, and he loved to talk about such things the most.

Whenever Papa had the chance, he would always exclaim loudly, “Now, Mr. Donald is a rich man, but he is not like the others. He is a man who has the fear of the one true God and respects the balance of the universe. He has not sold his souls to the devil, unlike the others.”

We would all gather around quietly in the large compound that had too many chickens than children to listen to this rich man that visited the village once every three years, and brought intriguing tales from the heart of the city.

He was the first one to tell papa about the latest invention of the white man. He called it ‘the sitting toilet’. It was nothing like the local pit we had to use every morning at the back of the house. It was so much better with mind-boggling innovations that most rich men called it a ‘pricey water closet’.

“Wasn’t closet the name of the cupboard where white people kept their clothes?” I’d often ask as everyone would laugh loudly. I was young, naive, and eager to learn a lot about life.

He’d reply and say, “That’s what I thought myself until I saw this new invention that made taking a dump so easy and fun and efficient because it had water already built into it. It makes sense to call it a closet because it stores your shit very nicely.”

While this was a weird response, we all accepted it and nodded our heads because it seemed to make a little sense, but most importantly, because it had come from uncle Donald, and anything that came from uncle Donald’s mouth always appeared to be synonymous with wisdom.

He would tell us how wicked politicians would sit in this fancy new toilet closet and read aloud the newspaper to themselves while they enjoyed the stinking smell of their dump.

We’d all laugh at this, because for the most of it, we were children, and every one of the stories we heard from Uncle Donald about the city and its wicked politicians almost always filled us with wonder and laughter.

Indeed the city people lived strangely. But more than this, it was the politicians that filled our ears with so much affirmation, anger, and laughter. Uncle Donald never made us forget that some ate too many times in a day, just so they could be caught taking a dump with this latest fancy toilet or machine, or whatever. We enjoyed these stories, and like anyone placed under the influence of storytelling, we were able to tell who the true villains were.

They were the reason why we were still stuck in the village; The reason why we would never have good roads no matter how much we complained; The reason why Mama Nkechi’s baby died from pneumonia; The reason why we would never have nice and clean water like the ones in the city; The reason why we would never get to enjoy something as fancy as a pricey water closet that made taking a dump so enjoyable. They were the reason everything was wrong with our lives. These fat-bellied, greedy politicians would never agree to be just like Uncle Donald because we lived in a low-income underdeveloped community.

The second time Uncle Donald visited, he asked me to come to sit on his lap.

He had never asked me to do that before. But this time, I think he desired to favor me best, that too in front of my parents. Even though Papa would never allow such to happen before his presence with any of the other village men or boys, Papa only looked the other way. After all, Uncle Donald was different. He was not like all the others. Father was certain that he was a Christian, and a spirit-filled Christian too.

You know they said there were different types of believers? Papa believed Uncle Donald belonged to one of the best groups out there.

He loved to speak ill of filthy politicians. Wasn’t that proof that he knew his onions after all?

When mama confronted papa about this, he gave his reply in a few words.

“Woman, stay away from this matter. I do not have time to discuss such trivialities with you. Did he not carry her before our eyes, and shower her gifts as any caring uncle would? Why should we be bothered?”

I overheard their discussion and thought the same thing. There was no need to get worried, Uncle Donald was a good man after all.

Even though when he had carried me, he had somehow managed to caress my backside from time to time in an uncomfortable manner, there was no need to be unnecessarily perturbed. Uncle Donald was just playing with me. Mama was just being overtly extra.

Mama had once told me to be wary of male friends, relatives, or anyone in particular who behaved strangely around me and my body. She’d advised me to run far and stay clear from them.

But Uncle Donald was not like them. Everybody loved him, and didn’t papa say he was an angel too? Maybe I was thinking about it too much.

A few rubs on the backside didn’t matter, did it?

The next time uncle Donald visited us, he came bearing news of his marriage. He informed us that he had just gotten married to a nice woman who was not like all the other women in the city.

“This one is different, and as soon as I realized this, I knew I had to wife her.”

I was fifteen when Uncle Donald returned to the village to inform us about this. His visits were becoming less and less frequent…

“It is the city’s work,” he’d remarked.

“I hardly ever have time to go to church these days, talk less to return here to visit you all. The city never sleeps, the city never goes on break. The city is becoming toxic to its inhabitants, but we have to stay there don’t we?”

That year, he’d bought fewer goods, sweets, and niceties for me and my siblings. He’d kept saying I’d grown so much, it was almost impossible to recognize how beautiful I had become.

While he said this, Papa had beamed, smiled, and nodded his head gently from side to side in pride, declaring that I was my father’s daughter. The one he was most proud of.

“It is the economy, they say we’re fast receding into a recession. We can no longer purchase the things we could before now easily. A lot has changed, and the price of food? Food is now double what it used to be!”

“Does this affect you all in the city too? Back here in the village, we can no longer send our children to the local schools. Our harvests are too poor, and there are no customers to purchase our products. What is it that we must do now?” Father would reply with deep sorrow in his eyes.

The next time Uncle Donald visited us, he made the big announcement. His wife had just given birth to a set of twins. A gorgeous set of bouncing baby boys. The news had greeted us with so much excitement. Uncle Donald was finally a father. But not just any father, a father of two baby boys!!

His nice wife had birthed him with two bouncing baby kids.

That was when he made the first announcements.

“I would like Hannah to stay with me and my wife for a little while. We need help with the kids. But not to worry, I have promised that I’d personally send her to school, and train her up to the University.”

And so with these few words and flimsy promises, my freedom was bought. Papa knew that he could never afford to give me any better, so why not let Uncle Donald, the kind and truthful believer, help me with further education? He was too good to play us like those politicians he always mocked, papa thought very highly of him and we set off immediately for the city.

The city was everything and more than I originally imagined.

Uncle Donald’s wife was very beautiful and the twins had sparkly eyes like doves set to fly off. Together, I could tell that they were a beautiful family. The kind of family I used to read in our textbooks back in the village.

Uncle Donald’s wife asked me to call her “madam”, or “MA”, and not “mama” or “mom”.

“Who is your mother?” She inquired harshly. “Your mother is a measly woman stuck somewhere in the backside of a rotten village. Don’t ever call me that again!”

She was a very pretty woman but I could tell that she did not like me at all.

Five years after I arrived, a lot of things had changed. The kids were enrolled in school and had grown quite tall very fast. Madam no longer enjoyed staying at home, and Uncle Donald appeared to drink too much and looked at me strangely whenever madam was no longer in the house.

When I asked Uncle Donald why I was not being sent to school as he had initially promised me, his wife would always take up the matter into her hands yelling:

“What is the matter with you, why have you become so ungrateful after all we’ve done for you?”

Uncle Donald would answer quietly, “I’m just a little broke right now, maybe when the kids are a little grown, you’d go back to school just like I promised your father.”

It was a lie. Lies, lies, all lies and I could tell.

Uncle Donald said this even though he had just purchased a car, and his wife had just gotten herself a new promotion at work.

The truth that Uncle Donald appeared to stand for back at home now appeared farther from him than his toxic alcoholic breath.

He seemed like a different person and nothing like the man who once had a lot of things to criticize about other people.

One night, Uncle Donald visited my room for the first time since I arrived at his house.

I was 20 years old, and I could tell that this would happen sooner or later than I expected. I knew and noticed the way he looked at my backside whenever I was bent over a piece of the table to clean or bent to sweep the house. It was in the way he brushed my body slightly around my breasts whenever I walked past him. That too, when madam was not around to witness any of this.

I hated him for a lot of reasons. I hated him for wasting my youth, for trivializing my dreams, for preventing me from going back to my parents, for the lies and self-righteousness he once used to possess, and for compelling me to waste my time as the twins’ nanny. I hated him for passing catches and simultaneously telling my parents that I was doing very well in school. Whereas, in reality, I had never seen the four walls of a learning institution since I stepped into the city.

Madam had traveled for a business conference, and the kids were fast asleep in their rooms.

I had been fast asleep when I heard the door struggle to open very quietly. I had read books about girls who became victims of such circumstances, so I decided that I would rewrite the narrative and refuse to fall prey to such acts.

Even though I was never allowed to go to school, I had learned how to read back in the village, and that was the only opportunity I utilized to acquire knowledge.

It started like every other typical story, where the girl is molested and left for sorry. The room was dark and eerily quiet. Uncle Donald’s loud breath seemed to fill the unnerving silence like a dog who was finally going to get meat for the first time.

I knew screaming would not be possible. It was futile. Even if I screamed at the top of my voice, there would be no one to save me. The neighbors lived far off and the Urban life encouraged everyone to stick strictly to their business. Especially those that were within their self acquired property.

I continued to listen, to calculate his moves in the dark.

The next event happened so suddenly. All of a sudden, his body was all over mine like a ravenous tiger who had been starved for so long.

“Uncle Donald, what are you doing?” I asked, fear entering my voice.

Although I had been prepared, I could still feel fear in my bones.

The day I left for the city, Mother had given me a sleek dagger for protection. She had asked me to keep it safe and reach for it when there was no other way to find help.

At that moment, I slipped my hands gently under my pillow and brought out the sharp dagger.

Uncle Donald was quickly beginning to fumble with my skirts. His hands were everywhere at once. Probing, searching, and touching places I wouldn’t even dare mention….

The next events happened very quickly. I lunged for his face with the dagger, attacking without mercy.

I continued to slash and tear and cut in the dark as his screams filled the house.

For every cut, and scream, I took respite for every of my torture. Before seconds, he bottled from the room and ran out completely naked.

I quickly closed the door behind me and bolted it shut.

With the dagger still strong in my blood-smeared hands, I smiled at myself.

I was indeed my Mother’s daughter after all. In this story, I have written a new narrative. I have refused to be the victim. I have written my fate with my hands amidst adversaries.

Tomorrow would come and I’d have to deal with whatever it brings.

That night I slept content that even though I could not do much about my inability to go to school, I could control what happened or not to my body.

All images are sourced from pexels and unsplash