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To the survivors chapter 1

To the survivors

TO THE SURVIVORS
Written by : Biola Olatunde
Inspired by the book of the same Title written by Robert Uttaro
Chapter 1 What is rape?

My name is Biola Olatunde. I have the pleasure to invite you to this series ‘To the Survivors’ we will discuss issues of rape, domestic violence, sexual violence, what the survivors and their families go through, government reaction, policies and society’s responsibilities in the epidemic
At the end of each chapter, we will appeal that you send in your reaction, thoughts, suggestion and even share experiences. If it is an experience, we will keep the details confidential and use the writer’s right to dramatize your experience.
All characters in the drama are fictitious and have no bearing on any person or location.
We have aired it on the radio as a series and we are hoping to make it available on YouTube or an internet radio soon.
I need you to help. I hope when you have read, you will wish to donate so we can continue to air this programme for long enough for it to make sense
Olayinka is a young girl in her twenties in her last year of university. Naturally, she is eager to find herself a job in the labour market. When she received an invitation from a stepbrother in law for a job interview in another city she jumps at it. However what happened was a nightmare she never planned. The prospective employer took her to his house, repeatedly raped her and left her half dead at a bus stop.
Mrs. Roberts closing from work finds her and takes her to the hospital
‘I am doomed’ was the repeated question of Olayinka as Mrs. Roberts tries to get some details from her. In tears herself at the brutality and callousness of the rapist, Mrs. Roberts takes the case up and offers to pay the medical bills.
‘But how do we identify this rapist or better still who will come for this young woman? Somebody somewhere is looking for her daughter’ Mrs. Roberts tells her husband, hours after she got home dispirited and sad.
Banji hugs his wife close and reassures her that they should see if there is a number on the dead phone. So they charge the phone and sure enough, the young woman had received 39 missed calls from a particular number. Mrs. Roberts called the number. A mature female voice asks anxiously after Olayinka
Olayinka! I have been calling you? Where have you been?, the voice demanded the minute the call went through
Are you a relative of the owner of this phone? Mrs. Roberts asked tentatively
I am her mother, please put Olayinka on the phone’ the voice demanded
Mrs. Roberts sighed ‘I am sorry Ma, but your daughter is in hospital, she will need you to be with her as soon as you can madam
There was dead silence, then in a small voice, ’What is wrong with her, is she at the clinic or at the general hospital?
She is at a private hospital Madam, she was abandoned at a bus stop here in Akure and I found her during a heavy storm last night Ma. Please come to Oak Hospital
The line goes dead and Mrs. Roberts has tears in her eyes, as she looks at her husband.
‘That is a most horrible news you can ever give a mother’
The next morning a slim middle-aged woman knocks at the office of Mrs. Roberts. One look at a tired drawn face indicated that she had had a very bad night. Mrs. Roberts was very sympathetic as she explained. As the shock of what had been done to her daughter left her face it was replaced by horror at reporting the rape to law enforcement agents.
Olayinka’s mother was increasingly reluctant to report the matter to the police.
She insisted that her husband will more likely disown the daughter if it became a police case.
She was adamant until Mrs. Roberts pointed out the greater need of Olayinka and Olayinka’s right as human being to justice.
The system of a community or family that will condone a crime rather than help a rape survivor is called to question.
Do we really care enough?
The police demand that a raped victim should come as they are. In the traumatic state of having been raped?
The hospital will refuse to treat a raped survivor unless there was a police clearance report
What do you think?

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Why don’t we read books?

why don’t we read books? I keep asking myself that question every time. Why don’t we read books that are for pleasure, expand our minds, books that excite our imagination, books that teach us about other cultures? Why do we ignore books that expand our minds? I have been thinking a lot about books and the paucity of good books

You know, when you have a lot of things to do and you find you have not done one? You are so busy doing nothing. That has been my problem lately. I had a radio drama series which seemed to have swallowed me up whole. I have not had time to even think there are other parts of my literary life that need attention and my blog has suffered it most. I will stare for long moments longingly wishing I could just get my arse and do some writing ut I read another story on rape or hear one and I am off-putting that into a radio drama piece and asking my panelists to be on standby.
I do not intend to talk about rape today. Where am I?
Okay, I forget easily these days and that is another thing. This irritating habit of simply looking into the distance mid-conversation and not remembering what I want to say or write. Okay, blogging and my blog. Did I tell you about the problem I had getting my books back from those ’friends’ of mine?


Anyways, I don’t plan to give my books to bookshops anymore. Leastways not in my environment. One asked me to reduce the cover price to a fraction of the production cost so I could sell cheaply. He said books that are just meant to be read for its literary value don’t sell. He laughed at me, accepted that I could maybe write, but no one was going to buy my books for the prices I quoted.
There was hope in his eyes when he asked me if I had won any awards with any of the titles. Then the hope was replaced with pity as I mentioned that I wrote the series “I NEED TO KNOW”, he gave me a suspicious look. I could almost read his thoughts as he wondered if I had lost my marbles. I don’t look like a television writer to him, besides that was a popular series that spanned the whole country and beyond.
He had come to ask if he could sell my books for me in his own state and stared t me in horror when I told him how much it was going for. He patiently explained that I was not producing this for television and he was being helpful. There was a long pause then he brightened up and offered to take all four books for N600, that is less than $2:00. I screamed at him to get off my face and space.

He was miffed and told my friend I was going to be hungry for a long time. I was depressed. Told him he was a nightmare. I have been having such nightmares daily as I stare at my collection gathering dust.
Why don’t we read?
I wish I can have an answer.

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New series..The Survivors

SERIES One
I decided this year to do something more on my website. I will be dedicating a day in the week to talking about issues on rape, the survivors, the problems, and quite a lot of things. I did try to bring the programme on the radio but have not been able to raise the necessary funding to make that work.
What is the Survivor series about?

I started it last year when I started sharing stories of rape and the rationale and madness. I use the word rationale for a reason. We say every madness or illness comes about for a reason. I intend this year to use my writing to raise awareness about this issue. At least I can afford this website and maybe with your help, we can make this awareness be helpful somehow to someone out there who may feel comforted or supported.
Yesterday, I was chatting with a group of young women, we all saw ourselves as aspiring poets. We chatted and the talk drifted to Feminism, is it a good thing? Should a woman be submissive in order to show that she is obeying the injunction of the pastor who every Sunday exhorts wives to be submissive to their husband? A question popped into my consciousness, will it be fair to ask a woman to be submissive to a lout and a rapist?
It is still a question that I am asking, where is the rationale for submission to such a human being? A young lady said with a firmness at that gathering that at least 7 out of 10 women in the country has been a victim of sexual abuse, assault and/or rape at least once before the age 60. Statistics? It can’t be proved because how many women actually report the embarrassment?

The quiet girl sitting beside me asked with an underlying anger in her voice, ‘who was going to take a girl reporting rape seriously’ She said the first thing the authorities will do is look at the girl and put her on the bench as an accused person. We generally see the victim of rape as the guilty party and deny the act of rape, even sometimes insisting the assault as the fault of the victim.
I would like from now on to borrow from Bobby Uttaro’s book ’TO THE SURVIVORS’ that a victim is more appropriately a survivor of the assault.

The world is now awash with stories of rape, sometimes culminating in the murder of the victim. Some of us may still remember the heart-rending story of the 9-year-old Pakistani girl raped, sodomized, tortured, killed and dumped on dump site like she was garbage.
My heart boils and I am sickened just reading such stories. Where do we go from here? A CCTV recording indicated that the heinous rape and murder was done by a full grown male.
Here in Nigeria, we hear tales of rape, violence, and sexual abuse from practically every village. If you a subscriber to my site, you probably read the story of the lady who was raped by her uncle on the farm. It scarred her for the rest of her life. An update to that was that she has died and the husband also died a few weeks ago too.
What happened to her? How did she die? Was she able to have some closure before she died? I am never going to get answers to that now. It is her story and some others that have impelled me to find whatever means I can to be a sounding board for survivors of this blight on the human story.

I hope you will be part of this experiment. There are assured confidentiality if you send your story. I am not an agony aunt, but we will share your pain, hope others will offer guides, support, and advice that may serve as some anodyne to your pain.
We will talk again next week on this subject.

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I AM A SOILED TAINTED CORPSE

I have been wondering what I should talk about. I have too many topics all needing a hearing from me. I am still writing about the violence issues. I mean domestic and sexual violence. I got quite a lot of responses and was surprised that the responses were across the sexual divide. A couple of issues came up along those lines. What would be the best vehicle to show these issues? A friend said the medium does not really matter if we keep talking. I watched a television programme in which a popular actress appeared to be interested in promoting the fight against rape and it saddened me. She appeared to have trivialized the issue of rape. I finally understood what Bobby Uttaro meant when he said he was leery of the magic of television.
You can not imagine the horror of being raped, you cannot put yourself in the mindset of someone who has been raped. The first thing is the sense of shame and thereafter is the fear. It has to be handled in such a way as to make you feel able to talk about it. We don’t seem to understand and there lies my own personal frustration with the supposed care providers of rape victims.
Incidentally, rape victims can be male or female, child, adult, and for crying out loud, an old woman being raped by her own son! Don’t gawk, it has happened.I am not going to mention real names here as I have not the slightest intention to embarrass the poor woman
Madam Angelique used to be a lively woman, in her late sixties. She looked after her herself and would be seen in quite fashionable clothes as she went to town. She lived alone except for the occasional visit by her last son who worked outside the town in Lagos. Mama Gelly as neighbors called her would chatter nonstop about this son John and you could tell she was besotted with him.
Suddenly, after one of such visits, it was noticed that Mama Gelly did not go round the neighbors to regale her friends with the last exploits of John. Strangely too, John left abruptly. Mama Gelly’s room was always darkened unlike the bright lights we were all used to. We assumed that she was not home and that was why we saw only the security light on most nights. I had misgivings though as that was not in the nature and style of this lively woman. I decided to be a real nosey parker and went to her front door, knocked but got no answer. I was walking away assuming that the old lady was maybe not in the house but something made me look back, and I was rooted to the spot in complete shock

Mama Gelly was holding, a dirty, bloodied sheets to her chest, her eyes were swollen both from beatings and tears. She swayed on her feet in a strange dance with the horror she was living through. I ran back to her just in time as she folded over like a rag doll in a faint. I led her back to her room and burst into tears. Her room looked like a hurricane just hit it

Three hours later, the story came out in bursts of a tired woman. John had come to visit as usual, but there was something unusual this time about him and his mother sensed it. She asked him if he was having money troubles, but he simply shook his head and would stare at her strangely. Mama was nervous suddenly and kept to her herself thinking if she gave John time he would eventually say what was on his mind
John refused his dinner but kept drinking and she told him she was going to bed. She also asked after Angela his girlfriend and got a snarl in response. Not prepared to put up with such rudeness mama headed for her room.
She must have slept off because she said she woke up to find John’s wandering hands on her person. She talked sharply to him but he was too drunk to reason and a struggle ensued. Mama was quiet and I looked around the room. It was clear, my heart sank and a horror of what she must be feeling shuddered through me.
‘Mama, tell me the worst’ I asked softly, my heart was breaking
‘Can’t you tell? The abomination is complete, you cannot rape your own mother and survive seven days’
We stared at each other, then, she whispered;
‘How do I go on living, after he dies, who will I share my grave with, they can’t bury me next to his father because I am a soiled tainted corpse’

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Please what should I say to her? Rape 2

She looked at me puzzled. I stared back in shocked surprise. Elegantly dressed, a lawyer and very incisive in her comments.
‘When you look at me, you assume I have got the best of both worlds right?’
I nodded wondering what was coming and unprepared for her next sentence
‘I wish I have the nerve to kill myself, that is after I have killed him’
I asked her softly why she wanted to kill anybody in the first place including herself
Then she talked.
At nine years old, she was not sure she was going to get an education at all. Her mother was one of three wives and her father had declared that the wives were to look after the girls they had given birth to.
‘He called us apprentice witches who had taken after our mothers’
The women did the best they could either appealing to their own siblings, eking out something from their petty trade. According to Yemi, there wasn’t much to expect from her mum so her uncle was called to help.

‘ the First day on the farm, he asked me to come to the pepper patch I understood what he did then as some form of sexual assault. He had not progressed to actual rape. He said he liked me and if I kept my head, he would ensure I had a fair deal in his house. I was too awed by his big frame and his armpits smelled awful. I slept badly that night.
Next morning, he took me off to the local authority school and registered me in kindergarten one. I was almost 10 years old. The teachers taught I was a joke. Most of my classmates in a kindergarten class could speak better than me. I was the class giraffe, the fool, the errand idiot. They laughed but I was silent. I was finally in school. My mum was over the moon and she thanked her brother over and over again.
‘Two weeks of school, Uncle got drunk and I got my first rape’. Yemi went on talking in a matter of fact voice as if she was giving the facts and potentials of the case she was about to defend in court.
My heart sank as I listened, what was I going to do? Nothing much I realized as I listened to a woman who had learned to keep her own counsel and had in some fashion maybe come to some peace.
As she got older, she was able to run away and come to the city. Yemi read privately as an external student to do her WAEC. She got a job as a cleaner in one of the banks and gradually went for more courses and was able to pay her way to read the law.

She never told her mum about the pepper patch rapes. She said she did not see what good that would serve. It was payment for the opportunity to be able to read and write.
Her mother passed away when she was in 300 level in the university. When she met Bayo, she went through the motions of an excited bride and was relieved when she got pregnant. But still had nightmares of the rapes
She had a perfect excuse to keep the physical side of their relationship to the barest minimum. She had also learned to control her rages
‘I did not like all that romance stuff he was into, did not like undressing, did not want any male looking at my body so I was happy being a born-again wife. However I had developed a crazy mannerism, I would bathe at every opportunity and would perfume my body all over. If Bayo touched me I would go stiff as a board and freak out. At first, Bayo found it amusing and thought I was just shy’
‘You never told him about your uncle’?
‘Are you mad? First, he will not believe me, then that look will come into his eyes and he will watch you every minute, or he will start asking you every tiny detail wondering or teasing that you probably enjoyed even a tiny bit of the rape’.

So what do you want to do? I asked when the silence was beginning to stretch
‘Bayo wants to visit my uncle to thank him for the education, If I lay eyes on that uncle, I will have to kill him and then kill myself to stop the torture of years and misery. Will you get someone to stand for my child?’
Please, what should I say to her?

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Rape….the human disease and shame

It was raining heavily and Tinu, driving in the rain felt the beginnings of a headache coming on. She sighed and the phone rang, one cursory look confirmed it was Banji on the phone. She stretched out her hand to pick the phone, saw the girl and stopped.

The girl was obviously lost as she seemed oblivious of the rain, gathering her tattered clothes about her. Her blouse was torn, eyes were swollen and as Tinu stopped, got out of the car, she knew it was much worse than being lost. The girl had been beaten and she bled.
Tinu simply took the girl into the car and drove to the doctor. She was enraged and had a murderous glint in her eyes.

Thirty minutes later the doctor came back to the consulting room. Tinu gave the doctor a questioning look, there was also an appeal in those eyes as it silently asked for answers.
‘Rape my friend, by more than one person, she doesn’t seem to know the assailants. They dumped her at the bus stop when they were done with her.’ The doctor replied her silent query grimly.
Tinu unclenched her fists and asked to be taken to the ward to see the girl.
‘Now they dump them in the streets’ she said through clenched teeth as she narrated the story to her husband Banji much later.
Anike, the girl who was raped had been lured by the promise of a job in a neighboring town so she was completely lost and didn’t know where to go when those who called her for an interview simply grabbed her.
Are you shocked? That is just one scenario, there are several. I will share as much as my anger, disgust and bewilderment will permit
Where do you place your sympathy, in the midst of the calamities befalling the human race?
That is not the end of Anike’s problem you know. Her mother simply refused to accept that Anike was not to blame, and there was horror at the mere fact of letting the law enforcement agents come into the picture. She felt she would be blamed because she had not been strict enough with her child.
In the African tradition, a good child belongs to the father and any misbehavior of the child is placed at the doorstep of the mother.
Where does that leave Anike? Nowhere.
What kind of parents are we? Is there any form of support system in this country that helps someone like Anike? She sits and stares, I heard she was given a rape kit, a government lawyer came to talk to her and after much persuasion, her mother went with her to the police station. The officer gave her a lewd look and yawned.
She has refused to make further visits to the Police, the lawyer says she is busy and there is growing terror in the eyes of Anike as I watch her each time I visit.
I read the book of Robert Uttaro TO THE SURVIVORS’ and I ask myself questions.
I ask you now, Rape has been an issue right from Biblical times. Are we as humans so defective that we have been unable to resolve this type of murder?

I read from the good book that the commandment said clearly Thou shalt not kill.
We murder or we are accessories to the act before and after when another human being is raped. We take without permission the fundamental human rights of another human being in the act of rape.
There are so many types of it and starting from today, each week on this day, I will send you posts about rape.
Why?
I hope you will help in your own way to raise a voice against rape, and domestic violence.
Let’s do something, please.

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Prodigal son? Blood Contract

Ken stood silhouetted against the setting sun. He was alone in the boat as the lagoon took on the color of the red sun, making the waters look almost metallic. He was contemplating paying his father a visit and suddenly he had become unsure. Questions needed to be answered. He could not hold back anymore and the one person who could give him some of the answers was a few meters away. His hands shook as he tried to calm his nerves.
There was a small sardonic smile playing across his lips. It was time to take a look at the wounds, time to come face to face with his ghosts and why he had left. Why he had promised himself he was never coming back. He needed to make peace with his father if not with himself. He remembered the bitter arguments, his sense of not being good enough for his father. He remembered Douglas and he felt some pain that no one had ever made any attempt to reach out to him.

It was a tough place to have dreams. He had wanted to further his education and he knew his father was not going to be able to cope with the payments. He had been grateful for the secondary education he got. He was not about to just sit down in the place, getting married, have babies, and be a fisherman. His whole soul had rebelled against such a future.
It was not therefore too surprising when he followed the boys to do some small oil bunkering. The first time he got paid he was stunned at making such easy money. He had instinctively kept that business from his father. But being a young man he could not resist buying a few things that was more than his income as a fisherman could fetch him.
His father had asked probing questions and he thought he had succeeded in deceiving him until one evening he came home to find his father in his room, a cold implacable look on his face, and his wad of currency in his hand. There was nothing left to do than to confess what he had been doing. He expected anger but not the blistering rage of the old man.

He still felt disbelief at the blazing words, stating that no son of his was going to be a coward and refuse to stand and fight.
“I can’t see much of any fight with you Papa,” he had taunted back. “No money, no food and I try to do business and you call me a thief.”
There had been the silence.
“Bravery has nothing to do with stealing oil from the creeks. A thief is a thief no matter in what clothes you dress it.”
He had yelled back in his own pain, “I have not stolen anything, just taken what belongs to me.”
“Who allocated stealing to you, Kenawari?”
“Papa!”
“Get out; you have a smell I don’t want around here.”
He had yelled back that he was getting out and was never coming back, that he would make good and his father was going to regret calling him a thief. That was when he made contact with Elias and left the village a few days later. Papa never spoke to him from that night. He never went back to the business, for it had served the purpose he wanted. He never called home.

Ken had not seen Ebijor either or connected with her until the night of his return. He had kept her in his mind for years, knowing he needed to explain his abrupt departure. Knowing the culture of his people, he knew she would have been married off after a time. He wondered if she had resisted or simply accepted his apparent desertion and shrugged her shoulders and settled down to married bliss. He had wondered if she understood about love. He could not sleep at nights as he imagined her in someone’s arms and he was racked by jealousy. A dangerous jealousy he knew, for she belonged to another man. Someone the rest of the community would defend if he tried anything funny. He had also not known about Douglas. He had assumed the silence had been in obedience to their father. He needed time to take a look at that piece of information.

Ken had stalked the markets hoping to catch a glimpse of Ebijor, but she seemed to have suddenly voluntarily imprisoned herself. He was not about to ask anyone questions. Tonbra too had become invisible. He understood, believing she was remorseful about her big mouth and was keeping out of his way with respect. He sighed and started walking along the single plank walkway.

Ken walked past his father’s home deliberately and chose to stop at a point two houses away, because he had not being prepared to find his father sitting outside on an easy rocking chair. He was sure his father had seen him. Ken suddenly lost his nerve. He felt lonely too. That is my father, damn it! You don’t just walk back to fifteen years at the drop of a hat do you? You don’t just wipe out fifteen years of longing, pain, anger and confused thoughts do you? The fact that his father had never enquired after him still hurt, he acknowledged to himself.

Interested readers in Nigeria can now buy copies of BLOOD CONTRACT from thefollowing book retailers:
1.Sunshine booksellers
University of Ibadan
2. The Booksellers(Mosuro Books)
Ring road, Ibadan
3.The Kids Centre
Akure Mall, Akure
4.Toyin Bookshop
Akure
5.Arowolo Bookshop
Akure
6,Seyem Bookshop
Akure
We will update youas more book retailers are added on

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She Looked in the mirror…Short Stories


Early dawn, just the mournful call to prayer, and her heart responded in tears. Her face feltstiff and she touched it gingerly. Quietly she removed all her clothes and walked naked to the courtyard looking at the sky. She went to the kitchen and poured water in the calabash. She set it up on three stones and stood in front of it motionless. She remained like that for a while consciously emptying her thoughts of all thoughts. When she felt reasonably calm and her heart had stopped weeping, she took the bowl of water and poured it over her person. The icy cold water brought her sharply awake. She suppressed her instinctive gasp.

With measured footsteps she returned to the bedroom and stared blankly at his drunken huddled form as it snored. She went to the corner of the bedroom and silently picked her clothes , stuffing them in the bag. Her son stirred in the corner and she carried him putting himon her back as she strapped him securely.
She checked her bag, to be sure her ATM was in her purse. She had gone over lateat night and from swollen bloody lips had asked for her ATM which she had kept with Madam Stella her neighbour. She took a long look at Kunle and the screams threatened to escape her lips. She turned him over and tied his hands to the bed post. The she slapped him awake.

He opened his eyes slowly and stared in shock at his wife who gave him a wolfish grin. His moth was taped with her bloodied underwear .
Are you awake now my darling?
He tried to talk but was too tightly gagged, his eyes bulged in wild terror when he saw the knife?
His wife sighed and his eyes pleaded for mercy. She seemed to be contemplating. In a soft voice she read the poem to him as if from a long ago memory.

Do you remember this poem? I wrote it the first time you raped me and you begged me that you did not know what came over you? I warned you that if you drive the sheep to the wall it might turn on you. I am going away. I hope they find you in time. Then she brought the knife, she hummed softly as she worked on him

Five hours later, the police found him. No one knew her name and Madam Stella could only weep for the sweet faced girl who brought her the ATM to keep.
Sweet revenge
She splayed him out
sang lullaby to his screams
as she tested the knife
against his scrotum
one peel after the other
she carved
in bloody art
all the names
he called her
in drunken stupor
through the red mist
as he raped her
and maimed her
for any man.

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Woman and other poems….Poetry


Woman
Don’t summarize me as woman
The weak sex
your ornament
bed warmer
house decor
look into my eyes
your fate is written
by the level of appreciation
you give to my spirit
to show you
way home
to the Lights
See me as woman
guided by the streams
of creation
to hold the beams
of Light back home
I am woman
dignified by grace
and enhanced by His Love
to stand as gate to your dreams
I am woman
I may help you
if you know how
to treat me as Woman.

THE RITE OF BECOMING WOMAN
Locked in the rhythm
Of my bloody past
We walk along the paths
Strewn with the pains
Of our tradition

I become woman
Through the red mists
Of the circumciser’s knife
Through the groan of torn flesh
I became a member
Of a bloody clan
That gave me membership
Through the cut of my womanhood
That denies my right
To be creator’s woman

I walk the nights
Feel the morning’s kiss
But stand in swirls of pain
That decides my right
To belong to the clan

Through the mists of pain
I hear his grunt
Of pleasure
Through mists of pain
I must bring forth his seed


Sweet revenge

She splayed him out
sang lullaby to his screams
as she tested the knife
against his scrotum
one peel after the other
she carved
in bloody art
all the names
he called her
in drunken stupor
through the red mist
as he raped her
and maimed her
for any man.

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What is that darling?

girl-882336_1280

How modern are we as parents? Really and truly?
Tinu is the executive officer of an NGO “Belfort Place”. She has a daughter called Banke. I am deliberately dispensing with surnames. That way they are private while we talk about them.

Banke is home on an exeat of a day. The mother takes Banke shopping and as they move towards the check out, something drops from Banke’s bag. Tinu had the presence of mind not to react instantly as Bank quickly drops it back in her bag. But for the rest of the shopping, Tinu is distracted. Later during refreshment, conversation ensues
Tinu: Who is he?
Banke: (Very mystified) He?
Tinu: Saw the condom in your bag
Tinu leans back and laughs, but Tinu is about to have a heart attack, never mind that her NGO counsels people on rape and victims.

“Honestly I didn’t know what to make of it, had she become sexually active already? She is only sixteen?”
Tinu had given her mother a look, shrugged and explained that another NGO had come to their school and distributed free condoms to all of them.
Tinuhad a lot to think about, it was an NGO, and the students had been given a talk about sexual activities. Tinu said, she felt suddenly vulnerable about her daughter and was not so sure she welcomed the idea of condom distribution in her daughter’s school. Seriously now, how many of us as parents who claim to be modern really love the idea of that talk? When we shared the event with Tunrayo, she was scandalized and went on and on about NGOs being part of the problem. She was of the view that children should not be told anything until they were well into their first year in University.
“Don’t be a goose Tunrayo said sharply, Olayinka got raped while she was in 300 level and she had been told nothing. If her mother had taken time to talk about sexuality at all, the poor girl would not have gone off to a strange city with her half- brother.

The argument moved from should NGOs be allowed to give sexuality orientation in secondary schools? Notice that my emphasis has been on sexuality and not on sex education. Is there a difference? Sure there is a difference? However the experience today is : what would be your reaction if your girl child has a packet of condom in her bag.
Banke said, she used the condom to let her seniors know of her preferred orientation
That started Tinu off as she asked what was going on in the boarding house for girls?
Banke rolled her eyes and turned to me: “Big Mummy, have you ever heard of feathering”
My throat went dry as I asked what she meant, and she said

When a senior girl is interested in a girl in the school, they ask her to be a friend with benefits. They educate her in what they mean about the benefits. If she refuses to give them the password to her server, they feather her. That means they come round to her bed at night and initiate her. Can you persuade my mum that I do not wish to give anybody right now a password to my server?
Can somebody please educate me further?