I have read books where the character is usually raped but not someone in my reality and till now, I had never met someone who told me that they had been through the harrowing experience; she is the least person I would expect to want me to write about her story. We are going to call her Jane, she loves fashion and dresses every bit of herself to perfection and drives a very good car. When I ask her how she can afford all these luxuries, she turns and gives me a coy smile; “Like you don’t know this Kampala life nyabo, it’s all about hustling…I know you disapprove Eve, I have read your blogs before, but this is the life I chose because of circumstances and I am sure one day when I get enough money to make my own things, I will…” I did not understand what that meant but I let her proceed.You see; my Father died when I was I think four years old, I don’t even remember his face or his face. Actually, I do not remember anything about him, I just remember how everyone told me I looked exactly like, a prettier version of him. My mother had a picture of him in the bedroom that she used to keep in the Bible and she would tell me stories about him and how he was such a good man. When I was 7, Mom got married again and we moved into a bigger house with everything I never used to have. My new father had a powerful voice, in that if he called your name you would think the walls were shaking. He was good to us and that is what Mom wanted, he did not have any children so I was basically the only child in the house. I had my own room and that made me very happy, he would take us to Didi’s World some Sundays or just some restaurant to eat. Basically, he spoilt us and we all loved it.
It all started when my Mother was pregnant with my little brother three years later, he would come to my room at night, and he would touch me in places Mom had told me no boy should touch till I am married. This went on for a three years and I was constantly afraid of him, I could not sleep at night because I was afraid he would be in my room. When I turned fourteen, I was happy that I was in boarding school so I could be peaceful there without being afraid of what he would do to me. One holiday, when Mom had taken my little brothers to the village; the visits became frequent till one night he raped me. (she pauses and looks away from me, the whole is immersed in silence for a few seconds as tears slide down her face. She turns to looks at me and I could see the hurt in her eyes, I had dug up fresh wounds that never healed)
He did this every night of the holiday until one day I discovered that I was pregnant, the irony is that I was the GLOVIMO (Chastity club) vice president and I tried to tell mother several times ever since he started touching me but she never believed me. I ran away from me.
I ran away without a plan and found myself at a Mosque, I explained my situation to the Imam and he let me sleep on the veranda, he gave me a blanket and a mat and in the morning gave me breakfast. The next day was Friday so he told me to help clean the compound, he gave me a wrapper to cover myself and look presentable among the faithful who were coming for Juma prayers. I stayed at the Mosque for two weeks before the Imam told me he had to take me somewhere, a certain Hajji wanted to take care of me after the Imam told him what my story was. I was so scared, wanted to run away again, but the Imam in his calm reassuring voice told me that it will all be fine because Allah willed it to be. Hajji took me in, he did not have a wife and he let me stay in his boy squatters till I gave birth. He took care of me and years down the road he has raised my son to be his son and I am now his wife. People judge me when they see me with him but I genuinely love him, he has been kind to me. No, I have not seen my family in years. Mother did not bother to even look for me, I remember where they stay but I do not know if I can bring myself to look at that man again.
Rape in teenage girls is among the leading cause of teenage pregnancies, most young girls that go through this ordeal never have that strength to tell someone about it and they suffer alone, sometimes even end their lives in fear of what would happen to them if they talked. Always be free with your daughters and when you notice any changes in them, visit a doctor for help.