I dislike kindness. I dislike kind people. Partly because it can leave one vulnerable and partly because it can secure ones chances of getting into trouble.

Being a pastor’s child is all fun and gay until one day your father walks into the parlour with a strange looking figure. One that looks as though he has not had a proper meal since over a week ago. Forget food; I do not think this one has had a bath since Christmas last year. Frankly, I might not be wrong. His cow-dung-looking hair kind of gives him away. But of course I cannot confess any of that; otherwise, Father would get angry and give me that look. Even worse, he might decide to decorate my skin with a few koboko-induced tattoos.

My father says many times that we mustn’t say harsh things to our neighbours, as Christ preached that we love our neighbours as ourselves. Yet he also says that we must speak the truth at all times. This is what gets me confused. My question thereon is simple. How is it my fault that the truth is harsh? Or that it would make my listener feel bad. I do not decide what the truth is, or do I? No!

But who am I to tell these things to? My concerns are only as important a chain saw is to a baker. Mother says that one mustn’t ask too many questions; a girl must learn to be gentle and calm. Even if she was the very opposite of gentle.

My choices were not too many then. I gave a warm smile that cornered the left side of my face so that my dimples were only subtly evident. Ade was his name. He was the son of Mrs. Olawale, who taught the children in Sunday school. Apparently she could not earn enough to take care of him and his siblings since their father, who was more of a wretched drunk than a man, ran away. This time, I could not keep my question to myself any longer so I gestured with my hand—a habit we had been taught at school.

“Father for how long would Ade be staying with us?” Curious me inquired.

“For as long as Jesus allows”.

In my house, Jesus was the mask that my father puts on whenever he did not exactly have an explanation or a tenable answer.

And at the mention of the name of Jesus, every knee must bow, which meant that I was not allowed any further question.

Three weeks later, Ade would be sitting with my father in the veranda, having groundnut and garden egg, discussing how that Juventus signed in a new player who might end up a liability to the club. They would be laughing out like they had known each other for a decade or more.

Rev. Emeka’s daughter was getting married; my mother was excited. Her face would glow in a fine kind of way whenever she spoke of marriage. Sometimes she even tells me what kind of man she would want for me. Like that day I was playing with Esther and Emma, our lastborn twins. She called me to show me a picture of one of her friends whose daughter got married to a Hausa man.

“Ewa, come and see your big sister.” She calls every older pastor’s daughter my big sister.

“You know she is a doctor; she married a Hausa man.”. She added as her right index pointed to the beautiful bride and her groom in the photo. I would nod as though I were in sync with her words.

“Is her wedding gown not lovely? Don’t you want something like this when it is your turn? Ehn?” I was tempted to object; a wedding was not on the list of things I planned to do any soon. I wanted to remind her I wasn’t even close to teen age. It would have been of no use. I let her enjoy herself.

“I heard Hausa people take good care of their wives.” It is at this point that I would give a loud sarcastic laugh as I stood up from the couch, mother, and I sat on to get water from the dispenser in the dining room.

“Ma, I do not like Hausa people; I heard they make suya out of human beings. My teacher said it is called cannibalism.” Even though suya happened to be one of my favourite street foods, in this scenario, it was nothing but my trump card. My best bet is to end this conversation.

“You better keep your mouth shut! What do you and your teacher know?” She said as though I had said something abominable. I could not help but give a smile.

That would be the end of the conversation until some weeks later she would bring up the same topic.

Nine year old me would wonder what was so special about marriage that made my mother blush so hard when it was mentioned.

Marriage was the reason I had to know how to cut onions well and not “big big” like I usually do. It was the reason I had to learn how to make rice that would not be too marshy or beans that would not be too dry. It was also the reason I had to learn to bend my back very well while I swept the house, even though my father bought us a long brush for the same. It was so that my back would be in good shape to carry a child. These were things I have never understood. Yet I mustn’t ask.

After hitting the horn for as long as what felt like forever, Father stormed into the bedroom where Ma was dressing up. He slammed the door as he entered. I suspect that he must have ended up raising his voice at mother for spending too long in front of the dressing mirror, as is her usual custom. They were going to be late for the white wedding. And in a house like mine, one could imagine how important a white wedding is.

I begged Ma to let me accompany them, but she said I had to take care of my siblings. She promised to take me along the next time. That was yet another promise she was not going to keep; I knew that. I sulked for a while but later went ahead to watch Connie with Esther while Emma played with his toys. Ade was busy cleaning his father’s car. The last thing a man would want is to appear at his friend’s daughter’s wedding with a dirty car.

The next I knew they were both asleep, after about an hour of endless wails and the cheese balls dipped in Bobo that followed.

Ade tapped my shoulder and gestured with his hand that I follow him to his room; he had something he wanted to show me.

I wondered what it was and eagerly jumped right after. He slammed the door shut.

“You must not tell Mummy and Daddy anything if you love yourself, oo. If I hear you say anything to them, you will see what I will do for you.”

I mumbled my tears and held my lips as he had instructed. I was curled up in the right corner of the room, at the edge of the bed, against the wall. He got methylated spirit and cotton wool to clean my torn skin.

“See now?! If you had been a good girl, this would not have happened. Now you have wounds all over your body.

Is it good?”

All I could do was whine like a broken record. My underpants were torn; he had ripped my clothes off me when I tried to throw his hand off my body. It was not much of a struggle since he was bigger; he overpowered me quite easily.

“Now clean your eyes and go and give Esther food; she is crying.”

Three days after my parents were out again. And the next I knew I was on the bed with him on top of me.

My phone rang. I was not going to pick it. I was not in the right state to do so anyway. He motioned that I do. He placed the handset in my hand and rolled off me to catch his breath. I was still in tears, and he made sure I swallowed my sob before picking up the phone. It rang again; it was Ma. She wanted to know if the twins had had their lunch. They were going to end up coming up late since the clergy and clergy wives meeting was going to take a long while.

Each time I would find him on top of me, tears would flow endlessly. And after, I would have to listen to him yell in his baritone.

“If you tell Daddy anything, I will deal with you.”

He was tall, way taller than I was. He was not very muscular but had barely any layer of flesh on his face, just bones.

This jaw was obvious, his hair scanty in tiny black balls, and his ears, tiny.

But his hands were large, and so was his thing. The thing he would put in my bumbum while he had my hands down to the bed.

Many weeks later, I found myself kneeling down and making a confession of fornication to my parents at morning devotion. He was not present in the house; he had gone on an errand. My parents were teaching us about the commandments and how fornication was sin before God. They explained what fornication was, and it was as though they had struck me in the chest with a dagger.

The next I knew, warm streams of tears were running down my cheek, and the room was suddenly getting too hot. I felt like a dirty sinner. I was dirty, after all.

After hearing all I had to say, they wore faces on such that they would think they had seen a ghost. Ma was almost in tears too.

Father always taught us to be kind. He said that was Jesus’ command to us. Jesus wanted us to love our neighbours. This must have been the reason he brought a strange-looking figure into our home on a Sunday evening.

They laid me on their bed and parted my legs. I could not help but wonder what it is they were in search of. Perhaps they were checking to see if he went too far. Whether or not he had defiled me. I wanted that awful awkward moment to pass so badly.

It is a day before my wedding today. No one ever spoke of the incident after.

Yet there are some scars that just would not heal. They cannot.

About the Author:

Ayomide Oriowo is a lover of artwork who happens to be a medical student and handball player.