Your uncles touch you while you sleep
And the walls wail as they mangle your innocence
You are eight
Olatunji sneaks in at midnight
He pulls down your underwear
And thrusts two fingers into the flesh between your thighs
You listen as his breaths quicken and thicken
And pretend that the sound is your mother scrubbing the kitchen floor
You are twelve
Olarinde comes in the early hours of the mornings
While the Imam calls out to Muslims to say their prayers
He gently spreads you open
And you hold your breath, quietly awaiting his entry
Olarinde never lasts more than seven thrusts
You know this because you count them.
One. Two. Three. Four. Faster. Five. Six. Seven.
When he climaxes, he cries into your hair and begs God for forgiveness
He closes you up again and scurries off into the darkness
You are fifteen
Adebola visits on Thursday nights
While everyone is watching Super Story in the living room
Bola uses his tongue
Or his tongues perhaps, it never feels like one
Sometimes your body betrays you and a moan escapes your lips
Sometimes he shoves himself into your mouth
When he finishes he whispers into your ear
‘Don’t pretend you don’t like this’
This confuses you
Because you almost believe that you do
And when you finally tell Mother, you tell her everything
You do not spare any detail
But you soon realize that this is a mistake
Mother, who is a deaconess and a spiritual leader
While you talk, she holds her head in her hands
And bellows like an animal in agony
She takes you to church, where the evil spirits are flogged out of you
Your uncles touched you while you slept
It has been seventeen years now
And you still have nightmares about the things they left inside you.
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