I had lost my bag and everything in it. It was raining as though the Atlantic ocean were in the sky and it was letting out all the water in it. Drenched is an understatement for what I was. I was stranded on the streets of Lagos with nowhere to go and no way to reach out to anyone and midnight was drawing closer.
I cried like a baby who had been deprived of breast milk but the rain washed away by tears and the sounds of thunder drowned out my wailing. With no other options coming to mind, I decided that I had to sleep, at least. I was in Pako, Akoka and the closest place I could think to go was Deji’s place in Chemist. As I dragged my way through the torrent, another tragedy befell, my slippers cut. I was too disgusted to drag on with it, too weak to bend to pick it up, so, I took off both legs and continued my struggle.
Deji was surprised to see me, obviously and he seemed really concerned about my situation. He welcomed me in with open arms, showed me to the bathroom and gave me a change of clothes. As I got back to the room, Deji tried to cheer me up, but I wasn’t having it. I just needed to sleep. I told Deji goodnight, turned to my side and closed my eyes.
I could sleep, I was too traumatised. As I laid in bed, eyes closed, I felt Deji pat me lightly on my shoulders.
I thought he had noticed I wasn’t asleep and was trying to pat me to sleep. His hands moving slowly to the little girls on my chest afterwards showed that he only patted me to be sure if I was asleep. I slapped his face with all my strength but he didn’t stop. He held on to my breasts so firmly that trying to break free only let them hurt even more. Did I forget to mention that Deji is really macho? Before I could blink, he was on top of me, with his hands holding mine firmly above my head. Oh! I screamed, but the rain drowned me out. I felt my eyes close out of weakness but I struggled to keep them open.
As Deji, thrust his weapon in and out of me, the only words I could get out of my mouth were ‘Deji, I’m a virgin’ and to this, Deji replied ‘well, not anymore’. I felt my soul die. I felt pain in my heart and in my below.
As Deji laid exhausted, I packed my clothes and staggered out of the house just before daybreak.
I got to the streets and all that happened after was a blur. I woke up on a hospital bed with news that someone saw me passed out on the streets.
I’m still terribly traumatised from #DejiDay. To whom do I cry? To whom do I tell my story? To whom do I show my scars?
This piece is written by FeezahWrites. Photo credit: Google Chrome.