*TRIGGER WARNING; THIS TALKS ABOUT RAPE*

I was eight when I stopped smiling. Whenever my mother asked why I refused to smile, I lied and told her it was nothing. I didn’t tell her that her brother was the reason why. I didn’t tell her that he had called me to his room in the boys' quarters the Friday before or that he’d asked me to lie down so we could watch the new Barbie movie. He’d done horrid things to me, the melody from the TV drowning my cries. "If you tell anyone, even your mother, I’ll kill you." He fastened his jeans and left me in a puddle of my tears and blood, not before tossing me a packet of already opened biscuits.

I was eleven when he came again. My parents had left my siblings and me in his care after leaving for a wedding. My younger ones had gone to play with the other kids in the street, and I decided to clean the house before they got back, which made it impossible for them to sit still

He’d asked me to sweep his room, and I tried to work as fast as possible before he caught me again. I tried fighting him off, but it was useless; he slapped and kicked me till I was limp on the floor and had his way with me again. Tossing me a crumpled hundred naira note, he fastened his trousers and left me; no blood this time around, just tears and rage.

I was fourteen when they got the call, and my parents were watching the 6 o’clock evening news. It was one of the rare times they were off work and didn’t have to attend. My father picked up the phone. He sat down, his face in a thin line, unable to look at my mother. Noticing his change in demeanor, she asked him what the issue was.

Chidi had been speeding on the expressway and had crashed into a stationary truck. Apparently, his brakes had failed even though the car was routinely serviced. He was rushed to the hospital and declared dead on arrival. I didn’t tell anyone that I knew why the brakes failed. For months, I had been observing when the mechanic came to service the cars, watched videos on how to identify the brake wires and disconnect them, or that the night before, when I was sure everyone was asleep, I snuck outside and quietly snapped the wires rendering the brakes useless. By the next day, word had spread of his death; people had come in droves to offer their condolences.

Amidst the sorrow, my mother’s inconsolable form slumped over on the living room armchair, my father’s stoic face thanking the constant barrage of visitors, or my younger ones asking when their favorite uncle was going to come back from his trip, I smiled.