“Dissociative amnesia," my therapist called it; a strange name for something so personal, and so real. It's when your mind sequesters parts of your life, concealing memories too unpleasant to face. The details and emotions evaporate in a fog, leaving you with nothing but the empty space where they used to be.

It’s a coping mechanism, a way for the mind to shield itself from the emotional wreckage of trauma. It provides security by locking away memories, preventing you from experiencing the pain; but at the expense of keeping elements of your life buried, just out of reach.

I'm at the apex of my sessions with Mrs Clinton, and I've just left her office, swamped with emotions I can't express

I had experienced every type of household dysfunction imaginable, including parentification, emotionally absent parents, verbal abuse, physical abuse disguised as discipline from my mother, and parents who loathed each other.

I was also molested twice, as a teenager.

 Now in my thirties, I’ve been working to free myself from the thick, tangled vines of my past, woven firmly by a dysfunctional family. I thought I was down to the last stubborn tendril, until a childhood memory surfaced, sharp and relentless, like cruel spectres laughing at my struggle to break free.

I was eight when it happened.

The sky was heavy with clouds as I played outside with my friends, unaware that my carefree afternoon was coming to an end. My younger brother ran over, shouting, “Aunty Nene!”; a nickname I inherited from a deceased aunt I resembled. It was about to rain, and my mother wanted me inside.

Reluctantly, I waved goodbye to my playmates, dragging my feet home with a pout. My mind was still buzzing with excitement from the games, so I headed straight to my room, craving something, anything, to keep the fun going.

My mother entered the room with her usual sense of impending doom, checking to see if I was back inside. I knew better than to ignore her. If she had to look for me, her voice would pierce the air, loud enough for the tenants to hear, and her punishment, wild and public, would come quickly after.

As she walked in, she halted, her gaze fastened on me, as if she was searching for something invisible, as she always did. I welcomed her, and she replied with a frown engraved deep into her face.

My mother was odd in the craziest ways. She exuded tension, mood swings, and an obsessive need for control rather than maternal tenderness. She performed her motherly responsibilities, but that was only part of the story. The other half was filled with anxiety, rage, and volatility.

"Who were you playing with?"

I had scarcely begun to respond before she interrupted me with another question.

"Are you alright?" "Why does your face look like this?"

Knowing my mother, confessing that I wanted to spend more time with my friends would’ve earned me a flurry of slaps and a barrage of curses. So, instead, I played it safe. 

“I’m fine,” I said, pretending there was nothing wrong, knowing it was the only way to keep the storm at bay.

“Lie down let me check you”. She barked immediately.

I laid down without protesting. I wasn't surprised; after all, this had been her standard procedure for ten years, anytime she suspected I was involved in anything sexual. She pushed my legs apart wider than they could comfortably go, searching me for indications of penetration as the pain from her hard touch went through my thighs.

I noticed I used the word "involved"; a simple transitive verb.

My mother’s concern was clear, but her words always carried a heavy accusation. She spoke as if I’d somehow sent out a signal, advertising myself to the monsters hiding in the shadows. Her voice was sharp, unsettling, as though I’d chosen this, as if I had willingly invited something I had no control over. To her, it was never about being violated. It was about being guilty.

Our special routine was supposed to be just another walk in the park, but that wasn't the case this time as she pulled out her perusing fingers. 

"Who did this to you?!". Her expression furrowed with anxiety as she showed me a white sticky discharge on her finger.

“Mummy, I don’t know,” I stammered, confusion twisting inside me. I couldn’t understand what it was or what it meant. But the fear, that was clear. It crept in, knowing the storm my mother was about to unleash, and I braced myself for the chaos that followed.

I remember that moment with unsettling clarity. At that age, I knew about seminal fluid, and her words washed over me at first, almost meaningless, until they didn’t. When her tone sharpened, I began to grasp the gravity of what she was really suggesting.

“Shut up your mouth! How can you not know what this is?” she snapped, her frustration clear as she stormed out of the room.

My mother returned with a clothing iron in hand, her face expressionless as she plugged it into the socket beside my bed. I watched her with a strange curiosity, studying her as she adjusted the heat. It wasn’t until she gripped my small arm tightly, sitting down on a stool in front of me, that I began to understand.

Her legs, strong and unyielding, pressed against me like iron bars, holding me in place, trapping me. In that instant, it hit me: my own mother was about to threaten me with a scalding iron.

"Oya, tell me the truth! Who touched you?!" she demanded, yanking my head toward her left thigh. In her other hand, the iron inched closer to my face, glowing with heat.

"Mummy, I don't know!" I cried, desperate for a miracle. The door was locked. My father couldn’t hear me.

I could feel the scorching heat, just two inches away from searing my skin. I squirmed, trying to escape her grip, but her legs held me in a vice. I never believed my mother would actually brand my face, yet here I was, trapped in the moment, fear blurring my thoughts. Instinct took over.

"It was Uncle Chima!" I screamed.

Our family’s compound was quite spacious, with a bungalow at the heart of it and a two-story building housing our tenants. Uncle Chima lived in one of those apartments.

Uncle Chima was the quintessential kind and generous adult. He’d playfully toss me in the air whenever he walked by, always slipping me a few coins for sweets, and called me his "little wife" among other endearing names. All this took place right under my mother’s watchful eye. I’d never been alone with him, nor had he made any inappropriate advances.

My mother ran to my father with the alarming news, and Uncle Chima was promptly arrested. But before the handcuffs clicked, my father summoned him for questioning. I was brought out and asked to confirm what I had told my mother, and I looked straight into Uncle Chima’s eyes as I repeated my story. My father and his brothers were quick to react, unleashing their anger with a flurry of blows before Uncle Chima was taken away.

When he was finally released from the police station, having pleaded for his freedom with his family’s help, he returned to his flat to pack up. My father and his brothers had given him five days to clear out and leave the premises.

Two days later, something chilling unfolded. My mother was outside, hanging freshly washed clothes, when a sudden, frantic movement caught her eye. Uncle Chima was at the front of our house, frantically yanking at the door, his voice echoing my name in a desperate chant.

My mother, her heart racing, rushed to stop him, but his strength was wild and unhinged. In the struggle, he broke her nails, shoving her aside. By then, our other tenants had come out, drawn by her screams.

Uncle Chima had grabbed my hand, pulling me toward him with a manic urgency. Just as he almost succeeded, a tenant intervened, shielding me from his grasp.

The scene was surreal and terrifying. He had lost his sanity, spiralling into a psychotic frenzy triggered by the accusations. I can still see his bloodshot eyes, wild and frantic, as he raged against our door, his voice piercing through the night, calling my name in a haunting cry.

The moment I stepped through the door of my home, I raced to my laptop, my heart pounding in desperation for answers. My mind was still spinning from the revelation, each new detail only deepening my despair. This seemingly insignificant detail about the vaginal discharge seemed to twist the knife deeper.

Since leaving my therapist's office, I had been unravelling, but this new discovery felt like a vicious, mocking twist of fate.

The discharge my mother nearly scorched me over was called physiologic leukorrhea. Apparently, It’s a common part of growing up, a sign that the body is slowly churning out oestrogen, leading to an increase in discharge. This process starts months, sometimes years, before menstruation ever begins.

Discovering this was like a gut-wrenching punch, deepening the chasm of despair I was already falling into. The stark normalcy of it all clashed violently with the terror I had endured. It was as if the universe was mocking my suffering, turning the mundane into a reminder of the chaos and injustice I had faced.

My mother, despite her good intentions, knew nothing about prepubescence. I get it, no one can know everything. But a simple visit to the doctor could have cleared up why I had that white discharge, which looked disturbingly like semen. Instead, I ended up accusing an innocent man of something he never did.

This weight is too much for me to carry, and once again, I’m left to grapple with the scars of that dark time alone. It’s the same lonely struggle I faced when I was allegedly raped, tending to the wounds in isolation, with no one to share the burden.

The harsh words of my aunt reverberate in my mind, as bits of my troubled childhood return to me with unsettling clarity.

“Look at you, playing around, but if they’re touching you, you won’t speak.” Her tone was a cold, accusing echo of my mother’s, hinting at the betrayal of sexual intercourse rather than the horror of sexual abuse.

The sting of those words, so charged with blame, drags me back into the murkiness of those memories, leaving me to wrestle with the weight of their meaning.

A dull ache pulses through my skull as the weight of it all crashes down on me.

The real violation wasn’t Uncle Chima, it was my mother. She stripped away my innocence in her own way, with her accusations, her invasive checks, and her relentless suspicion. I wasn’t just a child suspected; I was a child betrayed.

It’s far too late now to speak up, just as it was too late twenty two years ago. The truth has festered in silence, and I fear what would happen if I tore it open now. My family, already fractured and brittle, couldn’t survive the blow.

And Uncle Chima... where did he go after that? Did he ever recover from the madness I inflicted on him? Did he spiral further into the darkness we cast him into? I can’t help but wonder if he’s even still alive, or if he died long ago, broken by the same guilt that haunts me.

Once again, I am cast into an inimical abyss, swallowed whole by the weight of my skyrocketing emotions. I feel the familiar tendrils creeping up again, slowly coiling around me, pulling me back into the suffocating vines I once fought so desperately to escape.

I know I was just a child. I know it wasn’t my fault. I’m afraid that these vines will spread, tightening their grip.

Oh! I’m convinced that this time, I won’t break free because the guilt runs too deep, endless and crushing. 

Now, I am shackled by the lies I spun about Uncle Chima, they’ve come to life, lurking in the shadows, waiting to devour me whole.