*Rape is a very specific crime. The victim can’t leave the scene of the violation. The only complete escape for the

victim is death. Victims live with it their whole lives*- X user, lolaloveandart, 2024.

Growing up, my small family had a very ‘simple’ system. My father was a big-time trader in Alaba market and my mother was an accountant. They had two beautiful girls, my sister and I. ‘Awon omo mi to rewa’, my mother always said. My elder sister was a splitting image of my father both physically and in character. She shared his outspoken and adventurous spirit. The same spirit that earned her a lot of scolding from my mother as it easily got her into trouble. Luckily, my father always came to her rescue and then they would erupt in bouts of laughter. Never rejecting any opportunity to showcase their perfect set of white teeth. A beautiful contrast to their luscious dark skin.

I on the other hand, like my mother was more reserved. Though, I was a pale comparison to her when it came to beauty. We were both light-skinned with pointed noses. My maternal grandmother often referred to me as her

‘last born’. For context, my grandmother after 9 healthy births of 5 boys and 4 girls had a stillbirth. This also marked the end of her procreating era. She always believed I was a re-incarnate of her last baby. A belief I always questioned as it was against the teachings of the church.

My sister made the world bend for me. Where I was too shy or scared to speak for myself, she would step up and speak for me. I always loved how she could read the messages in my eyes and convey them to the world so beautifully. She would praise my love for reading, constantly compliment my drawings. I adored her as one would, a heroine. I admired her outgoing personality, but her acknowledgement of me and my talents made me feel just as valuable and important.

When my sister turned 14 and I turned 12, she got her first ever period. I watched in awe as my mother explained to both of us the concept of sanitary pads. I had already learnt about menstruation in school but seeing it happen real-time was definitely something different. Although I hated the fact that I was fated to bleed from my genitals every month, I couldn’t wait to join my sister in the transition to ‘womanhood’.

Not long after, death reared its ugly head into our lives. My maternal grandmother passed away at the ripe age of

87. She had slumped during the Late Afternoon Prayer and all efforts to revive her had failed. My mother was devastated, we all were. My grandmother was loved by all and sundry. As my mother wailed on the day she was informed of her death, neighbors swooped in to console her. My father tried all he could but she was inconsolable. My grandmother was a Muslim and the funeral was to be done the next day as was their tradition. My mother made plans to travel very early the next morning to her village and she was going to spend a week there. She wanted to be there for the entire period of her Firdau prayer. Despite our numerous protests, my sister and I could not accompany her as school was still in session. Our parents would not allow us miss a day of school.

My mother travelled very early the following day. It was a Saturday morning; we all woke up early so we could drop her off at the park. I had never been to the village so I didn’t know how far it was. Before she settled into the bus, we all gave her very big hugs and my father gave her a small kiss. My sister and I pretended to be disgusted by it. She promised to call us every day as she settled into the bus and waited for it to get filled. We said our goodbyes and made our way to where the car was parked so we could go home. In hindsight, I wish I could go back in time to immortalize that moment as it would be the last moments we spent together as a happy family.

It started Monday night, a night I would never forget. I woke up from my sleep unbearably thirsty. I was pissed.

This meant I would’ve to get up from my bed and I hated that. I left my bed and to my surprise, my bunkmate,

my sister was not in her bed. I just assumed she had gone to pee. Our house only had one bathroom that was in the passage. I went to the kitchen and got myself a glass of water and drank to my satisfaction. As I walked back to my room, I noticed my father’s room door was open which was unusual. I decided to help him close it before returning to mine, that was when I saw it. A sight I would never forget. My sister was on the bed with her legs spread out and my father on top her, huffing and puffing.

I stood there shell-shocked; I must have stood there for about 5 minutes before finally found the energy my body needed to go back to my room. I sat on my bed confused. I did not know what to make of the scene I had just witnessed. A thousand thoughts were running through my mind: how long had this been going on? Did my mother know? Why had my sister not reported? What was my father doing? Should I confront her? I heard my father’s room door closing and I quickly adjusted myself on my bed to make it look like I had been asleep. I heard her enter our room and climb up the stairs to her bed and settled in.

As the days passed and my mother’s return drew nearer, I kept observing my sister and trying to find out the true details behind what I had seen. We had been taught in school about sex and sexual assault and what it meant. I needed to talk to someone about it but I did not have who to speak to. I could not tell my mother because our communication was through my father’s phone- I had no phone of my own and either did my sister- and he was always around us when she called. The rest of my mother’s absence, I spent in sleepless nights trying to catch it occur again but it never did. As soon as my mother returned, I thought of how to get my mother alone so I could tell her what I had discovered. I hoped she would believe me. I hated myself for not noticing it on time. I could have done something. I should have done something. I could not bring myself to confront my sister about it either. She probably didn’t tell me because she knew I would find it difficult to believe her. If I hadn’t seen it myself, I would not believe it too.

Getting my mother alone was not so difficult as my father always spent most of the day at the market. He always returned from the market by 8 or 9 pm. My mother who closed from work around 6pm was always at home before

8pm. I summoned the courage and told her what I saw. I had never seen my mother look so pale. After what seemed like a lifetime of silence, she asked me a single question ‘Are you sure of what you’re saying?’ I replied positively. She asked me to excuse her and I did.

That night when my father came home, my mother called for a family meeting. We all sat in the parlour even though my father protested against the meeting stating my sister and I had school tomorrow. My mother remained adamant that what she had to discuss was too important to be slept over. My mother started the meeting as she does any other with prayers and she talked about how family was supposed to love one another and never betray each other. I was confused, I feared that she thought I was lying about what I had told her earlier.

After she finished her sermon, she asked me to repeat what I had told her during the day. With a racing heart and a shaky voice, I narrated everything I had seen and heard without any addition or subtraction. In the middle of my narration, I could hear my sister sobbing softly but I continued. By the time I was done, my father looked so pale one would think he was a corpse. My mother turned to him “Oniranu, Oniṣekuṣe”, she cursed. He quickly went on his knees and started begging her claiming it was the devil that made him do it. My mother ordered my sister and I to our room and we ran in, closing the parlour door behind us.

My sister who had not said a word since the beginning of the meeting finally broke her silence ‘He said he would do it to you too if I told anybody what happened. I was scared’. I didn’t know how to respond. I just hugged her and let her cry on me and I cried with her. Suddenly, we heard a loud thud followed by my mother’s screams and we ran back to the parlour. It was a terrible sight. My mother was on the floor holding her head and my father towered above her with a murderous look on his face. There was blood on the floor, indicating my mother ha injured during the fall.

My father without a word, went into the room got dressed and left the house. As soon as he left, I rushed to my mother’s side and helped her up while my sister ran to get the first-aid box. As she started to clean my mother’s wound, my mother instructed me to begin to pack our belongings. ‘We are leaving this house tomorrow morning’ was all she kept muttering interrupting her chants with brief screams of ‘ah, mogbe!’. They joined me as soon as my sister was done cleaning her wound.

As we packed, my mother asked my sister for details of the experience which my sister tearfully narrated. It was already 4 am when we were done packing, we had our baths and got dressed ready to leave the house. We were going to stay with my mother’s elder brother who lived somewhere in Ikorodu. Before we left, my mother made sure to tear my father’s clothes and break all the appliances and furniture she could. With our load in hand, we boarded the first keke that passed our street and left our house behind.

The weeks that followed were characterized by my father visiting my uncle’s house to beg my mother for forgiveness. This continued until my uncle and his wife sent him out running as they chased him. My uncle with a cutlass and his wife, a pot of hot water. After this, he came to our school and tried to take us home with him. My mother had already instructed our teachers to not let this happen. He was politely escorted by security out of the school gate. He then came to my uncle’s house but this time with his family members. My uncle called some area boys to beat them up and warn them to never return. That was the last we ever heard of him.

As we settled into our new life with my uncle, my mother began to heal. Once a loving wife was forced into the world of single motherhood by powers, she had no control over. I commended her for the extreme strength she displayed. Many women would not be able to stand up to their husbands and leave them in the society we lived. Many would cover up whatever dee their husbands committed, no matter how sinful in order to maintain the status quo of a happy family.

I knew she had healed the day of our convocation, my sister had just graduated as a doctor and I, a lawyer. She sat us down and said, “I’m proud of the both of you. Both of you are my source of joy. I regret that I wasn’t able to protect you, I did not know that I had married a monster. I can never forgive myself for allowing it happen…”. She was cut-off by her tears. My sister and I hugged her. My sister said “ It was never your fault and you have done your best to raise us to become the best, I have forgotten about him but I know God will not let him go unpunished. He will suffer till the day he leaves this earth.” “ We love you, mummy” I chipped in. We wiped our tears as it was not a sober occasion but a joyous one.

My sister and I spent the most part of our adult lives in the cause of victims of sexual assault and domestic violence. My sister as a physician attended to less privileged women who were being abused by their husbands or sexual partners and lacked the information needed to help themselves. After she got married, her husband helped her in opening a women’s shelter and sexual clinic. Her center was aimed at caring women going through any form of trauma or women seeking to learn about sex and their sexual health as well as family planning.

As a lawyer, I handled a lot of sexual violence cases pro bono. I made it my life’s mission to ensure abusers never got away freely. My hard work earned me many humanitarian awards. But no matter how many accolades I received, they never made up for the fact that I could never punish the one who had ruined our perfect family.