I woke up to the sounds of weeping women and children. The blues had swept through our village overnight, and the howling and lamentation in my compound was echoed throughout the community. I could not make out any words from the blubbering of the women; the children crying hysterically from lack of understanding of the situation and neglect from their mothers had drowned their voices. I sat up on my bed and stared at my feet, in this part of the world, it is far too tropical to sleep with a cloth over your body. The sun coming in through the small window by my bed shone across my feet, generating an unpleasant toastiness between my toes, I changed positions on my bed, replacing my feet with my head, allowing the sunrays to illuminate my face making me squint as the light travelled into my eyes. I could just about make out how high the sun was in the sky, it was most definitely past midday and nobody had come searching for me, I didn’t expect them to anyway, not today. My thoughts were overtaken by an ear-piercing cry from an obvious new comer to the congregation in the living room, alerting me of the shadow that appeared underneath my door. I sat up hastily; someone had finally come for me. She opened the door slowly; the age-old wooden door creaked noisily as it came to a stop at an angle that gave her full view of my room. She glared at me; we held eye contact for about 30 seconds, saying nothing to each other. The room became rather cool as the wind rushed in through the open door; the silence made me nervous and her glare rendered me motionless, I waited for her to speak, to condemn me, to verbally mutilate me but she did no such thing. She simply turned away and shut the door behind her, leaving me dumbfounded to say the least.

[4 years ago]

“Dada, how old are you today?” He knew exactly how old I was turning today, he had probably been anticipating this day from the very second he laid his gawking eyes on me 6 years ago when I had been brought to live with his family. “I am 16 today uncle”, his expression went from amusement to a smug joy – which was fairly similar to the ones I had seen on the faces of village children when given spare change from passing cars before the rest of their squadron. “Call me Lekan,” he said, as he tugged on my hand, pulling me towards him, “we’re not family, we’re friends, so you can call me Lekan.” He had spent a year or so in England at some point in his life and for this reason he likes to adopt the English accent mixed in with his naturally strong Ogbomosho Ibadan accent; omitting “s” in many words, stressing vowels that need not be stressed and taking unnecessary pauses between words and sentences. “You know I have always taken care of you and will continue to do so, but sometimes I need to be taken care of too,” naïve as I was at the age of 16, those words set off a silent alarm in my head that left me verbally unresponsive. His eyes momentarily darkened at my response so I quickly nodded and backed away as Aunty Tope’s footsteps became louder down the corridor. As she walked into the room and an appalling rendition of the ‘Happy Birthday’ song was belted out in my direction, I plastered a grin on my face as she sang and gave her a generous round of applause as she came to the end of her song. Aunty Tope, like most boisterous Nigerian women, was very much bipolar and so when she was in a good mood it was best to enjoy it and hope it stretches out for as long as possible. “Dada, my dear, are you ready?” It was birthday tradition to go to church in the morning, then to Uncle Lekan’s sisters house for lunch. Every year, I sat next to Uncle Lekan; he would put his arm around my chair and stroke my arm as he spoke to me, when he wasn’t doing that he would let his hand rest on my thigh as I ate my lunch, he would drink his Guinness quickly and ask me to get him another, as I stood up, the back of his hand would brush my bum. I used to think Aunty Tope didn’t notice but I know better now. At some point she stopped buying me sleeveless clothes, she would sit next to him at the table but he would say the seat was reserved for ‘the birthday girl’. Even at home I was kept busy with chores and errands, when Uncle Lekan called for me, she would quickly send me out to do an unnecessary task but she never spoke up about the way he looked at me, the way he licked his lips unconsciously as he stared at me or even about the way he touched me subtly but very inappropriately. I remember the taste of salt in my mouth from the tears that fell from my eyes. I was excused from the living room when we returned home from Uncle Lekan’s sisters house. I was exhausted after entertaining her triplets for many hours whilst the adults talked in the living room. “Ah Dada, you put them to bed so quickly, I should have you here more often,” she said to my dismay. I went straight to bed. I must have slept for hours because I woke up to a room that was completely pitch-black; somber might be a better way to describe it. I looked out of the window; I can never forget the starless sky. The only lights that ever illuminated this room came from sunlight or moonlight and tonight the moon was partially concealed by clouds that matched the night sky. Behind me my door noisily creaked open and a figure walks in. It was only until he spoke that I knew it was him, “So Dada, you’re a big girl now, I’ve given you a home, I buy you gifts, I pay your school fees, do you see that I love you?” The alarm ringing in my head was practically ear-drum shattering, this time it was accompanied by a lump in my throat, and once again I couldn’t speak so I nodded my head in the darkness, frozen on my bed, by the window. “Don’t you see?” he hissed at me, angered by lack of verbal response. He stepped closer to the bed; now standing directly in the path of the limited moonlight I could see his face. For a man that only just passed the age of 50, his face showed early signs of wear, his cheeks were beginning to sag, his eyes constantly watered, he had deep wrinkle lines across his forehead, of which his current facial expression only helped to enhance. He squinted his eyes to see me better in the darkness, he stretched towards me, reaching for my leg, and I immediately scuttled back up my bed further into the dark corner behind me. I could see the frustration in his expression clearly as he moved in the light. “Why do you run from me girl?” the tone of his voice was venomous, “I give you clothes, I give you food, I sent you to school, did your parents do that for you? Did they take care of you like I did? No, instead they abandoned you. Nobody wanted you, but I took you in and here you are an ungrateful omo ale [bastard].” I tried hard to hold back the tears, I had never been told why I had been sent here, my parents and I had been driving from Kogi to Lagos where daddy was starting his new job, I slept most of the journey but when I woke up I found myself being taken from our car by strangers telling me that I would be staying with some people for a little while, I cried, kicked and screamed, looking around for my parents, but they were nowhere to be found. That “little while” turned out to be 10 years and counting. The tears began to flow from my eyes, he lunged forward grabbed my foot pulling me flat on my bed, “Kilo ndamu e? [What’s wrong with you?] Don’t worry you will like it.” With one hand over my mouth, Uncle Lekan raped me.


I wasn’t always quiet; I used to be a happy child, a smiley child. My parents named me Oluwapamilerin – God has made me laugh but because of my hair I was nicknamed Dada when I got here. I stopped going to school at 16, Uncle Lekan refused to pay my tuition fees. Aunty Tope never objected, she in fact, became almost as quiet as me and never protested her husband’s wishes. I worked daily for my food, going into the market to sell whatever I was told to sell, from groundnut to dried fish. Uncle Lekan would constantly abuse me, saying I smell, or that I am stupid, yet he continued to rape me until I became pregnant for him. He will take me to a doctor to abort the baby, which eventually led to the destruction of my womb. At the start, he would hide his wrong doings from his wife but he no longer cared, he would call me into his bedroom at night, and send his wife to sleep elsewhere, she never complained, she would just get up and leave. Last night, I had been called to his room at about 3am, before then I lay in bed waiting. I had been laughed at all day by some of the children coming back from school, I used to be in the same class as majority of them, I was smarter than most of them, but here I was being mocked by them. Chioma was amongst them, my best friend Chioma, now made fun of my clothes with the others. I had confided in her the issues I was experiencing at home with Uncle l.ekan and Aunty Tope, and here she was taunting me, I was angry, but I could do nothing for the fear of what would happen to me if I was reported to Uncle Lekan. I got home to more taunting from Uncle Lekan, who had just been laid off from his job as a mechanic and so drowned himself for most of the day in palm wine, which made him irrational, clumsy and angry, more than usual anyway. It was disgusting to see a grown man behave the way he did. He took to physically abusing both Aunty Tope and I over the smallest things of which he deemed “not oyinbo enough”, like using our hands to eat or shouting across the room. I was beginning to lose my mind and Aunty Tope did not help. She was quiet most of the time, she never spoke up against him, she let him have his way with me, and she would simply look away. Outside of the house, she was your typical Yoruba woman; she was at all the owambe’s, helping with the catering, she was the person I had initially known her to be, but the second we entered the house, she became a recluse. I walked from my room through the kitchen, a knife lay on the table, I stared at it, and the anger within me began to rise, I hated him for ruining my life, I felt useless, I couldn’t have an education and so I would never make anything out of my life, no good man would want a stupid wife, let alone a wife that will never bear him children, my life has become a waste because of this man. This evil man. I grabbed the knife and held it behind my back, I steadied my heartbeat and walked to his room, I knocked and a low growl was heard in response. I pushed the door open and shut it behind me. Uncle Lekan lay on his bed obviously passed out drunk from the palm wine he had been consuming since he woke. The room had two windows and so was a little more illuminated than mine. I walked to the side of the bed carefully placing the knife under the pillow I would lay my head on, I began to remove my clothing, leaving just a wrapper around me, I lay down next to him waiting for him to roll on top of me. I counted my breath to stop my nervousness from becoming obvious; I doubt he would have noticed anyway. He stirred, acknowledging my presence, and began to wriggle his trousers off, he then turned to roll on top of me. I steadied myself as he did so, slowly reaching under my pillow for the knife, he began to undo my wrapper and my breath ceased. He stopped and looked at me with a puzzled expression, which slowly turned into an evil grin, “you are nothi-“, I plunged my knife into his back before he had the chance to say one more degrading thing to me. I took the knife out of his back and pushed him off me, he lay next to me, bleeding and gasping for air, I stared at him as life left his body. I got up, took my clothes, and walked out of the room; I washed myself and cleaned the knife in the bathroom, before going back to bed. This morning Uncle Lekan was found dead.

Aunty Tope ran outside crying and wailing, she put on a good show for the village as the mourning widow, but I know she hated him with every inch of her body and so it could not possibly upset her as much as she claimed it did.

I felt no emotion; after all it was my knife that plunged into his heart.

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#Fragments King Kevwe

Hiya guys, so I decided to write a piece to a short story started by Ezim Osai on his blog (deltaninthewest.wordpress.com). The idea is that one writer starts the story and another writer continues it and another writer picks it up from there, #Fragments. So start off by reading his start King Kevwe and then mine :)

…changed for Kevwe.

Just before her 13th birthday, her father passed away from a prolonged illness. This time around Kevwe had no grand birthday party planned, no gifts were shared to her class, in fact, it was as if no one had remembered it was her birthday. Not even Kevwe. She had become reserved, she never spoke up in class as she would normally, she didn’t study for tests, and soon she was being called in to see the principal regarding her poor grades. Kevwe didn’t care for school anymore, she felt like a piece of her had died alongside her father. She loved him dearly, they were very close, people always said that the way she behaved showed her to be a true daughter of her father and that made her smile every time.

Since his death Kevwe had made some new friends, they hung around the Town Centre; her friends were known to be notorious but she hung out with them regardless. Her mother was never around to tell her off for being around them, she regularly made trips abroad and left Kevwe in the care of the lazy house helps that did not care what Kevwe was up to. Kevwe had grown fond of one of the boys she befriended. He was taller and much older than Kevwe; he was the smartest out of the lot and seemed to be the person they all looked up to. He came from the streets, he had no mother or father, yet he managed to teach himself up to the level someone of his age in the public schools should be at, she loved to watch him talk, he inspired her even though he was involved with this bad group. He would regularly confide in her his aspirations and asked questions about school…

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Angry black woman. #DemandforChangeNigeria

I am an angry black woman. I am an irritated, frustrated, enraged, infuriated black woman for many reasons on this very bleak day.Why would I be angry? I have many reasons to be angry but I’ll highlight the dominant issues today in this post.

I am an angry Nigerian woman because the people in my country are uneducated. Men do not value women, and women do not value themselves. Women are seen as a man’s property, an inanimate object that belongs to them. We are “supposed” to abide by the rules of the man against our will because he is the head and we are the neck of the house, but what is a head without a neck? Have you ever seen a headless chicken? They run around the place for a few seconds then collapse, dead and useless, that is a man without a woman, so why treat us like slaves in our own home? In Nigeria, marital rape is culturally accepted; it is seen as unrealistic for a man to rape is wife because of this. It is therefore not seen as a criminal offence, proving that the law in Nigeria is unfair to woman and has a gender bias (linking to the fact that a male child in most Nigerian families is favored compared to a female). Section 282 of the Penal Code, governing the North of Nigeria and Section 357 of the Criminal Code, governing the South, both exempt a husband from the definition of the offence of rape. The worst thing is that the women don’t know any better because they are not educated about themselves, they don’t know that they have the right to say no to their husbands, they believe they have to be submissive to the man, be a source of pleasure at all costs, even if it costs them their happiness. Many women that are being subjected to marital rape will not speak up for many reason, including; fear of their abuser’s retribution, inability to leave the relationship possibly because of their children, or they may not know that rape in marriage is against the law. I know there are people that will say why doesn’t she just get up and leave, but it is never that easy. Never. How can someone who stood in front of your family, in the presence of God at the alter, who professed his love for you, who possibly gave you children that are your pride and joy, rape you.

I am a frustrated Nigerian woman because my people read the bible with one eye open. They take the bible verse in Corinthians, which says, “wives should not deny their husbands” to the extreme. The problem is that many people don’t understand that rape isn’t just about the sex, sex is only the weapon used to dehumanize, humiliate, belittle the victim. The same bible also says, “Husbands, love your wives and do not be harsh with them” (Colossians 3:19). Forced sex is not love and the bible is clear when it explains that a man should provide sexual satisfaction to his wife and she should do the same, mutuality reigns in the bedroom. Correct me if I am wrong, as I am not as knowledgeable as I could possibly about bible verses.

“If a man calls his wife to bed and she refuses, and then he sleeps angry, the angels shall curse her until he awakens.” Qur’an, 2.187 ‘they are garments for you and you are garments for them,” and this is how each spouse acts, emotionally, physically, and spiritually for the other. It is not sexual abuse rather, it is to protect the marriage bed and keep it undefiled, where each spouse rushes to fulfill the rights and desires of the other. Islam is a religion of peace, and honors women and most of the Hadith talks about how to treat women. Islam also says that ‘O ye who believe! Ye are forbidden to inherit women against their will. Nor should ye treat them with harshness, that ye may take away part of the dower ye have given them, except where they have been guilty of open lewdness; on the contrary live with them on a footing of kindness and equity. If ye take a dislike to them it may be that ye dislike a thing, and God brings about through it a great deal of good.’

Marital rape is seen as unAfrican or Eurocentric because my people are uneducated. Below is a link to my story very close to my heart, hopefully it will help you understand marital rape better and #DemandforChangeNigeria.


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Confessions Pt.1

I am sitting on the toilet seat, my pants are wrapped around my ankles in quite a twisted artistic fashion, I could see myself taking inspiration from the twisted cotton that make up my pants. I don’t actually need the loo but somehow sitting on the toilet seat with my pants up is unnatural and I feel a steady uneasiness that I might forget I have them on and wet myself which in turn will be downright embarrassing even though I am on my own. But what am I really doing sitting on the loo with my pants down to my ankles if I don’t want to take a leak? I am crying. I am pouring my soul out into my hands in form of a salt solutions that stream down my face rapidly, making it very difficult for my already poor eyes to see anything clearly. Why am I crying? I do not know why, but what I do know is that whatever is causing me to cry is filling my mind with pictures of knives, loneliness, cuts and bruises.

John 8: 32 – “and you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free”

Look at me, starting by quoting a passage from the bible. I have pretty strong and personal views about religion and Christianity but that’s something I’d rather not discuss. This particular passage, however, I came across on my tumblr and remembered my mother quoting this to me several times when I would lie to her and she would try and coax me to tell the truth before proceeding to whoop my ass flat into a pancake, but now I’m looking at it from a different light.
“…The truth will set you free.”
The truth will set me free so where do I begin my confession.

I am the foulest, most disgusting, most selfish person you will ever come across. Why? I am a cheat. I have cheated. There you have it. I am a disgrace. But do you know the worst thing; I am also a hypocrite because I cannot stand a cheater, yet I am one. So basically I hate myself, makes me quite silly, right? I used to think so too, but I really do hate a cheat. I am not proud that I have cheated, but I have recently been confronted and criticized about my hypocrisy so let me confess it now. I don’t condone or promote it, nor would I say the circumstances of my relationship mattered at that point because I allowed my lips touch the lips of another man. The common question you ask someone that cheats/cheated or is cheating is why be with someone you will cheat on, why not break up? Simple answer, I don’t know. That obviously isn’t a very good answer; maybe I was a young horny teenager who didn’t take into consideration the implication of my actions at the time. But that doesn’t make it right, or justify my reason for doing what I did. I made my mistake and that is my cross to bear. For a long time I hated myself too, despised the ugliness I had done, it took me forever to leave it in the past and I know a part of me hasn’t but that old dog has been put down as long as I have learnt from it.
It still doesn’t change the fact I hate a cheat.

Anyway, my tears are now dry on my face. I think I must have been too engrossed in this write up. I still don’t know why I was crying so hysterically.

“…The truth will set you free.”

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Africans don’t suffer from depression/a revelation

Sometimes I want to run far away to a place where no one would find me. Not even my family or my friends, a place so far away not even the enemies that wish to ruin me will follow. I will start again there.

It feels weird writing again. I can not exactly say why I stopped but I know I am back now. I started writing as a way to explore my feelings and thoughts that were beginning to fill the prison that is my mind, pushing to its limit and almost driving me completely insane. I started writing to understand my prisoners and come to terms with them while trying to find myself in all of the chaos. I figured them out, down to the very last one but I never truly found myself. Instead I found this waste of space, an emptiness that was fading away, I found a pain that I buried deep inside of me and had completely forgotten about, I found a broken person and I got scared. I had come face to face with my demon and after all the lessons I had taught myself through my writing I fell to my knees and trembled with fear at the foot of my demon and she laughed. She laughed at my pathetic whimpering and made mockery of my pleas.

Today I hear her sniggering at my thoughts of running away; she is a constant reminder of woes.

But Africans don’t suffer from depression. I am not a weak person; I am a strong African woman.

Why are you depressed? If our people could make it through slavery, we can make it through anything.”

“When a black woman suffers from a mental disorder, the opinion is that she is weak. And weakness in black women is intolerable.”

“You should take your troubles to Jesus, not some stranger/psychiatrist.”

– A revelation-

It is not possible for you to understand my thoughts, nor would I ever want to reveal the darkness and hurt within me because you will shut your eyes and close your ears, nobody wants to be told the things that go on in my head. Nobody deserves to feel what I feel and so I will not share the demons of my mind with anyone, not even to my worst enemies. However, I will explain them in their most generic form.

I lack the motivation to do the simplest things. To get out of bed in the morning is a struggle. I don’t see the point in starting a day that will be filled with constant bullshit, wasting my energy on people that will eventually walk out of my life like everyone before them has done, so what is the point? Why would I want to put myself through the stress? I am most comfortable in my room, in my bed, I refuse to go out with my girls, I don’t want to go to the gym anymore, I don’t want to eat, I just want to sleep all day and all night. The things I love so much I don’t do anymore, because I simply cannot be bothered. It has become an effort to cook, so I don’t eat anymore, I developed painful ulcers that seem to be ugly little monsters clawing at my insides, eating away what’s left of me.

When I walk, I walk with demons on my back, pulling me out unto the road waiting for a car to run me over, throwing me over the bridge, pushing signs on me till I fall into a coma. Every single time I walk. It aches to feel the sudden pressure to attempt suicide, then having to rejig my mind to focus on moving my feet in my original direction. It is all both physically and mentally exhausting and sometimes I want to give up and end it all.

The crying never ends. It’s spontaneous, triggered by nothing, sometimes just a simple thought and I’m spilling waterfalls from my eyes. I am constantly filled to the brim with emotion that I have tried my best to hide but I can’t take it anymore.

I developed a social anxiety. I don’t want to be seen in public, I don’t want anyone to know me, to know I exist; I want to blend into the walls and escape as soon as possible. I used to enjoy going out, it was fun, I loved the loud music, the dancing, and the attention of course, but now, I get sick to my stomach before going out, it suddenly feels like I am naked in a room full of staring eyes. It makes me uncomfortable, yet I don’t want to be alone. I crave the company of another person, I want someone to talk to, someone to listen, someone that will always be there because most people that suffer from depression believe they have no one, and they don’t want to make attachments for the fear of being left alone and so they push people away. Out of the 7 billion 47 million people on this Earth they don’t believe they have the right to matter to anyone, they are sure that they are the problem and never the solution. Yet, they will smile, they will laugh with you, joke with you, be there for you, they won’t show you this side of them because they don’t want you to see what they are going through, they can not tell you and of course, you will never ask.

To me, the worst thing about the disorder is the way people react to it. You confide in someone and of course they will hug you, tell you everything will be okay, check up on you from time to time. In the beginning, everyone is there, but then they forget and you are on your own. But you don’t want to remind them because you don’t want the sympathy; you don’t want to seem like an attention seeker so you just deal with it internally, let it eat you up from inside out, and plaster a smile on your face, a joke on your tongue and say “I’m fine” even with tears in your eyes and scars across your wrists, and no one will ever question you.

There is a lack of understanding when it comes to mental disorders, people still say a lot of things that are not only wrong but incredibly harmful to people suffering from depression. Depression isn’t just feeling sad or down for a few days, it is a mental illness that affects you physically, emotionally and obviously, mentally. I could start listing all the things you shouldn’t say but what good would that do if you’re still going to think it? There are those that will tell you “cheer up!” ‘Lighten up!” “It can’t be that bad”, then there are the ones that will call you an attention seeker, tell you that you are selfish and you what you say you are, ones that will tell you that your problems are not as big as theirs. Some will give you what they believe is good advice, “smile more” “get a boy/girlfriend” “get a new hobby” “go to church, your depression is a punishment from God.” There’s the outrageous, “try chamomile tea” ”you’re a writer? This should be good for your blog right?”

“Leave me alone”

“Deal with it”

“You’re useless”

“Our thoughts and prayers are with you”

“Your depression is punishing the rest of us”

“I know what you’re going through”

Please don’t ever say any of these to someone that comes to you with his or her problems. The strength it takes to confide in someone is tremendous; you don’t know what this person might be going through. Be there for them, listen to them, and help them where you can. I beg you to educate yourself and educate people around you, let us remove this stigma around mental disorders.

If you know anyone that you think might be suffering from a mental disorder or if you feel that you might be, see a GP, it might just be the best decision you make. If you’re not confident enough to go on your own, get a friend to go with you or call one of the helplines below.

(Depression) Mind: 0300 123 3393 (Mon-Fri, 9am-6pm)

(Eating Disorders) Beat: 0845 634 1414 (Mon-Thurs, 1.30pm-4.30pm)

(Panic and Anxiety) No Panic: 0844 967 4848 (daily, 10am-10pm)

or talk to me, let me share with you what i’m going through and help you find a way out of it as I am.

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Skit V

“I feel myself falling into a downward spiral, after weeks of a constant high. I’m not sure why this time but I hope writing would release some of the emotional tension I have been experiencing.
My problem is that I’m still very much madly in love with my ex and it is probably the most pathetic experience I have been through and trust me when I say I’ve been in unbelievably pathetic situations numerous times. I am sorry you have to read this, honestly so sorry and it’s okay if you want to close the tab and toss a couple bullets my way. I will gladly accept them with all the grace I can muster. I am a weak, and pathetic person and I didn’t think I’d ever be this angry at myself. I am not the sort of person to remain in “post-breakup-sadness” for more than a day or two, a week max (depends on who, what and why?) but this has gone on for way too long. I can not simply get myself to not be upset when I think about A, I’ve tried my usual on-to-the-next state of mind, I’ve tried keeping myself busy, I’ve even tried to avoid common topics we shared but to no avail. I am stuck. I need to come unstuck. I don’t know, maybe I need closure or something but he gives me the cold shoulder every time I attempt a conversation. For the first time since I started this blog I am the one in need of help, I don’t have the answers and I really need them. I am sorry to put you through this but I had nowhere else to write this down and no other we to truly understand how I felt.
My dear reader I don’t know what to do.”

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Her Story

“At the age of twelve, I lost my innocence to a female. It was a gradual loss, a loss that I allowed to happen as a naïve child experiencing something new. She made me feel loved; she made me feel warmth where I didn’t know I could experience it. We experimented with this newfound warmth over a whole summer; we used each other to learn about ourselves. It was during this time I found out what I loved, and how to love another person but that novelty slowly died as I grew up in boarding school.

I lost my virginity at the age of 14 to someone I did not care for, please do not judge me for this, I was a fool looking for an outlet. To someone I did not love or felt any emotional attraction to. You can say this was the point of my downfall. I felt nothing for this person, but I had let him do to me what I should have kept as sacred as the bonsai trees that stand beside the alter today. I let him ruin me. I let him penetrate my soul and fill me with a lustful evil that resides within the depth of my mind, body and soul. I cannot tell you today why I let him do this to me. I cannot tell you what led to this event. The mind is powerful and mine has succeeded in blocking out the memory and burying it where I cannot find. I imagine this to be the point at which my innocence died and I became somewhat evil from the inside out. There was a growing lust/hate relationship for the male species within me. I learnt to utilise my God-given womanly parts and synchronise this with a mind of lust and evil to get what I required from men. I played games with their minds, I learnt the right sequence of wording to speak to a man to entrap him in this battle of lust and love that he cannot get out of. Like a fly in my web, and I am the black widow. Every man is different and so the tactics changed with the person. I played the game of men as a woman. I taught myself the alpha-male complex of which I lived by and stuck to, no matter the situation or consequence. I had to be in control.

The alpha-male complex in a female, gives her the ability to think in the way men do, and so behave accordingly. This led to many a problem in my life. I could no longer stick to one man; I had the ability to be with multiple people and due to the organisational skills passed genetically to me from my mother, I made no mistakes, ever. It didn’t matter how complicated it got, I had a different voice or personality or different way of dealing with each man, and I never forgot whose was whose. It is a terrible thing to be unable to commit, you can not love a person without the fear of cheating because it is unnatural for you, just like the fake cherry blossoms that line the aisle.

There was no one to talk to; I was alone feeding off the lustful acts I committed on an every-other-day basis. Evil cannot coincide with happiness my dear reader, it simply cannot. I had fallen into a black hole that consumed my heart and mind. I could not see the good in myself and required the touch of another to feel good about myself. When I was alone I saw darkness, nothingness, sadness, and a cold depression that made me feel worthless. I cannot bear to describe what depression feels like to you reader, I cannot bear to see another suffer from such a mental pain that almost destroyed my life. I would let you know this; depression is an inward struggle, like HIV or AIDS you cannot see it on my face, you will never know a person struggling with depression from yourself, so I encourage readers to take this into consideration when you speak to anyone from family members to strangers. It was the fact that he did not run when I told him my story that brought me to this place, where I stand at the end of the aisle in a beautiful dress, veil over my face, staring into the back of the head of the man whose aura makes me feel beautiful without his touch or his word. He became the light that will escape my black hole and the one that will pull me back into the real world, the one I will commit to forever.

This would be my beginning.

A happy beginning.”

Her true story.

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