Lost. At Home

Lost. At Home - Chapter 5

"It was just another Sunday. My friends and I were walking back from church, we'd usually stay back and chat after the service. It was now late and we were on our way. I saw Peter, a boy who'd made several advances at me but in vain – cause you know I was Diva in my time. He called me out from our group of friends and this time I decided to heed; telling the girls I'd meet them later. Peter had an afro and strangely enough, almond eyes – he was really handsome. So it wasn't cause of his looks that I turned him down. He would always be found in the wrong crowd. His friends were the local juveniles: petty thieves, aggressors and our communities' misfits. I knew just how easily Peter could become that person as well. And eventually, he did. This reality scared me because I'd always fancied him. But my parents instilled in me that morality is no match for bad company. I had seen how girls in my neighborhood became mothers at the first hint of puberty. My parents did everything in their power to shield me from all these vices. For a boy, the worst things that could happen were endless: drugs, alcohol, violence, robbery etc. but for a girl only one thing defined our lives: when we would get pregnant."

"Peter led me to his house as we chatted about what was going on in our lives. I for one had my exams and his business was doing really well."

"What I expected to be a usual casual chat between two neighborhood friends quickly escalated. We were just the two of us in that house and that gave him the dim-witted impression that I was down for whatever. Without thinking, he started caressing my breast like a stress ball, and then my underwear and then my buttocks. I was gripped with a fear I'd never felt before. I just wasn't ready for what followed. But he didn't care. Before I came to a full realization of what lay before me, I was naked to the skin. My hairs stood up in grave uneasiness."

"With each thrust of his waist, my screams became louder and louder. They weren't the screams of contentment – No – but of hurt. Moans for help. There he was – jabbing mercilessly on my cold, frightened body. I left that day feeling like he stole a piece of me I've never truly regained. My pride, my dignity as a woman and with that, every chance at a better future. The world was already an uphill battle but boy did he push the wind in my direction."

Fighting back a gush of tears, she went on...

"As is tradition, he had to marry me – the woman he raped in cold blood. Needless to say we didn't live happily ever after. And when I had you, they chose to name you Dabwiso because you're a "special" child – the product of a rape. I was only eighteen, and had no say over your upbringing. You father never loved me. And quite frankly, neither did I. I didn't resent him for that – Never will. He felt trapped in a marriage that was against his will but nonetheless a product of his distasteful act. It's no secret that the only other time he "touched" me again, eight-and-a-half months later I had your sister. Your father stole from me what would have been a better life; for me and my family. But see with every misfortune is a layer of God's grace. He gave me life's greatest gift. I wouldn't trade any other life than the one I have right now; with you and Dina. I have made peace with that time of my life."

Mom's words seemed to justify every single one of Dabwiso's earlier sentiments towards his estranged father. He knew he had to be better; a better man for his family, a better person for society, and most importantly, for himself. Nevertheless, he couldn't help but think that maybe he was truly cursed. That the only way he can rid himself of his father's sins is if he lived through them as well. He silently felt his father's malison lurking all his life – he was the product of one of them after all. Still, there was a sense of calm as most details about his Dad had been a blur up to this point. The necessary closure he longed for seemed to soothe or rather musk the apparent deep wounds that were his father's doing.