Uzor made it a ritual to come to our trading point to buy unnecessary oranges. He would sit there to suck them.
He was greeted with warmth by my aunt when she discovered he was an Igbo guy.
He became the next best thing to sliced bread after he discovered her weakness, seized and nurtured it.
My aunt started pressurising me. She said the guy wanted to marry me. I should give him a chance. I should at least have discussions with him. I should at least have a stroll with him.
It started with a stroll, leading to several other strolls, mostly at night. He was a trader and usually returned in the evening to come to our selling point.
One day, he said I should escort him to his friend’s place. I did.
We actually met the friend at home. The guy stepped out, saying he was going to get soft drinks. I noticed exchange of looks, but I was too naïve to know what it meant.
It was just like yesterday; I recollected the one room apartment. The rug was brown dirty. The bed took the major space in the room. The TV was positioned close to the only window in the apartment. It was a black and white TV. The station was showing something.
I sat gingerly on the bed, watching the TV. And just like that, in a blink of an eye, Uzor transformed into a lion.
He pounced on me, struggling to remove my panties. I couldn’t understand it. I was even menstruating.
We struggled until we landed on the dusty, dirty rug.
I screamed and he used his hand to cover my mouth. While attempting to cover my mouth, he covered my nostrils. I couldn’t breathe. I was going to die.
I forgot about struggling to retain my panties. I struggled to breathe and stay alive.
And then, it was gloriously over. I laid there crying. Feeling hurt and betrayed. I couldn’t look at him.
I picked my mensuration stained tissue and my panties. I stumbled into my panties. I was in pains.
I discovered the door was even locked. I hadn’t noticed. I stumbled out into the dark night and he followed me.
I still remembered his first words to me that night after my ordeal: “You’re 21 and still a virgin. You should be ashamed of yourself. You’ll never be able to please any man in bed. I wished I had gone for your younger cousin. She’ll definitely know more than you about pleasing a guy.”
I cried more. I went home. I couldn’t tell my aunt. That had always been my lot in life; never being able to tell my friends or family whenever someone violated me. I had been violated severally, but never raped.
I nursed my wounds myself. Uzor continued coming like nothing happened.
In between that period, the debacle in the CMD’s office occurred. I left the job and went to stay with my parents.
Uzor came once to look for me. My father took an instant dislike of him at first glance. My mum welcomed him because he was an Igbo guy.
I told him that since he had taken my virginity, he had to marry me. He laughed. He said he would rather die than marry a First School Leaving Certificate Holder.
He told me gleefully that he had fiancée; an undergraduate at Unizik, studying Mass Communication.
That was it.
I was good enough to be raped, but not married because I lacked a university degree. I determined to go to university.
My father was just a bricklayer, struggling to feed his family and had a perennially sick wife.
I got another job close to my parents’ home. It was a clerical work in a laboratory.
Even though I knew the chances of going to university were slim because of dad’s financial status, I kept reading.
Another event that was etched in the memory was the day my dad called me. He was crying and I couldn’t understand why. He was always a strong man. Our fortress and bulwark of the family.
In Igboland, it was an abomination for a man to cry. But father cried like his heart was breaking. Tears streamed down his weather beaten cheeks.
He looked at me and said: “Julie, forget about university. I know you want to go. I have seen your efforts. But I don’t have money. I wish I could do something.”
I cried with him.
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