Maybe If I Could Float Away

A tiny fraction of the reason why I can’t swim, and the first in a series of short narratives about a youngin’s sexual “awakening”

One of my fondest memories is of my 7th birthday. I remember it because it’s the first birthday I ever remember celebrating. I had my first party, during which I learned I am a terrible dancer, and had my first actual, non predatory kiss. Best of all, we went to Water Park.

It's a fond memory because I remember all the fun we had that day - playing in the different pools and enjoying the slides - before I began to hate swimming pools.

Abuja, 1999

Hold your breath and stay down until I pull you up

We always had to have something to occupy our time, it seemed. Before the move, it was tedious tennis lessons at the club. Unending afternoons trying to hit a ball I could never see coming. All things considered, swimming was an appealing replacement. Twice a week and at the end of the afternoon when the sun was retreating.

When our lessons started, I loved how cool the water felt against my skin. His hands, however, not so much. They moved on my body as they pleased, much like the ripples around us. Holding me close, guiding my movements, my legs wrapped around his waist, his mouth crushing mine at the bottom of the pool, as he taught me to hold my breath.

"How come you wear a pant to swim?", I'd asked after a particularly intense lesson.

I remember how he'd laughed and offered to help me dry off and the extra time he put into properly drying my vagina. I thought it a little odd that his pant was getting so tight, even though we were out of the pool. As it turns out, our lessons were actually not over for the day and we had to get back in the pool.

And while we practised in the deep end that evening, I still don't know why he wore pant to swim.

Abuja, 2006

How can you not know how to swim?

Quite frankly, having to explain to people that I never really learned how to swim had become exhausting. I had taken to avoiding pools in general or staying as far as I could from the pool as I could without appearing standoffish to my companions.

I cannot for the life of me remember what possessed me on this particular day, but there I was basking in the warmth of the sunlit ripples. It felt nice to be in the water after what seemed like ages and having people I considered my family with me was a bonus. Sadly, my contentment with standing in the shallow end and twirling my fingers was unsatisfactory to a certain older cousin.

Kind and caring, he offered to teach me a few lessons. That day, I learned to kick and move my arms. In PE, they called it the front stroke, which was funny to me because one could easily have assumed the "front stroke" was what my tutor's fingers were doing to my vagina every time he had to support me.

For what it's worth, I learned enough in that one day to not need any more lessons for a while.

Yola, 2008

Are you mental?

I was half certain I screamed it, but probably not since the only reaction I got was a frozen palm on my chest. Loud music continued to blare from the clubhouse speakers, no one froze mid-stroke, and the young palms continued to sway gently to the rhythm of the wind.

Again, my being unable to swim at a level most deemed satisfactory had landed me against tiles I believe were once a sparkly blue. I was to be taught to float. Properly this time, of course.

I decided it wasn't the lesson for me when his palm felt comfortable enough to slide beneath my bikini bottoms. Strike one. A fair warning. Let it not be said a young woman overreacted.

I didn't know a lot about swimming, but I was certain no technique required him to grab my fledgeling breast. When my question didn't elicit the response I expected, I grabbed him by the neck. We would both die before I let anyone take what I was not giving freely.

Not again.

I never really talk about how I came to be the woman I am today. 2017 has been an intriguing year in the sense that I learned a few important lessons. Even though I no longer feel like I was scarred or broken by my experiences, not talking about them isn’t exactly healthy either. Seeing women come out and share their stories of rape and sexual abuse inspired me deeply, and I believe I am ready.

I will be sharing excerpts like this over the next couple of months as I work on my collection of short stories which I hope to publish next year.

Thank you in advance for your support and constructive criticism 💖