Yesterday I went ‘home’ a little drunk. I call it ‘home’ because I believe home is where your heart is; a place that you can be comfortable crying,laughing or playing in and you can even poop in peace! Right? This is not my home. I have just been given accommodation here for some time since my own mother doesn’t think staying with me is a good idea and I totally agree with her.

That’s a story for another day.

Well, on getting there, I am asked where I had gone to after work since I smelt alcohol. I felt so ambushed and denied I had been drinking. The truth is, when you are 23 and no one seems to care about you, what you feel or go through in life, you enter into a phase where it hurts so bad that you want to burn bridges. People say after some time you get used to the pain and eventually you become numb but I disagree. I have gone through rejection since I was a child and it doesn’t lessen the pain when rejected again.

I have read that writing about your dark past helps heal the wounds.

So, this is my story.

I was raped. By a relative. I was only 6 years old. I was living with a relative in the rural areas of the Eastern region of Kenya. I was in class 3 at a local primary. My mother was in the city, Nairobi hustling for both of us.

The son of this relative called me to his small house built just adjacent to his mothers’. He showed me a 50 shilling note and told me to go get it from his hand. Back in 1990s, 50 shillings was a huge amount. As innocent as I was, I went for the money. He grabbed me, lifted me up and started walking towards the bedroom. I started to tell him to put me down but he covered my mouth and told me to keep quiet or he would beat the hell out of me. I was afraid of him since he was old enough to be someone’s father.

He put me down on the bed, lifted my dress and went ahead to force his way inside me, all this time I’m struggling to free myself but I was only 6 years and he was tentatively 28ish. I cried the whole time. It was as painful as hell! He told me to not tell a soul or else he would kill me. I don’t know if he meant that.

Well, this became a routine whenever there was no other person at ‘home’. It got to a point I started enjoying the sex that I looked forward to it. The 6 year old in me had died. I now became so addicted to sex that I started touching myself when I’m alone.

Let’s name this guy Jack.

And this is where the story begins…….

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