The most difficult conversation in the world: Telling your nine-year-old daughter that you were raped when you around her age.
Time and again, I have contemplated how I will tell my daughter Pudd'ng about how, at 11 years old, I was raped by a stranger in a dark grassy alley between two plots in Nairobi's Makadara Estate.
I do not want my daughter to hear this heart-breaking news from outsiders. I do not want her to read it in a blog. Or even from the archives of one of the columns that I have written.
However much it hurts and chokes, I want Pudd'ng to hear it from her father's own mouth.
By telling Pudd'ng to come to me if anything – and I mean, anything – ever happens to her, I have, unconsciously, started this difficult conversation, albeit at its tail end.
Guess that is what being raped does to you. You look out for others. And you are wont to smell a rat, even if you're living smack in the middle of a purr-filled cat rescue shelter.
There is no easy way to hold this conversation. I do not personally know any father who has aced this mind-bending equation. I do not have anyone to borrow a tear-soaked handkerchief from, or even an accessible "shoulder".
Basically, I am going on a wing and a prayer. Make that tonnes of mountain-moving prayers.
I don't know if I will hold it together. But, knowing my daughter, she will bawl her little lungs out.
When I tell Pudd'ng about this constant thorn in my flesh, I will, hopefully, fell several Goliaths in one swoop. I will let her know that my defilement does not mean that all men are sickos. I do not want my daughter growing up getting it twisted, and being a misandrist.
I will also let Pudd'ng know that it was not my mistake, and that, as far as I know, no mistake warrants this kind of evil. I am saying this because, around 2013, when I finally told my father about my defilement, he blurted that: "It's your mistake; you're the one who didn't tell us about it."
Since then, we have never spoken about it.
Here's the thing; my pops is a standup man. He's good people. But rape is an extremely sensitive subject. Fathers do not know how to handle this ogre when it comes crushing through their front door, and plunks its stinking mucky behind on the best sofa in the living room.
A child should know that their father is a refuge. That they can run to dad with any concern, however minor, without any reservation whatsoever.
And that's a chorus I have not tired of parroting to my daughter: that I'm her listening post. No buts ... or earplugs.
I am not a rape survivor. A survivor is "somebody who has been psychologically damaged by a trauma such as rape and seeks to overcome its effects".
Hell, yeah. I am overcoming this demon. It is, to say the least, traumatic. But "psychologically damaged"? I'm most definitely not.
When I tell my daughter about my rape by this unhinged stranger, I will tell her that what did not snuff out that kid made him stronger. A more sensitive soul. An empathetic human. A better man. Plus, I will tell her that, to quote a lyric from Faith Evans' track, Again: "I wouldn't take away the rain 'coz I know it made me who I am."
Which is why I will tell my Pudd'ng that I am not a rape survivor: I am a rape thriver.
Time and again, I have contemplated how I will tell my daughter Pudd'ng about how, at 11 years old, I was raped by a stranger in a dark grassy alley between two plots in Nairobi's Makadara Estate.
However much it hurts and chokes, I want Pudd'ng to hear it from her father's own mouth.
By telling Pudd'ng to come to me if anything – and I mean, anything – ever happens to her, I have, unconsciously, started this difficult conversation, albeit at its tail end.
Guess that is what being raped does to you. You look out for others. And you are wont to smell a rat, even if you're living smack in the middle of a purr-filled cat rescue shelter.
There is no easy way to hold this conversation. I do not personally know any father who has aced this mind-bending equation. I do not have anyone to borrow a tear-soaked handkerchief from, or even an accessible "shoulder".
Basically, I am going on a wing and a prayer. Make that tonnes of mountain-moving prayers.
I don't know if I will hold it together. But, knowing my daughter, she will bawl her little lungs out.
When I tell Pudd'ng about this constant thorn in my flesh, I will, hopefully, fell several Goliaths in one swoop. I will let her know that my defilement does not mean that all men are sickos. I do not want my daughter growing up getting it twisted, and being a misandrist.
I will also let Pudd'ng know that it was not my mistake, and that, as far as I know, no mistake warrants this kind of evil. I am saying this because, around 2013, when I finally told my father about my defilement, he blurted that: "It's your mistake; you're the one who didn't tell us about it."
Since then, we have never spoken about it.
Here's the thing; my pops is a standup man. He's good people. But rape is an extremely sensitive subject. Fathers do not know how to handle this ogre when it comes crushing through their front door, and plunks its stinking mucky behind on the best sofa in the living room.
A child should know that their father is a refuge. That they can run to dad with any concern, however minor, without any reservation whatsoever.
And that's a chorus I have not tired of parroting to my daughter: that I'm her listening post. No buts ... or earplugs.
I am not a rape survivor. A survivor is "somebody who has been psychologically damaged by a trauma such as rape and seeks to overcome its effects".
Hell, yeah. I am overcoming this demon. It is, to say the least, traumatic. But "psychologically damaged"? I'm most definitely not.
When I tell my daughter about my rape by this unhinged stranger, I will tell her that what did not snuff out that kid made him stronger. A more sensitive soul. An empathetic human. A better man. Plus, I will tell her that, to quote a lyric from Faith Evans' track, Again: "I wouldn't take away the rain 'coz I know it made me who I am."
Which is why I will tell my Pudd'ng that I am not a rape survivor: I am a rape thriver.
SHARE WITH FRIENDS
0 comments:
Post a Comment