Our Tiny Little Secret

A story of a girl who breaks the chain.

By

Chika Ijeoma.

Chika Ijeoma

17.02.2020

Mummy walked in on me from school, still with the glass in my hand. Tata was screaming, but I couldn’t pick him up for all the blood on my hands. I was cold and shivering because I knew the implication of what I had done but yet satisfied because it had to be done.

I was barely 9 when I walked in on daddy and aunty Ngozi playing a game that eventually became our tiny little secret. Aunty Ngozi was on her knees without her blouse, while daddy was standing right next to her face without his trousers on. When I asked what was going on, daddy said, “Your aunt and I have a little secret game we play. I would like you to join us next time”. This was my invitation to hell!

I had a unique role; all I was asked to do was squeeze Aunty Ngozi’s chest apples while daddy thrust his instrument “well, that’s what he called it” in her mouth back and forth. I liked the idea because I didn’t have any chest apples; this allowed me to feel what they felt like. But then, when I reached down into my pants to play with my instrument, too, I didn’t have any like daddy’s; my panties only just ended up moist and irritating.

Mummy was a primary school teacher at a school very close to our house. She would spend hours in school after class, marking assignments and tests. She had no idea whatsoever about what was going on with daddy and me at home. Or so I thought…

It was past summer, and I was supposed to go back to school; I was in Ss3 now. Aunty Ngozi died of a disease no one could explain to me. I would feel bad sometimes when I thought of her and her absence in our little game, but at the same time, I had a sense of satisfaction to have finally gotten her role after playing for six years.

Now it was just daddy and me. He said he missed Aunty Ngozi a lot but that I made him feel better than she did. He said I had grown up to be a lovely girl. I had better chest apples, fuller and rounder than her’s, tinier waist, and fuller hips than she had. He would always whisper my name during our sessions and softly tell me how much of a woman I had become. He would say chi! You have the body of a true African woman. I took pride in those comments, and they only made me want to please him more.

I was home one afternoon on mid-term break. The last I would have before leaving school, and I overheard mummy and daddy arguing. Mike, you can’t keep doing this because she’s not yours, and he replied in the most cynical voice I’ve ever heard out of him. Angela! You can’t be complaining now. Have I not been footing the bills? She’s a woman now; “she would need to reserve some of herself for her husband” Mummy responded, that was the last comment I heard before I felt a bulb of food rushing up my throat. While my head was bent over in my toilet poo, I realized I hadn’t taken the pills he gave me from the last game we played. I didn’t see sense in taking them; I wouldn’t say I liked the smell, nothing ever happened afterward, and it made me so dry, and then I wouldn’t enjoy the game because of the friction. I didn’t understand the gossip that the girls made about kissing boys in my hostel; it didn’t make any sense to me.

I was sick and tired of it, at the same time when the pictures flashed in my head, I still got wet. It was disgusting; I was tired of the cycle!

Mummy fainted in the hospital when the test results came in positive. I had mixed feelings about the situation, I didn’t want her to die, but I was angry because I didn’t understand how she knew all this while and didn’t do anything about it. Now I can’t go to University or study engineering as I’ve always wanted to, I was convinced that what I felt in this moment was hate!

It was a Monday afternoon and mummy had gone to school as usual, he came at me from behind forcefully this time! He wasn’t gentle! he didn’t whisper sweet words. I didn’t want it, and he knew this was not me teasing; he knew I wasn’t up for it. I mean I was still breastfeeding, for crying out loud! So I walked away from him to the parlor, and he followed me, saying he owned me and I would do his bidding. He said I could shit out another one for all he cared; he wasn’t going to stop. The faster I walked, the more he came ranting down my neck; I turned and slapped him! Then he stopped, he looked at me for some seconds, grabbed my hand, and threw me to the ground. I landed on the table with my back and broke the flower verse on it. He didn’t stop; he came at me — again with a hefty punch, I felt dizzy, but I had to fight this fight or at least die trying. He started forcing my dress up, bruising my thighs with his nails; I tried to scream, I couldn’t with all that weight on top of me. I stretched my arm and touched some of the glass from the broken verse; I grabbed it and sunk it into his eye socket. He screamed, and I felt powerful, so I drove the glass into his stomach again, now I was able to push him off! It all happened so fast.

Mummy walked in on me, with the glass in my hand. Tata was screaming, but I couldn’t hold him because of all the blood on my hands. I was cold and shivering, I knew the implications of what I had done, but it was a battle that had to be won! A struggle that made me burn.

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Print.Chika

Writer. Critic. Analyst. I would rather use my stories to challange social norms and question unhealthy patriach constructs.