Jealous Gore And The Victim

The Courage

The world, it seemed, wanted me broken. Its whispers, a relentless murmur at the frayed edges of my being, yearned for the sight of my sorrow. Yet, in their malice, they only sharpened the blade against their own throats, for my father, my unwavering champion, stood as a bulwark against their cruel desires.

A nascent strength stirred within me, a quiet hum that resonated with the forgotten cadence of my truest self. With each deliberate breath, the vibrant tapestry of my aspirations — the doctor’s coat, the healing touch — unfurled anew, shimmering with undimmed enthusiasm.

“Did you witness my grandest ascent, borne on the wind’s embrace, suffused with unwavering faith in triumph? Justice, it seems, is but a fleeting mirage in this vast, indifferent cosmos. In the hushed moments of introspection, only dreams echo, and an incessant clamor of fear and wonder persists, a cacophony drowning the search for self.”

One moonless night, a summons from my father, hushed and clandestine, drew me into the quiet intimacy of his presence, away from the prying eyes of our household.

He led me to a house I’d never seen, a sentinel of brick and mortar cloaked in the veil of secrecy. There, amidst the unblemished walls, he laid bare the depths of his knowing. “I see all that transpires beneath my roof,” he stated, his voice a steady balm. “Be courageous, my child. Be patient. Never surrender to despair.” He spoke of managing life’s inevitable currents, of a grand surprise awaiting me upon the completion of my secondary education. Then, a cool, metallic weight settled in my palm—a key. “I embark on a journey soon,” he confided, his gaze piercing, “a course that will take me far from your side. But hold fast to faith. Should the tumult of their attitudes become unbearable, should the desire to yield consume you, do not hesitate. This sanctuary is yours until my return.” His hand swept across the spacious rooms. “Everything you need to weather this interim is here. Provisions, necessities – all secured. Do not falter, my Salama. Tend to yourself.” He pressed a phone into my hand, a lifeline to his distant presence. A tremor of apprehension snaked through me at the thought of his departure, but his words, ‘hold on tight,’ echoed, anchoring me.

We returned home under the cloak of night, and with the dawn, he was gone. The world, already teetering, plunged into an abyss of despair. My mother, a cruel architect of torment, meticulously carved the days into hours of agony. The confines of my room became a cage, each beating a fresh brand upon my soul. Then, the ultimate desecration: stripped n***d, cast onto the merciless street. In my world, where pride found its solace in the simple covering of one’s flesh, I stood exposed, a raw wound in the public eye.

Neighbors, a blurred tableau of faces, gawked at my nakedness. Some raised phones, their lenses glinting, capturing my humiliation. Others, like macabre documentarians, recorded my public crucifixion. I was abused.

A woman, a sudden grace in the nightmare, emerged from the crowd. She draped a rapper around my shaking form, her voice a whip lashing at my mother’s barbaric cruelty. The neighborhood erupted. Righteous fury surged through good men, who stormed our house, intent on delivering retribution. It was my plea, a desperate gasp for her safety, that stayed their hands.

After that day, the very thought of stepping beyond our threshold, of facing the scrutinizing eyes of the neighborhood, became an unbearable weight. Shame gagged me, a suffocating shroud. Yet, my mother, oblivious or uncaring, continued to dispatch me on errands, forcing me into the gauntlet of judgment.

My siblings, meanwhile, drifted through the days in a languid haze of sleep, food, and flickering screens, utterly detached from the unfolding tragedy.

Each morning, the severance of my life from my core felt absolute. To brave the outside world, to face the throng of pointing fingers and whispered slurs, demanded a Herculean effort. Yet, with each hesitant step, a fragile courage blossomed, slowly, painfully, transforming the landscape of my shame into a twisted triumph.

My humiliation had become a grotesque celebrity. My n***d images, branded with the scarlet letter of shame, adorned every corner of our digital world. “What a James brother Jay, giving names to my fame of a shame,” the unseen chorus jeered. “What y’all don’t create, can’t be killed in the game.”

Everywhere I turned, the whispers pursued me. “Look, that girl. The one in the picture. That n***d girl, bla, bla, bla…” Oh, the sheer damnation of it all!

The rumors, a grotesque hydra, spawned new heads with each passing hour, each narration a fresh stab to my already bleeding soul. The article designers, those vultures of misery, twisted my story into a distorted caricature, a cruel mockery of truth. The cacophony was deafening. Suicide, a dark siren, beckoned. But my father… I couldn’t betray his faith. I had to hold on.

Sleepless nights bled into days, haunted by the specters of trauma, depression, and gnawing anxiety. Sickness, a physical manifestation of my inner turmoil, wracked my body. Yet, I was compelled to rise, to navigate this phase of life with an unyielding resilience, even as a lawless cruelty, draped in the skirt of wickedness, flayed my spirit.

Then, the accusation. My mother, witnessing my frequent bouts of sickness and vomiting, declared me pregnant. She dragged me to the hospital, the verdict a resounding negative.

How could I be pregnant? No s*x. No boyfriend. No man. I was no Holy Mary.

Sixteen years old. Just sixteen. And this torrent of suffering… I couldn’t fathom welcoming another soul into this torment. Life, this brutal ditch, felt like it was suffocating me.

School offered no reprieve. My introverted nature, coupled with the shadow of my public humiliation, kept me in solitary confinement. Friends were a foreign concept. I embraced my pain, found solace in the quiet company of my own thoughts, with no space for anyone else’s triumphs or failures.

Still, her accusation gnawed at me. Why pregnancy? A whirlwind of questions churned in my mind, a relentless storm of speculation.

One midnight, as exhaustion finally claimed me in a shallow slumber, my eldest sister’s voice pierced the darkness. “Fetch me water.” I feigned sleep, every limb aching, every nerve frayed by sickness and the lingering fear of the night outside. But she persisted, drenching me with a kettle’s cold water, dragging me from my bed.

My patience, stretched to its breaking point, snapped. I slapped her, a desperate plea for release. The ensuing brawl woke the house. My mother and siblings, a surging tide of fury, rushed in, their intent clear: to g**g up, to punish. Panic, a cold dread, seized me. I bolted from the house, plunging into the desolate streets at 1:00 AM, my mind a maelstrom of fear.

The night air, a frigid embrace, gnawed at my exposed skin. Silence, vast and eerie, pressed in. Every shadow held a monstrous secret. Alone, a solitary heir to this terrifying inheritance, I walked, uncaring of who might be near. Fear, raw and untamed, was an unfair companion, a relentless dare. My mind, a tiny vessel tossed on a wild sea, struggled to comprehend this narrow existence.

Was I truly alone in this relentless struggle for belonging? Why did my own blood seem to clot against my veins, refusing to flow freely? Why did bad times cling to me, an unyielding omen? This bitter shore, teeming with ferment, held me captive, a relentless torment.

The thought of eternal escape, of never returning to that house, flickered like a dying flame. I yearned to live, yet life itself seemed to reject my very being. I pressed deeper into the terrifying night, searching for a phantom peace, but rest remained elusive, my small life, so high in its aspirations, so brutally low in its reality. My fragile courage faced a mightier foe, and the proportion of my being seemed to shrink, echoing the truth: the bigger they are, the harder they fall.

Love. I craved it, even from the wild unknown. If a beast could truly love, truly show it, then perhaps I could survive, truly flourish. There were no fools, I reasoned, only yearning hearts. But where were the angels of freedom, to pluck me from these nightmare rooms, these thorny hooks?

As I neared the market square, a strange shift in the night air occurred. Noises, a distant hum, suddenly evaporated, leaving behind an unsettling, graveyard silence, like a muted eclipse.

My steps became a desperate dance, a mad scramble through the high-key, leaping from one fearful pitch to the next. The thought of plunging into the night’s volatile heat, a reckless abandon, flashed. My blood pressure soared. I should be laid to rest, sheeted, buried. The stars, those tenantless landlords, shone autonomously, forever.

Then, a sudden jolt. Shadows coalesced into figures. Security men, cloaked in black, materialized before my father’s new apartment. “Blank! Stop there!” The command reverberated, freezing me in place, a terrifying blankness consuming me. I felt as though I would crumble, a tin can about to be crushed. Calamity, that cruel mistress, only fanned the flames of disaster, ensuring its clamor was heard.

I shivered uncontrollably, the questions a barrage of ice. “Where are you coming from? Where are you heading? Why are you out here alone at this hour? Where is your house? Who is your father?” The answers, a tight knot in my throat, refused to escape. The man beside the interrogator shone a light on my face. “Wow,” he murmured, his tone softening slightly. “But why are you here tonight? Don’t you know it’s dangerous out here late at night? What’s your name?”

A sliver of hope, a fragile freedom, bloomed. His voice held a trace of kindness. The answers, once trapped, now spilled forth. “My name is Salama.”

“Why are you here this late night?” he repeated, his gaze still probing.

“My mom and my siblings…” I began, then abruptly halted. A thought, cold and sharp, pierced through my fear: She’s still my mom. They’re still my siblings. Anything I say could be used against me.

“Your mom and siblings are what?” he pressed, his brow furrowed in confusion.

“Please,” I pleaded, my voice barely a whisper, “can I use your phone to call my dad?” He agreed, instructing me to recite the number as he typed.

He dialed twice, the rings echoing in the oppressive silence, but no answer. He suggested the police station, and a fresh wave of fear washed over me. I didn't trust them.

He, sensing my apprehension, proved to be a gentleman. He pulled out his ID, flashing a police badge. He instructed his colleagues to do the same, a chorus of gleaming badges, a reassuring glint of authority.

At that precise moment, my father’s phone rang. “Hello, sir?” the policeman answered. “My name is Mr. Suleiman, a night patrol officer from Division ‘A’ Police Department, Ogori. Your daughter Salama is here with us tonight. She gave us your number.” My father, without a moment’s delay, asked to speak with me. The phone was handed over.

“Salamualaikum, hello sir,” I stammered, anxiety thick in my voice.

“Amin Alaikum Salam,” he replied, his voice a balm. “What happened?”

In my local dialect, I poured out the entire horrifying tale. He instructed me to return the phone to the officer. They spoke briefly, then hung up.

“Where is your next house located?” Mr. Suleiman asked, his tone now professional, matter-of-fact.

My arm shot out, my index finger pointing to the building ahead. He escorted me. I unlocked the gate and stepped into the compound. Mr. Suleiman, with a polite flourish, handed me a piece of paper with his number. “Call me whenever you need any help.” He turned to leave, heading back to his post.

“Excuse me, sir,” I called out, a sudden urgency in my voice. “Please, what is your name, sir?”

“Suleiman. My name is Suleiman,” he replied kindly.

“Thank you, sir,” I said, a wave of profound gratitude washing over me.

“You’re welcome,” he responded, and then he was gone, a silent sentinel disappearing into the lonely night.