By the time I got to my house, my eyes were sore from crying. The taxi driver had tried to find out if I was okay but I totally ignored him and his questions. My heart was burning. It felt like it was being savagely ripped apart.
He did not recognize me. I don’t know why I expected him to. I don’t think rapists of his kind remembered all their victims. He seemed to be all cleaned up and fresh now, moving around as friends of the son of one of Nigeria’s biggest men in power.
I never knew his name, his or his co-rapist, but I will never forget their faces or what they wore that day. Both were dressed in baggy jeans and loose-fitted dull coloured polos. Both were half drunk and enveloped with its stench. I had been returning from a late lecture. I was still trying to get used to the environment of the school as a rookie. I never knew that walking outside alone after dark as a female was asking for trouble willingly.
Mark’s face was enacted in my memory because he had gone thrice with me, as his accomplice hailed him in the background. I had suffered multiple injuries and I was traumatized to the extent I had to drop out of school for two years. I attempted suicide twice. That was eight years ago. I was able to survive because of my mother.
Juliet had paid the taxi driver with her card, so I walked into my compound. Mummy Ovie was washing by the tap, humming a tune loudly. I greeted her as loudly as I could, hurrying towards our flat and knocked on the door. My mom answered on the first knock and opened for me.
I pushed past her with a greeting and went to my room shutting the door. I didn’t want her to see my face. But I soon remember that the locks were bad and she was in my room in a minute.
“Ife mi,” she said, sitting on my bed. “What’s the matter?”
I crumbled. “I saw him today,” I blurted.
To be continued…