The Pains,The Trauma!!!,Coping With Life After Rape Ordeal With Mustapha Audu.
Every
time I see a white Nissan Altima, my palms go sweaty, and my knees get weak.
It’s an involuntary reaction born of so many nights being driven around Asokoro
pinned to the floor of Tunji’s white Nissan Altima, barely able to breathe, the
stench of weed stinging my eyes while I choked on the penis of whomever it
pleased Mustapha to force me to pleasure that day.
I
can’t have music playing while driving around in a car either. Or just sitting
around at home. I can’t have music playing period. Especially not Maroon5. If I
get into your car, please drive in fucking silence or you will make it hard for
me to breathe.
Right
now there are thousands of people running wild with their “opinions”, talking
authoritatively about what Mustapha, Abdul, Tunji, and their band of friends
and brothers did to me, as if they were there. As if they hovered around us
unseen like evil spirits, listening to everything that was said, seeing
everything that happened, as if they know.
LMAO @ gold digger and prostitute. I
never asked Mustapha for anything, and I’ve always done honest work for my own
money, which is very telling, since I met Mustapha at WORK.
In
the beginning, Mustapha and I would go out for lunch, and I’d put gas in his
car, and we’d buy our own shawarmas, and eat out of each others. I had a
massive crush on him, and he told me he loved me, and called me “his woman”
which made me feel special. I was getting paid 20K a month, which is nothing
now, but it was my first real salary back then, and it was nice to have more
money of my own to spend, and spend on him I did.
I actually wish this was true. At
least it would be compensation for all the money I’ve had to spend on
psychotherapy over the last few years.
I’m
no stranger to money. I’ve had a lot of it, and I’ve had very little, and I’ve
never been the type of person to be impressed by anyone’s wealth, so it wasn’t
cars, hotels, or fancy shit I cared about, I was cool. I attended the best
boarding school in the country, and Mustapha didn’t impress me, and I never
asked him for anything or took anything from him besides the comic books and
novels we traded with each other.
Earlier, happier days at Alteq
What
I needed was a friend, and when I plunked down at my desk that first day of work
at Alteq, and bonded immediately over a shared love of books and superhero
comics, I thought I’d made one in the guy sitting next to me.
Every day, I came to work, and he
was right there. And at the end of each work day, it had become normal to
everyone for him to drop me off at home, so when 6pm came, and he
grabbed hold of my arm and said “Let’s go.” I had no idea how to justify
refusing and making a scene.
Even after he was fired in April of 2007, at the end of each work day, he would show up outside our office on Amazon street to whisk me away. I would step outside the gate, and he would be there in his red Mercedes, waiting, demanding I get in.
I
was terrified that my refusal would mean the exposure of the pictures he had
taken of me early in our relationship, photos I told him not to take, but he
did anyway, photos in which I was naked and vulnerable.
Me (Left) at work, pretending I
hadn’t a care in the world
I
wanted to quit my job, but what reason could I possibly give my family for
quitting a job I obviously loved, especially when I needed the internship to
get into the honours program at the university I was to attend that year?
I
had so much to be fearful of. The thought of the videos Abdul recorded of
Mustapha and Tunji raping me seeing the light of day filled me with sheer
terror. The alternative was keeping it all secret, and so I did.
Masking
your emotions is not hard to do, just exhausting, and so for eleven hours a
day, from 7am to 6pm, putting on my clothes, going to work, and sitting at my
desk next to Mustapha every day was easier than you think.
Because the Nigerian Police is so
trustworthy…
You’d
have to be stupid not to notice what kind of country Nigeria is, and I have
never been stupid.
At
17, I knew already that the Nigerian police is most definitely NOT your friend,
and that people who have police and army escorts in their homes are generally
the sort that can make you disappear (in many little pieces preferably), and
pay off the police to look the other way, or failing all else, buy judges
to make sure any court cases brought against them never see the light of day.
I
had disclosed already to my priest at confession, and to a doctor in
Maitama General Hospitalwhere I got tested for HIV and other STDS,
the horrific things that were happening to me, and nothing had come of it. At
the time, I didn’t know whether a rape crisis centre like the Mirabel Rape Centre even existed in Nigeria, or that
there were any resources to help someone in my situation, or even what to do after I had been raped to help me get justice.
I
was scared, and I felt very alone. Their parents were very powerful people, and
I didn’t have any faith in the police, especially faced with attackers that
seemed to have both the police and the army in their pockets.
Abdul and Mustapha at Javabean
It
was even more difficult to come to terms with the enormous betrayal of the man
who told me he loved me, whom I loved as well, doing unspeakable things to me,
and forcing me to do them with others. Even after I escaped from him by moving
to the United States for college, I remained torn, and the part of me that
loved him could not reconcile with the horror that he had put me through, and
we stayed in contact because the mental hold he had over me was still so
strong. It took me an additional three years to fully break free of him, and
though I don’t live in daily terror of Mustapha Audu as I once did, anything
that bears even so much as the memory of him is enough to break me down.
Mustapha Audu and Abdul Ogohi in 2007
In
December of 2008, I ran into Bashir in a mall in Maryland, and suffered a
complete panic attack. I broke away from the people I had come shopping with,
and ran and ran to the other end of the mall.
In
2012 and 2013, while out with Nyimbi, I ran into Ema and Tunji at Vanilla in
Maitama. Tunji was sitting in low seats opposite the bar in the company of my
classmate, Kachi whom I’d
attended Loyola with.
They
didn’t recognize me, but it was all I could do not to break a bottle of whiskey
on Ema’s revoltingly globular head, and the night ended with Nyimbi dragging me
out of Vanilla in tears of anger and frustration at my lost opportunity to kill
them both.
Looking
back, I can see how so much fear and shame prevented me from exposing what
these animals were doing to me, and I question why I let them rob me of so many
years of my life.
Still,
the child I was at 17 was very different from the adult I am today at 26, and
my 26 year old self would have damned the consequences, told, and raised hell.
As
terrifying as it was to come to work every day and have to sit next to
Mustapha, I’m saddened by the realisation that in the same place that held such
terror and anxiety for me, I had people who loved me, cared about me, and would
have done their best to protect me if I could have overcome my fear and shame
and cried out for help.
Nyimbi (L) and Me (R) at my send off
party at Alteq in August 2007
My
adult self sees what my child self could not back then – that had I told my mentor, boss, and friend, Nyimbi
what was happening to me right under his nose, he would have stopped at nothing
to rescue me from my private hell.
What
baffles me, is how so many people who know absolutely nothing about what did
happen, can speak with such confidence, the most absurd speculations, about the
facts of my life. If this all were not so incredibly sad, it would be quite
amusing to me, that there are thousands of people who think I am (by my count
so far) – an agent of PDP, a gold digger, a woman scorned, or politically
motivated because they personally have never heard of my rape before now.
Never
mind, that I have been talking about this FOR EIGHT FUCKING YEARS.
Never
mind that FOUR YEARS AGO I referred to this same ordeal in
this article I wrote for The African Report in 2011 – http://www.theafricareport.com/Soapbox/online-communities-give-us-power.html
Or
that ALMOST EVERY
SINGLE POST on this blog in 2007 was about what was happening
to me, and my anguish, confusion, fear, hopelessness, and powerlessness to put
a stop to it.
Or
that the SOLE
REASON this entire blog even exists is because I started it
to document my year at my first real job; a job that would bring me into
sustained contact with the man who, accompanied by his friends and siblings,
abused, raped, and tormented me on an almost daily basis for the better part of
six months.
It’s
a travesty that it wasn’t until a private conversation between myself and my
close friend was posted on Twitter, that people began to take what I had been
saying forever seriously.
My disclosure to my close friend –
Part 1
My disclosure to my close friend –
Part 2
My disclosure to my close friend –
Part 3
Mustapha
was a monster like you cannot even begin to imagine.
His brother Bashir, was the same age as me, and Mustapha decided, that one way or the other, it was his duty as big brother to rid Bashir of his virginity. At what was supposed to be a casual get together for suya and drinks at Tunji’s house, he dragged Bashir and me into the bedroom, and pushed us inside, saying to Bashir “Fuck her!” before locking the door, and leaving me alone in the darkness with his brother.
His brother Bashir, was the same age as me, and Mustapha decided, that one way or the other, it was his duty as big brother to rid Bashir of his virginity. At what was supposed to be a casual get together for suya and drinks at Tunji’s house, he dragged Bashir and me into the bedroom, and pushed us inside, saying to Bashir “Fuck her!” before locking the door, and leaving me alone in the darkness with his brother.
All
my pleas to Mustapha were in vain, and the only thing we heard from Mustapha
from the other side of the door was “Don’t let me come back and find out you’re
still a virgin.”
On
a different date, his cousin, Jibril raped me in that same room. I screamed,
and screamed, and fought, and struggled, eventually sticking my fingers into
his nose, and biting his hands. In retaliation, he bit me hard on the nose, and
later that night, I explained away the swelling on my nose I came home with as
an unfortunate meeting with the edge of a swimming pool.
All
the while I was screaming, Tunji and Mohammed were discussing business, and
when my screams interrupted their conversation, Tunji came by to look at me,
naked and pinned beneath Jibril, only to laugh and shut the door firmly behind
him.
Tunji Abdul
So, when I see ignorant comments from members of the public in reaction to my trauma, I really feel the urge to ask these shameless people, how the fuck do you know?
Were you there?
Because
I was there, and you most certainly were not.
I
SURVIVED it, not you, so it is I who will tell you what happened to me, not the
other way around.
The
aftermath of my rape at the hands of Mustapha and his cohorts is that for the
past eight years, I have barely existed.
I’ve
been diagnosed with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, Anxiety Disorder, and
Severe Clinical Depression, among a host of other problems as a result of the
trauma I suffered, by multiple psychiatrists and mental health professionals.
Some of the medications I have to
take
Every
day is a struggle to not end my life, and I have had to spend a small fortune
on therapy and mental health services, as well as anti-depressant medication to
make my life livable. Even then, I have to constantly fight through waves of
pain, anger, shame, self-loathing, and the urge to make it all just go away to
get through each day, and I don’t always succeed.
In
2011, I tried to jump off a bridge, and was hospitalized against my will on a
72 hour hold to save my life. Before that, I had attempted to kill myself by
taking an overdose, and woke up in a pool of my own vomit.
I
spent majority of my freshman year researching suicide methods, and for most of
my first semester of college, besides attend class, I did nothing but cry until
I passed out, then wake up ravenous because I’d been unconscious for several
hours. The result was I gained over 100lbs in under three months, far more than
the 15lbs you’re expected to gain when you first come to college known as the
Freshman Fifteen.
Five months into near daily rapes,
and you could see the death in my eyes.
For
the longest time now, I have been dead inside. Dead people can laugh and talk,
and come to work on time every day too. Dead people can get shit done, and
write their college essays, and go to class, and be just like you if they want
to too. The problem with dead people, is that sooner or later though, everyone
starts to notice they’re dead.
And
so, my life slowly fell apart.
I
can’t go swimming at night anymore. I can’t go swimming anymore, period. If you
think having a panic attack on land is bad, wait until you’ve had one
underwater, and almost fucking drowned yourself even though your Mom taught you
to swim when you were little.
I
almost drowned in a pool at the Marriott barely 8 feet deep because being in
there reminded me of the night my bikini top got pulled off and I got passed
around by Abdul in 6 feet of water, and a man spit in my face and beat me, and
soldiers had to drag him off me to stop him drowning me by my hair because he
was angry Mustapha decided at the last minute that I had been good, and so he
wouldn’t get to rape me after all.
Abdul Ogohi
Nights
are impossibly hard for me. How other people just get tired and fall into bed
asleep is beyond me. I’m plagued by multiple nightmares every time I close my
eyes. I can still feel Ema Oloyo raping me on Abdul’s bed, his oversized head
bobbing, his hot, stinking breath buffeting my face as he struggled to force my
legs apart. It’s hard to share a bed with people because sometimes I wake up
screaming.
Ema Oloyo – https://ng.linkedin.com/in/ema-oloyo-248b80105
Then
there’s the medicine before bed. I have to take that for the rest of my life
too. My relationships with friends and family are in tatters because I can
barely hide the constant undercurrent of sadness that envelopes me, and the
fact that I am always angry.
Sometimes
I simply cannot cope, and I blackout and my autopilot takes over – a basic,
high functioning version of me that appears normal for all intents and purposes
while I’m really dying inside.
I’m
so tired of keeping this secret, because I shouldn’t have to. 26 is too young
to be a member of the living dead, how much more 17?
As
for the people whose membership claim on humanity is so tenuous that they can
even conceive that I would concoct any of this just “to get famous” or “for
attention”, let me make it clear to you: You are sick.
I’m sure that rape girl is happy, Nigerian Newsdesk
has carried her gist…Congratulations ur famous! — Baddo Sneh (@ms_peee)November 23, 2015
I
am actually, a pretty amazing artist, and if at all, I want to be famous for
the skills that I have worked so hard and so long to develop, and the
discipline I employ to perfect my craft and be the best at what I do.
THIS is the only thing I want to be
famous for
THIS is the skill I have sweated and
bled to be recognized for not the sordid details of my sexual assault, which
will now hang over me like a dark cloud for the rest of my life.
Why
on Earth would anyone who has been raped in Nigeria want to call attention to
that fact when rape victims are pilloried as whores, gold diggers, prostitutes,
and sluts? When all you can look forward to is constantly being the topic of
hushed conversation, pitiful looks, social ostracism and being called “Rape
Girl”?
That since the news of my horrific rape and abuse broke, that I have received hundreds of messages like this one is an indictment on Nigeria’s educational system, and I find it utterly shameful that grown adults can hear of a child being abused, raped, and pimped out to the friends of a man she trusted and loved, and their first impulse is to vilify her as a slut and not the men who damaged her and destroyed her life.
In Nigeria’s entire legal history, there have been only EIGHTEEN rape
convictions, so the chances of a woman raped even under the best of
circumstances ( where the perpetrator is a stranger, the victim a virgin, and
DNA and video evidence are on file) getting justice of any sort is
infinitesimally low, how much less in my case where I had a concurrent romantic
relationship with my one of my rapists?
The
other day, I got a LinkedIn invitation to connect from Mustapha, and it sent me
spiraling into a full blown panic attack that ended with me clutching my
toilet, vomiting in the bathroom.
Thanks
to them, I will never, ever in my life, touch a game of Risk.
It was always there. That battered box of cards and soldiers, they liked to play after they were done. No matter where we went, it was always there, silent witness that it was. It saw everything. If board games could talk, that box of Risk would tell you all the times I screamed and cried, and begged and bargained, and promised to be good, promised to obey, and how it never ever mattered.
It was always there. That battered box of cards and soldiers, they liked to play after they were done. No matter where we went, it was always there, silent witness that it was. It saw everything. If board games could talk, that box of Risk would tell you all the times I screamed and cried, and begged and bargained, and promised to be good, promised to obey, and how it never ever mattered.
Following
my post on Twitter in September last year, listing the names of the men who
participated in my assault, I received an email from a young woman telling me
that she too had had a similar experience with Mustapha, Abdul, and Ema, and
that Mustapha had made a sextape of her without her consent, and she was now
being threatened with the release of that video.
I
too, for years have lived in fear of the videos Mustapha, Abdul, and Tunji made
of themselves raping me becoming exposed to the public, and the lady who
emailed me is just one of many young women who have survived abuse, sexual
assault, blackmail, and rape at the hands of these men.
After
my story leaked, my friend received death threats from the Audus, as well as a
threatening letter from their lawyers demanding $2 million USD within 2 hours.
Such an outrageous threat, but probably not absurd to people who have stolen
$11 billion USD already.
So
yeah.
Fuck
your forgiveness. Fuck “Just forget”.
I
died, went to hell, and resurrected my fucking self, so now I’m going to live.
If
the street you live on is Kwame Nkrumah, or Solomon Barau, sorry I can’t visit
you.
And
if you drive a wine Mercedes, a white Nissan Altima, or a silver Peugeot 206, I
can’t ever get in your car.
Especially
if the license plate is AX247KUJ.
———
I
already tweeted this, but I would just like to add it here as an addendum:
Let
me make something clear.
Mustapha and I started out as a romantic / sexual relationship, and that relationship persisted throughout.
Mustapha and I started out as a romantic / sexual relationship, and that relationship persisted throughout.
I
was still in love with him, in spite of everything that happened, so we stayed
in contact pursuing the relationship even after going to school.
Not
that being in love with your abuser is a smart thing, but Mustapha was very
controlling and manipulative and mentally I was attached.
Like
I said in my blog post, it took three years after I left for school for me to
fully break free of Mustapha emotionally and mentally.
So
for years after 2007, there’s a lot of communication between me and Mustapha in
the context of a couple.
He
and his friends still raped me.
At
the same time, we did a lot of things a normal couple would do, flirted,
argued, talked about sex, sent nudes, etc.
It
doesn’t change the truth.
Many
abused women are still living with and loving the men who have done unspeakable
evil to them.
I
was a naive, kid in love, but I’m lucky to be free now.
Also,
I’ve been talking about what happened to me for years but nobody was really
listening.
Now
that everyone is, I’m afraid for my family’s safety in Abuja, and my own safety
as well.
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