I wonder if I should blame my parents for giving birth to seven children knowing very well that they cannot provide for all of us, or if I should blame God for imposing poverty on man. Maybe it’s not God’s fault either. I am just in a place where nothing makes sense to me. Come to think of it, my life stopped making sense after I turned eleven.
We were struggling back in the village. We had to scrape bits and pieces here and there to eat a decent meal. My mother tried her best for us but her strength was limited. My father tried too, maybe he could have done more if he had invested the strength he was using to abuse my mother into profitable ventures. But that wasn’t the case so I was sent to live in Accra with my aunt when I turned eleven.
I am not going to lie, my life away from my family exposed me to all sorts of vices. I started selling for my aunt a week after I arrived in the city. So I spent a lot of time on the streets. The first time someone defiled me, my aunt had sent me into the night to fetch water for her. The taps were not flowing but she warned me, “Don’t step foot in this house unless you are coming back with water.” I was new in town. Needless to say I got lost and found myself in a dark alley with a man whose face I could not see. I will spare you the morbid details.
I wished I could talk to someone but I was too afraid of my aunt to tell her what happened. The second time another man broke into my body, I couldn’t tell anyone either. He was a young barber in my neighborhood who promised to give me money to buy sanitary pads so I would stop soiling myself every time I got my period. He had the kindest smile I had ever seen on the streets of Accra Russia, so I believed his intentions were pure. It wasn’t until I found myself screaming and begging him to let me go, while he forcefully thrust into me that I learned the grave error in my judgment. I was twelve years old when it happened.
The third time it happened, I was selling. A man asked me to come to him so he would buy from me. I was eager to sell so I went. The only thing he wanted to buy was my “cookie”. It wasn’t for sale but “no” was not a word that meant anything to him. This time, I didn’t even cry when it was over. I dusted off myself as if I had just gotten up from a nasty fall, and continued selling my wares. God knows there wouldn’t be peace at home if I didn’t make substantial sales at the end of the day.
After spending so much time selling on the streets, I lost count of the number of times men took me against my will. I even stopped fighting them. After all, I needed them to buy my stuff so I could get some money to at least buy toilet rolls for my periods. And exercise books for school.
At one point, I started stealing clothes and slippers because my clothes were torn and worn out. I even stole money from church sometimes. I am still praying for God’s forgiveness as I type this. Sometimes I got caught. The disgrace and beating I suffered when this happened was something else. My life felt so worthless that I decided to just end everything and leave this world. On three occasions I tried, but I ended up vomiting everything. So I couldn’t even succeed at killing myself.
At fourteen, I lost count of the number of men I had been with. My aunt even sometimes gave me to men so she would collect money. I had family in Accra who knew what was going on but no one was willing to rescue me. People had also told my mother in the village everything that was happening but she didn’t have the means to provide for me if she came to get me so I continued to stay there.
At a point, I had to run from home. I slept under bridges and in public bathrooms. I even quit school for a while and hustled on the streets. I found out that the dangers of living on the streets were worse than the abuse I endured at home. So I went back to the village. I started school again but I continued selling on whenever I closed from school.
After I completed JHS, I stayed with a few other relatives before I went to SHS. The experiences I had with them were equally unpleasant. It took God’s grace for me to complete SHS.
All I wanted was to gain some financial independence so I could support my mother and help my younger siblings live a better life. However, I couldn’t get a job. Everyone I knew in the village was either moving to the city or learning a trade. I couldn’t afford to learn a trade so I moved back to Accra. I went to live with my uncle in an uncompleted building at East Legon.
I searched tirelessly for a job but I couldn’t get anything concrete. While I was at it, the owner of the uncompleted building sold it. So I moved in with my boyfriend. We are now married and we live in his family’s house. Considering that I don’t have a job, and have no money, I serve everyone in the house. The insults and disrespect they hurl at me are more than anything I have ever experienced.
I feel like every attempt I make to move forward in life only takes me in circles. And I end up right where I started. Whenever I see an opportunity to improve my life, I jump at it but it never works out. I have thought and cried in an attempt to make some headway but my efforts don’t amount to anything.
At my age, I still struggle to buy sanitary pads. How is this a life worth living? I have listened to all the motivational speeches. I pray all kinds of prayers. My mum is always complaining of hunger. My younger siblings send me their school lists hoping I would assist them. But I can’t even help myself.
I have started contemplating suicide again but I have a son to live for so I am fighting to hold on. I don’t have anyone to share my burdens with so I am hiding behind anonymity to unload all my childhood trauma here.
I wish I could tell this story to someone in person so they would hug me and tell me, “Everything will be alright. Keep moving.” I wish someday, I am able to help my family do better in better in life. And lastly, I wish a day would come when I could relax and experience how the rich live. Even if it’s just for a day, I would be grateful.
