With Unwashed Hands.

Owgee here… happy new year guys. I trust you had a restful holiday. We have another guest writer here today. Kindly read, use the comments’ box and share!


You never really know what something is like until you are living it. When there is no stop button to press, or page to flip over. When you cannot pause and look away, or wake up and sigh about the ridiculous dreams you have been having lately.
No. And this is really happening; there is really something in my tummy. I really don’t want it; but it won’t go away. I have done everything wrong. Slept on it, punched it hard, I even scratched my skin till it turned red and thin but each morning, I look and the bump gets bigger and bigger.

It has distorted my shadow and it is destroying me. They say it is a boy, this thing in me. I am supposed to smile and rush to buy more blue toys but instead, I think it strange that Evil would have a gender.

Maybe it will grow to be a thief like its father. Find a young girl and steal away her life. Yes because I am dead. This…thing inside of me is thriving on my life. Every time it breathes, I lose my breath; the bigger it gets, the smaller I become. When it is born, I’m sure I will be completely dead and still. Still, like the day my uncle raped me.

Already, nobody sees me. All they see is this huge thing in front of me. This burden I am forced to carry around for months. This mark of shame that continually shoves my stupidity in my face. Now I suffer; the punishment of the naive girl that dared to trust.

This ugliness has forced its way into my body, but its dirty claws cannot scale up into my heart. My heart cannot be broken into as easily as my body. All this thing is, is a reminder of my pain and suffering; shame and desecration; and it will forever remain that way. This thing, is all a baby is not; and therefore I shall not consider it as such.

You might blame me, or see me as an evil, twisted person. Just hope that you never know what it is like to keep something, cherish something, save something only to have it snatched away from you by a dirty old man.

When this story is told, I want it to ring loud and clear; I am the victim here. I was the one whose innocence was stolen. I was the one whose cries were ignored. I was the one forced to carry around the burden of death.

If there were a stain on your favourite dress, would you not do all you could to get it off? If a lion tore you apart, would you nurture its cub?

What has been done has been done; so what needs to be done will be done. I am in a cage, but I see the key dangling right in front of me. The cold metal key…the cold metal knife.

Tiwa Day hopes she is a writer. She loves reading and observing people. She is in the process of self-discovery and currently waiting for tomorrow.


18 thoughts on “With Unwashed Hands.

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  1. Great stuff. I did not blink an eye from start to finish. Very touching for sure. Rape victims hardly speak out in this part of the world because of the stigma attached to it and other reasons. Some people always have ways of blaming the victims instead of supporting them to get out of the trauma. I don’t wanna know if this a true life story or just a fiction, all I want to say is we should join hands and sing with one voice “Say no to rape” . And also educate people on the need to stop the discrimination. Rape victims need love and support. Thanks for this.


  2. And here she goes again,yet another ‘explofik’ write-up. Ȋ̝̊̅̄ would need to send this link to some NGO’s on my TL who are about women right/female/rape issues…LOUD AND CLEAR. Over!


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