As we celebrate the International Women’s Day, we want to remember the real heroes, women all over the world who have gone through tough times and yet hold their head high. Women who refused to bow under incredible pressure and instead determined to make something of their lives despite the odds.
On this day, we celebrate Nina Ndubuisi. Nina is a qualified nurse and midwife, who works full time supporting people with learning disabilities and Mental health issues to enable them access and engage socially with their community, ensuring they live a full and active life. She is currently living in Belvedere, Kent United Kingdom, with her husband and three daughters. You can follow her “wacky thoughts” at www.ninas-thoughts.com
This is her story in her own words: please click here if you missed the first part.
I know the continuation of my story is well overdue, but narrating this has taken its toll on me, reliving the memories, I actually wanted to forget about it and not publish this but a lot of people have sent me private messages asking me what happened? How I dealt with the abuse I had to go through as a child and able to live and tell the tale and live a “normal” life by being a wife a mother, I then knew I owed it to all of you to publish the conclusion and narrate the horrific trauma I went through. Like I mentioned earlier, I am NOT looking for sympathy or any counselling, my decision to let you into my “world” and share the dark secrets I have been harbouring all this while is, I believe that “someone” who may have gone through the same thing or something similar, might be able to draw strength from my story.
I must have been eight years old or just turned 9 the day “it” happened, I remember playing in the front room with my dolls, It was not long I had returned from school as I was still in my school uniform. I think I had got all my dolls and teddy bears in a circle and was having a picnic with them, I remember hearing the door bell, I stood up and peeped from behind the curtains to see who it was – I had been warned never to open the door for anyone, but as a child, curiosity always got the better of me, although I was not allowed to open the door, I always wanted to see who was at the door. As I looked through the glass, I noticed it was “uncle” and his friend, I could not recount ever seeing this particular friend before, I noticed “uncle” look towards the window and I quickly closed the curtains – I did not want him to see me looking at him through the window and telling “daddy” I had been naughty. At this point our “nanny” (aunty), came down and opened the door, I could hear their voices in the hallway, indicating that they had been let in, my heart began to race, not with excitement, more with apprehension as I knew what would follow; “uncle” would come into the living room order me to get him a glass from the kitchen for him to drink his beer, then he will order me to sit on his lap and do his “thing”, whilst I popped sweets into my mouth “like a good girl” – as that was what “good girls” were meant to do, right? Well how did I know any different?
I went back to playing with my dolls and teddies, I heard the living room door open and I looked up to see “uncle” come in smiling, I did not say a word to him and carried on playing with my toys, the nanny in her usual manner had gone right upstairs with “uncles friend”, I decided not to say anything hoping “uncle” would ignore me. At this point nothing drastic (penetration) had happened to me, but I just did not like the feeling of sitting on “uncles” knees and him holding me tight, so tight that it felt like I was being restrained with a belt, the last time “uncle” had held me on his knees, I ended up having a tummy ache and my sides felt sore, I could not tell anyone as this would mean I was a “naughty girl”, no child wants to be labelled “naughty”. Uncle sat down and tried to make “small talk” with me, but I did not respond, I remember getting up and walking towards the kitchen, “uncle” asked me where I was going and I told him I was going to get him a glass for his beer as I walked past him, he grabbed me and held me close to him, he tried to kiss me but I turned my face away, he then handed me a bag of jelly babies (I hate jelly babies), I took them from him and continued to struggle out of his grasp, I let out a scream and I noticed “uncles” countenance change, indicating he was getting angry – I didn’t want to make him angry, as this would mean I was a “naughty girl”, I found myself being lifted unto his knees and I became a bit confused as this was not the “normal routine”, he had not had his drink yet, I tried to get off his knees and he asked me where I was going, I told him to get a glass for his drink, he held me tighter and I felt the pain in my stomach from the last time return, I decided that the best thing was to sit still and not struggle as the more I struggled the tighter his grasp got around my little body.
The next thing I remember was a sharp pain coming from inside me, it was so sharp that I let out a scream, “uncle” immediately used his dry palms to cover my mouth to prevent me from screaming any more, I remember biting his palm which followed with a slap across my face at this point I knew it was best not to scream or struggle, after all I was not a “naughty girl”, the pain intensified and I could feel the tears rolling down my cheeks and sliding into my mouth, I remember the taste of the saltiness from my tears, I think the tears I shed that day were saltier than all the other tears I had shed before, “uncle” carried on doing whatever it was he was doing to me, I could hear him grunting whilst jiggling and with each movement he made, the pain intensified, as I sat on his knees while he got on with his business I tried to think of “happy thoughts”, but unfortunately I could not think of anything that nice that could take the pain away, the tears kept on flowing, I could feel my chest tightening and I became breathless (I have always been an asthmatic), I must have had an asthmatic attack, at that point “uncle” finally released me and shoved me on to the floor, I felt something warm trickling down my legs coming from my very painful and sore vagina, I went into the foetus position and started sucking my thumb (I was a thumb sucker), after what seemed like eternity, “aunty” came in, she saw me on the floor and shouted; “what are you doing on the floor? Come on get up or else I will tell your “daddy” when he comes back, I got up quickly and as I stood up, I felt more of what it was gushing out of me and trickling down my legs, I was too scared to look down, as I walked towards the door I heard “aunty” shout out – “go and clean yourself up and go to bed”, I had no idea what she meant by “clean myself up” and I was too shaken up and sore to ask, I just found myself walking to my room, taking off my uniform , putting on my pyjamas and crawling into bed.
The next morning “aunty” came into my room to wake me up to get me ready for school, that night unknowingly I had wet my bed and “aunty” had slapped me round the head for wetting the bed, I went into the bathroom and brushed my teeth, I sat on the toilet to do a wee and I felt the sharp burning sensation from within start over again, I must have been on the toilet for a long time as “aunty” came into the bathroom and dragged me off the toilet and ordered me into the bathtub, screaming that I was going to be late for school as I had spent most of the time on the toilet. After bathing I went into my room and got dressed putting on the same uniform I had worn the day before.
God has a way of looking out for “his own” and I believe that was the day that all those evil doers were going to get their comeuppance, how else can you explain “aunty” not noticing the uniform I wore to school was stained with blood and dried semen? How else can you explain “aunty” not keeping me off school as I was walking very funny?
I arrived in school that day and my appearance, coupled with the stains on my school skirt immediately drove the school authority into action, social services were called in and before you knew it, I found myself on an aeroplane being sent to Nigeria to live with my maternal grandparents.
Till this day, I don’t know what was used to penetrate me all I can think of are two things; either the empty beer bottle I noticed while lying on the floor that had some blood stains on the rim or “uncles” penis.
To be sexually abused strips you of what is pure and innocent. You grow up living with the shame that wears like a filthy, wet blanket. It is a darkness I would wish on no one. Sexual abuse can be extremely damaging, psychologically. Sexual abuse can have long devastating effects on its victims. Victims of sexual abuse often change their views on self and sexuality dramatically, in trying to deal with the trauma forced on them. Some begin to shun the idea of sex under any circumstances; others trivialize sexual abuse—thus they try to see it as nothing special in order to make light what has been done to them.
Not all survivors of sexual abuse show their emotions outwardly. On the one hand, some may appear calm and unaffected by the assault; on the other hand, some survivors become hyper-sexual or promiscuous following sexual attacks—sometimes as a way to reassert a measure of control over their sexual relations (I think this is more me).
To all including men,(yes men are victims as well) who have been victims, know that your silence only cripples you but your voice will make you victorious. Despite all these years, I am still trying to overcome and be victorious, some days are good some are bad, but I believe I am a survivor.
Fast forward to the year 2002 – I was lying in bed nursing my newborn baby, I had a phone call, my husband passed me the phone someone called Chidi wanted to speak to me, as I picked up the phone and said hello, how could I not recognise that voice? It was the voice of “aunty” (our nanny), I asked how she got my number and she told me “daddy” had given it to her, she had heard I had had a baby and wanted to come and visit me, without thinking or rather more out of curiosity I gave her the address, two days later she turned up with her husband and a mountain of gifts, I welcomed her into my house and she carried my baby, I asked her about her own kids and she looked up and told me God had not blessed her with any, despite being married for over 20 years (which means she had not had any kids).
Have you ever heard the word SCHADENFREUDE? It means – Pleasure derived from the misfortunes of others. I rest my case.