This personal experience essay is part of Migrant Women Press’s 16 days of activism against gender-based violence.
by Rachael Mugure Makima
Photo by Nadine Shaabana on @Unsplash
Trigger warning: This essay contains references to sexual violence, which some individuals may find distressing.
I learnt early on that I had no one. I saw my mum being battered several times and thrown out in the middle of the night.
A night I recall was when he got home drunk to a stupor after his usual rampage. He cut up all the furniture and started a fire in the middle of the room as my siblings and I innocently lay on the floor, watching the choking flames.
I and my siblings survived the ordeal only through supernatural factors. I still remember how he kicked my red chicken, “Pwaaaaa,” and it slowly staggered hopelessly and breathed its final breath on the corner; he then dragged it, slaughtered it and cooked it for us.
But never did I imagine I would go through worse. With all my innocence, I never fully understood what abuse was until I went through it myself.
I was raped at the age of 12, and I still have a vivid recollection of that fateful day. I can still smell the filthy room; I feel the cold floor I was thrust on. I remember how I opened my mouth wide like a Hippo and tried to scream but had no voice, the chocking feeling on my dry throat soundless with only tears flowing down the corner of my eyes as the man pulled down my jeans while he held both my arms behind my back held firmly on the cold floor how he disgustingly thrust himself inside me.
How, after he was done, I wiped my bloody and painful tiny scraped vagina with a tissue and how shamefully, I wore my bloody pants and slid my jeans back on as he went ahead to walk me home like a good citizen? I hated myself. My virginity had been stolen from me. I felt so dirty.
I was given away to a man who was 25 years older than I was. He beat me like an animal. I have scars on my body.
He raped me countless times. The products of the traumatic experience are two of my beautiful sons. I hated them. I felt they were a punishment to me. I had to learn to live with all the evil and learn myself by accepting my situation. My only regret was being abused and nearly becoming an abuser to my own flesh of my womb. I forgive myself for being helpless and hopeless.
If I could have a superpower, I would want to be a superwoman so I could save every woman so that they never have to go through any violence and that the world would be a violence-free place for all women.
I knew I was different at a very young age but never shared my truth. I remember my first bisexual experience; both were very innocent. All we did was insert fingers inside each other’s soft vaginas while we hid in the forest. My uncle found out, and I was thoroughly beaten. The other small girl was moved, and they hid the episode and pretended it never happened. But I knew.
I have gone through rape and physical and emotional abuse. Sometimes, I reach a breaking point. Sometimes, I feel extremely exhausted. I want the noise to end. I was having suicidal thoughts. I shut down and take time out. This life has been the unfriendliest place I have been. Strangely, I never get a break. I am always running from one hot pot to the next; will it ever end? Will I ever be at peace?
Rachael Mugure Makima is a Bisexual Asylum Seeker from Kenya in Scotland.