The first time you tried talking about your rape experience, it was with your reflection in the mirror. You knew it happened; knew how, knew when, knew with whom. But you filed every scene in a bowl, took it to the darkest corner of your soul and left it there. You had heard the terrible names and labels they gave to the ones who built up courage, found their words and said something.

“Slut”

“Ashawo, ynash dai scratch am.”

Forcing them to believe that it was their fault. That the skirt they wore exposed too much flesh or the jeans moulded their curves and waved their figure before the eyes of men.

“Na her dai wear short thing, why man no go follow am?”

When you heard Mama Basira talking about the rape victim you and your mum had seen on News Line sometime ago, you disappeared into your room…