Beyond rape: let the healing begin

I am lucky, I am blessed, and I am privileged. I don’t particularly like these words, but just because I don’t like them doesn’t mean they’re not true. Luck suggests I have no agency in my own life, that good stuff simply happens to me. A lot of times, my life feels that way. Blessed implies religion, which I’m really not down with. And privilege, well, a lot of people have accused me of being oreo, coconut, white, so yeah.

These three things have a big role to play in how my existence has turned out. You see, I was raped by the neighbourhood bully when I was six years old. I didn’t understand what rape meant. I was six years old, so this is what I understood.

I understood that there was another boy who liked me. He was kind and sweet. He was my friend. We experimented. We tried to do the things we saw in a movie. Well, I tried to do them. He just played along because he liked me. And I chose him, because I knew he liked me, and that he would never hurt me. I didn’t even know what it meant to be hurt.

It was harmless. We went into the servant’s quarters, locked the door, slipped under that powder-blue herrignbone bed-cover with the spongy patterns and the silky fringe. We kept all our clothes on. We lay down on our backs facing upwards. Then we punched and kicked  the bed-cover above us so that it made lumps that rose and fell, just like the movies. And we giggled and moaned, just like the movies.







The house-help heard us. She came banging on the door and yelled at us to come out. I didn’t know why she was so upset, or why she said the boy shouldn’t come over anymore. We hadn’t done anything. But my parents liked him, and his parents liked me. So we played at his house instead. We didn’t get under the covers again, but we cuddled on the sofa in their sitting room and watched TV. His mum thought we were cute. We can’t have been more than 5 years old.

This nice, sweet boy, he wasn’t my boyfriend. He was my friend. I liked him, but I wasn’t into him, not really. I know, because I got asked all the time, by the other kids. They asked me who I had a crush on. Kids are mean, and they wanted to hurt my friend. They wanted him to hear me say I liked someone else.

I understood another boy. This one I didn’t like so much. Because he was loud, he smelled, and sometimes, he was mean. He ‘patronised’ me. I didn’t know that word – I was five years old! But he talked to me slowly, like I was stupid. I hated that. And his sisters were kind of bitchy. I think he liked me though. He’d grab my hand and kiss it, and I would hide it behind my back and wash it with lots of soap, because now it smelled like him. I never told him to stop though. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings.

I played with him and his sisters, because they were there, and they – at least – were willing to play with me. I remember being in his room, playing cha mama. They said I should be the mother and he should be the father. They told us to get on his double decker bed, the lower one, and put a sheet over the front so they couldn’t see us.

They told me to lie on top of him while they counted. We had our clothes on, and they counted for a long time. I didn’t like it. It felt … wrong. I didn’t want to be there. When they pulled the sheet away, I went home, and I didn’t play with them again. I still see him sometimes, as an adult. He’s considered hot now. Mature, couth, nicely put together. I smile, nod, say a few polite words, then I walk away thinking about his slow words, and the way he used to smell.

Did these incidents have something to do with the rape? Did the kids look at me and see a bad girl, the kind of girl it was okay to do bad things to? Did I bring it onto myself? Did that loud opinionated six year old ask to be raped?

When it happened, it was different. It was terrifying. I tried to scream but nothing came out. The world was spinning, I felt dizzy. I was choking. I couldn’t breathe. I thought I was going to die. And there was light. So much light. And spiral staircases, and dogs. When it was over, I ran. I ran and ran and ran. My legs hurt.


I don’t remember feeling any pain. All I knew was that I didn’t want it to happen, that I tried to make it not happen. That I couldn’t tell anyone because it was bad manners and I was a bad girl. And I guess I hid it well, because nobody noticed.

People say rape is about sex. I had previous incidences – innocent activities that were about sex. At least, a child-like version of sex. This wasn’t like those other ones. I wanted those other ones. I was willing. Even the mother-father game, a part of me wanted that. Not all of me, but a part of me. And I had the choice to walk away.

That’s the thing about rape. Sure, a man may have sexual interest in you, but that’s not what makes him come after you. Women don’t generally get raped in broad daylight, or in public streets. Because that’s not acceptable. Instead they get cat-called and groped and insulted, because their attackers know nobody will stop them from doing that.

A few years ago, several women got stripped in the streets, because their attackers knew nobody would stop them, not even the other women. And in some situations, like war, unrest, riots, then women do get raped in public, because in that context, their attackers know no one will stop them.

Rapists don’t rape because they are aroused.

Rapists rape because they know no one will stop them.

And rapists are not always creepy guys in dark alleys, or macho men who spike your drink, or a late night matatu full of men. Sometimes, most times, rapists are nice guys who had a bad day and took it out on you because they knew you couldn’t – or wouldn’t – stop them.

They lost face somewhere else, so they rape you to get that power back. In reality, it’s all about them. It has very little to do with you. In fact … it has nothing to do with you. You’re involved, attacked, raped because you’re … there. But the real violence is all about them.

That’s why most times, your rapist is your boyfriend or husband who got yelled at by the boss, wants sexual healing, and knows even if you say no, you won’t do anything to prevent him from forcefully fucking you. It might be your in-law who has always lusted after you, but now he’s alone with you, and he knows no one will believe you.

He could be your brother or father or uncle or cousin or nephew who is unhappy with his life and knows that forcing himself on you will boost his ego and make him feel powerful. He could be your relative’s friend – or enemy – who wants revenge against a man you love and uses you as dangerously effective collateral damage. He could be your ‘nice guy’ date who is fed up of being friend-zoned, and who ‘fucks’ you because he knows you won’t make him stop.


And yet … even though it was never about you … you will blame yourself.

You will carry it with you. Always.

There’s a triggering piece about a woman who – in her own words – made breakfast for her rapist. He was her date, she brought him home, he got into her bed. And when she said no, he told her she was beautiful and did it anyway. I understand that, because a few years ago, it happened with a boy I liked. I’d slept with him before. I’d told him what I liked, and what I didn’t like. I explained why I didn’t like it from the back. I’d told him over and over, both in bed and out of it. He said ‘I know you don’t like this, but …’ and then he did it anyway.

My face was in the pillow, so he didn’t see me crying while he was inside me. Afterwards, we cuddled. I told him, again, why I didn’t like it from the back. Because it hurts from my childbirth injury. Because it degrades me. Because I don’t like being fucked like a horny dog. He listened. He said he was sorry. He said we wouldn’t do it like that in future. He never called me again.

In the story about bacon and eggs, she says making him breakfast erased it. It made it a bad date instead of rape. It made him a nice guy instead of an attacker. It made her beautiful. But it scarred her just the same. After he left, she cut her hair, went goth, made herself unapproachable and unattractive, so that nobody would want her ever again. If they didn’t think she was beautiful, they wouldn’t want to hurt her.

That guy, that night, in her room, in her bed. He didn’t rape her because she was beautiful. He didn’t rape her because ‘no means yes’. He raped her because there was nobody to stop him. He raped her because even though he heard her say no, he knew she wouldn’t stop him. Just like it happened to me.


There was another boy, a nice boy. It was a different time in my life. I lived in Dar, worked in a Muslim office, and wore light flirty skirts and sleeveless tops to work because it was always so hot. We had been flirting for months before we finally went on a date, because he’d constantly ask me out and stand me up. When he finally picked me up for the date, I was surprised he’d actually shown up – and I said so. Maybe I shouldn’t have, but yeah.

It was a nice date. We bought pizza then drove to the beach, ate, talked, watched the waves. Cops came by at some point and told us we had to leave, and we giggled because we were just eating. We had barely touched. We went to his house. He had no chairs, so we sat on cushions on the floor, drinking tea and watching cartoons while his room-mate blasted loud music from the bedroom.

We started making out, and I told him to stop because we didn’t have condoms. I said we could fuck, I wanted to fuck, but only if he went for condoms. He didn’t want to, it was too cold. I said I should go home, because I needed to be up early to put my baby girl on the school bus. He said not to worry, he’d drop me home at 4.00 a.m, which would be good, seeing as I had no idea how to get from his place to mine. I suck at directions. So we cuddled on the floor and fell asleep.

The next morning I asked him to drop me home. At first, he refused, told me to go on my own. He saw the look on my face as I started to gather my things, so he grinned and said I was lucky he was such a nice guy. After all, he said, if he had really wanted to have his way the night before, I couldn’t have stopped him. I froze. He grinned. He drove me home. We dated a few more months, but I was always on edge around my ‘nice guy’ after that.

There’s a stereotypical response to rape. It follows a script that some writer distilled. You burn your clothes. You go into the shower and scrub your skin until it hurts. Then you curl up and cry. Real life isn’t always that formulaic. Real life sometimes turns out like the story above, but not always.

Sometimes, real life turns you into a nympho, because on some deep level, you feel like being ‘oversexed’ will keep you safe. After all, they can’t take your sex if you’re giving it freely. And it raises a wall of sarcasm to hide vulnerability.

Real life subconsciously turns you into a tomboy, because being a girl is ‘weak’ and if you look and act like them, they won’t want to hurt you. They won’t want you. Real life makes you a tough-talking, loud-mouthing, brash, unattractive feminist, because if they’re put off, then they won’t want you, and if they don’t want you, then they can’t hurt you.

Real life makes you consistently, unwittingly, pursue unavailable men. Because if you can’t have them, then they can’t hurt you. It makes you fall for younger guys, because you’re smarter, wiser, and stronger than they are. They can’t control you, so they can’t hurt you. Their safety makes them attractive, and you are drawn to this safety without even knowing that’s what attracted you.

Real life makes you long for the guy who wants you as a person, not just as a sexual object. But deep down, in a place you can’t willingly access, it also makes you feel you’re undeserving of this kind of interest. So when it happens, it confuses you. It jars you. I mean, why does this boy like me? There must be something wrong with him. And if there’s something wrong with him, then I’m not attracted to him.

It makes the good guys, the right guys, the safe guys … it makes them unattractive … because they are unfamiliar … and we can only like what we know. And remember, all this is unconscious, self-preserving reflex. Half the time, you don’t even know you’re doing it. All you know is that the guys that like you are ‘dull and boring’, and the ones that don’t are hot as fuck, pun intended. The genuinely ‘nice’ ones are good to you. They’re kind and sweet and generous. But you feel nothing for them.

They’re potatoes. Sweet potatoes.

That’s been my life for the last 30 years. I’m 36 now, and I’m just realising why I fall for all the wrong guys. I’m drawn to the young ones who can’t hurt me, the unavailable ones who don’t want me (and therefore can’t hurt me), the ‘just for sex ones’ because at least I understand them. They can’t steal what I’m giving willingly.

And yet my deepest desire is to be wanted for me, loved for me, not just for my body. Human psyche is stupid, because I end up dismissing the thing I want most. I’m actively working against what I want, and I didn’t even know it. It’s easier to stay within the realm of the familiar.

How did I figure this out? Age, time, growth, therapy. Mostly therapy. And I am grateful that my luck, blessing, and privilege allows me to have therapy. I finally realised that as a result of the rape, I feel unworthy of genuine affection. So I subconsciously ward it off even though I want it more than anything.

How do I fix this? Fuck if I know. I’m hoping my therapist has some ideas. Because once I can accept that I do deserve love, then maybe I can recognise, attract – and accept – the right kind of men into my life. And who knows, I might even give them a chance and let them in.

If you have experienced rape, it’s not the end. Whether is was five minutes ago, five days ago, five years ago, five decades ago … you probably have wounds you can’t see. Find someone safe. Talk to them. Recognise your hurt so you can let yourself heal. And allow – hard as it may be – that sometimes your healer might be a good man, because they’re not all trash.

♫ Deliverance ♫ The Script ♫

You mattered. Go safely Chester.

Chester Bennington. Photo by Tibor Bozi / Redux.
March 20th 1976 to July 20th 2017

Photograph by Tibor Bozi / Redux

If you live in Kenya and you feel like giving up, please don’t.

Call the Befrienders Kenya Suicide Prevention Hotline

on 0733​​​​​​​​​​​​​​736542304  or 0722178177.

♫ Battle symphony ♫ Linkin Park ♫


Noun: The ‘too numb to do anything’ stage of an MDD cycle.


Writing is my life. It literally keeps me breathing. So one of the first signs of a depressive cycle is when I can no longer write. It comes in bits and pieces, because I work at an ad agency, so I’m generally word-ing every day. Body copy, taglines, radio spots, TV scripts, website blurb, strategy for client decks. I get through them by rote. It’s when I don’t blog that I know something is wrong.

Also, skipping showers. I can blame it on a lot of things. Like living in Lang’ata, where too much traffic and too little water is standard. It’s never that though. It’s that I wake up in the morning too tired to get out of bed, so I give myself five more minutes of sleep. And then five more. And then five more. And then it’s time to take my baby to school, so I drown myself in perfume and leave the house unwashed.

Other times it’s more blatant. I feel ugly and unworthy, so I wear my least attractive clothes and go to work. Or I wear yellow. I tell myself that since my spirits are so low, I’d better wear something sunny. I have this yellow hoody with sparkly headphones on it, and whenever I wear it, my boss calls me a lemon. Or a pineapple. Or asks why I have drumsticks on my chest. And I smile and walk away because those sparkly drumsticks are hiding a dangerously dark mood.


When I started therapy, I thought I would be psycho-analysed. I though my therapist would dig into my head, ask about my childhood, draw out the demons that cause this depression. Instead she said we don’t quite know the reasons for depression. It’s just a thing that some people have, and that artsy types are more susceptible (writers, painters, photographers, musicians, creatives etc).

Some say the gifts that make us artistic – the ability to see, feel, and express things with such profound beauty – could be part of the source. We have such a connection with emotion that it can easily turn on us and hurt us. We soar to heights and sink to depths in ways that others don’t, and that leaves us open to the hellish spaces of suicide, bipolar, and depression.

So … while therapy wasn’t what I expected, I learned coping skills. I learned to recognise the pattern of depression. To spot it when it showed up. To acknowledge it, speak to it, engage it before it dragged me to places I didn’t want to be in. To ride it when it needed to be ridden. To let it hang around for a bit, and when I felt ready, to ward it off. To deal with it when it eventually came back, because this thing, it always comes back. It’s part of who I am, and that doesn’t have to be a bad thing.

During this depressive cycle, I’ve thought a lot about death, and about being dead, but I haven’t reached the point of being suicidal. I’ve felt lost, desperate, bereaved, but I haven’t been to that place where death is better than life.


It’s not all about him though. A few months ago, I begun to slip into the dark. So I went to the beach. By myself. For a week. I figured sunshine, sand, and solitude would pull me from the edge. And it did. But then I came back to a fiancé that no longer wanted me, and that pushed me over the egde.

I thought knowing the cause of depression would make it easier to bear, but it doesn’t hurt any less when you know what’s behind it. Though in fairness, he didn’t cause it. He just aggravated it. And it’s entirely possible that it’s the depression that pushed him away in the first place, that maybe while I was away, he noticed he felt lighter, and realised my black dog just wasn’t something he could handle.

When you’re living with depression, you have to pick your partners carefully. Both your lives depend on your choice. You need someone that can sit with you in the dark, listen when you’re close to the edge, hold you when you’re teetering over, wait until you’re ready to pull back, keep you sane in good times and in bad … all without losing themselves. It’s way harder than it sounds.

I understand suicide, because I’ve been there. I’ve handled it, attempted more than once. I got past it though, and if you’re in that space, I’d like you to know there’s hope. You can’t see it, but it’s there. So distract yourself. Play something mindless, like Tetris or Candy Crush. It seems like silly advice, but it works. It takes your mind off the pain for a few minutes, a few hours, a few days. It gives your soul a break, let’s you disappear into mundanity. And when you rejoin the waking world, you might find another tiny reason to stay here. Like a sunrise, or ice cream, or bacon.

Not all at the same time though ...
Not all at the same time though …

Living with depression is a moment by moment thing. I’m a long-term thinker, so this annoys me. I rejected the ‘distract yourself’ advice for the longest time, because it didn’t solve the underlying problem. I wanted solution for months, not moments. But this thing, it takes you down a moment at a time, and it never really goes away. It’s not something you can cure, or solve, or fix. You’re stuck with it. So you learn to live your moments, one at a time. And eventually, you find yourself willing to go on, a little less eager to die.

For me, there’s one very scary thing about depression. I call it the lift. Just before you reach the point of active suicide, you’re numb. You feel nothing. No pain, no pleasure, no hope. You’re dead inside. For a person that’s used to intense emotion, feeling dead is hell itself. It’s at that point you decide that since you already ‘feel’ dead, you might as well be dead. And once you make that decision, it’s almost a relief. You get to stop the madness once. and. for. all.

Wanting to die is not the scary part. The scary part is coming down from that edge. Because suddenly, you FEEL. You regain access to all the emotions your soul had shut out, and it’s overwhelming, because what you feel the most is sadness. Heavy, sagging sadness that seems to drown you, and it makes you long for the numbness.


When I was in therapy, we had several measures for the levels of depression. We would judge them on a 1 to 10 scale to see how I was doing. We would check suicidal feelings. How badly do I want to die? Have I written a goodbye letter? Do I have a solid plan? We would check ability to function day to day. Am I eating, cooking, showering? We would check sleep patterns. How much or how little am I snoozing? We would check mood. How good or bad do I feel?

Right now, I’m falling back from the edge. Which means while I’m no longer thinking about being dead, I’m back to feeling low. Very low. Lower than I was when I felt numb. And I’m functioning poorly. I can tell by the levels of my perfume. And water. And soap. And the unread emails in my work-box.

“The tragedy of suicide is not the actual dying. It’s being in so much pain that death is preferable to life.” – Sian Ferguson.

Depression sucks. But it passes. Then it comes back. Then it passes. Bit by bit, moment by moment, it passes. So do what you need to do. Go to the beach, not into the ocean. Sit on the grass, not on a tree branch. Play Bungoma Hangman, or Flappy Bird, or Snake, or Pinball. Sit in your bed and do nothing. Just don’t give up yet.

#ProjectSemicolon #Butterflies #Hope #Gotta<3MyTattooGuy

Me, I listen. I play Sia over and over and over. I neglect my chores and feed my child with take-away pilau. I read. I bake. I watch endless hours of Murder TV. I take myself to dinner. I sit in the sun. I stare at goldfish. I have a few guaranas. I shop for pretty watches. I wear fabric flowers in my hair. I get some fresh ink.

I go to iMax, watch anything with Hemsworths in it. I indulge in Kaldis fries and battered fish. I stockpile Wholenut. I gorge on Vienetta and Baileys ice cream. I get through it a moment at a time. And when I feel the fog is barely lifting, I blog.

♫ Elastic Heart ♫ Sia ft Weeknd and Diplo ♫

PS: I’ve heard people say it’s stupid to kill yourself because you got dumped. You know … no one ever actually does that. Not really. You don’t want to die because the one you love left you. You want to die because you had a low image of yourself. And this person came into your life and made you feel special, beautiful, wantable… worthy. And now that they’re gone, you’re lower than you’ve ever been, worse than you were before they even met you. And that pain, it feels like it’s better to be dead.

Puns rule!

It’s not though. It’s never better to be dead. I know no one has come back to tell us all about it, so it’s easy to believe things are better over there in Deathland. And anyway, anything is better than living with this pain, right?

Well … I don’t know what’s on the other side, but I know that leaving doesn’t help. That pain you’re feeling, that conviction that you’re dragging everyone down with your hurt, that people would be better without you? It doesn’t last forever. It feels like it will, but trust me, it won’t. I’ve been there, and it passes. So play Candy Crush, and hold on just a little bit longer. It’s going to pass. I promise. Hugs and love.

♫ Bird set free  ♫ Sia ♫