TOKOLOSHE CRADLE: From Trauma to Triumph: How I Overcame the Pain of Rape and Found Strength

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tokoloshe

[1]

From the moment I landed at Jomo Kenyatta International airport (JKIA), I knew I was in my rapist’s home turf. Although Kenya was also my home turf, it did not hold the same level of protection for me as it did for my rapist. My rapist was safe here. He couldn’t be tried here; he had family and associates here, who probably knew about this. I am certain that the little prick, bragged about deflowering me. I’m sure in his sick, twisted head he values that act like he would an international award. I know what you’re thinking; you’re thinking I also had the above support system. Some of my family and friends also lived here, but they only served as a metaphoric support system. In order for them to offer their support, they would need to know what happened to me, which they didn’t. So like Edmund Burke said: “The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men should do nothing.” In this case, the only thing necessary for him to triumph was for me to say nothing!

That said, six years down the line the irony present itself. Now when I land at JKIA and walk around my country, I strut around with the pride of a mother. I gave birth to my renaissance and expelled my pain. Now with every step I take and every move I make, I exude greatness and embrace the endless possibilities ahead of me. The irony is, the louder I roar, the smaller your influence becomes!

I’m no longer afraid of being the wretch of the earth; rather I choose to be the flame that enlightens the masses!

There’s a powerful serenity that is engraved in most people’s familial home; the serenity is not intertwined in the structure of the house but in the enchantment of familial warmth, protection and support. A home is a home because of the memories made in it, and my familial home was founded in all the above; and above all this house was structurally sound to withhold any attack from my rapist and his supporters.  Herein lies my safe place, my true safe haven.

As I walked around the day after my arrival, 10th June 2009, I felt debilitating grieve. It was the first time I really felt the loss of my father. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve felt that the loss from the moment he took his last breath on this earth, but I never, ever, let myself really grieve. I mean really grieve! But that moment as I stared at our old family portrait in the living room, I couldn’t help but wonder if my life would have been different if he was still alive. I couldn’t help but wonder if his presence would have prevented my rape. I mean maybe I’d have chosen a different path, a different and safer country to study in, or better yet, I’d have known better and therefore never trusted my rapist or let him into my dome room. For the very first time in my life, I really resented my father for leaving me and I really hated my Lord from taking him away from me. At that very moment I missed the warmth and protection of my father more than ever; that was the very moment that I understood what it meant to be surrounded by people and feel very alone. I cannot emphasize this enough, any traumatic event that is not dealt with gives the victim an unexplainable amount of pain that leads to irrational fears and isolation. The more you isolate yourself the further away you get from reality.

…

My reality had become one of irrational phobias, hyper tension and hibernation. My room and familial home was the only place where I sort of felt safe. Unfortunately, I’m using the word safe very loosely. The first night I spent in my own bed, right opposite my mum’s room and right next to my sister’s room, was the best night of my life. I may not have slept for eight hours or even six hours straight, but for the first time in months, I had, had real deep sleep. No nightmare, well one, but it wasn’t that scary; very mildly horrific. According to sleep specialist, deep sleep stage is the stage where the body repairs and regrows tissues, builds bone and muscle, and strengthens the immune system. So clearly, deep sleep is a very important part of sleep. The next few mornings I felt so fresh and energetic. Unfortunately, this was very short lived, as the next week; I started having night visit from tokoloshe, at least I thought it was tokoloshe[2].

Every night I went to my room, I watched any and all series that could cuddle me to sleep, but this time instead of being able to clear my head from everything and forget about my issues, all I could see were these dark, evil beings in my presence and I could feel them as they attempted to come closer towards me. It’s like being encircled by iniquity. A malevolent energy that surrounds you during your darkest time and ignites all your senses on fire.

My Tokoloshe resembled my rapist to a tee. He had his dark chocolate complexion, with dark black spots and pimples all over his forehead, and this perverted smug look in his eyes. People say that eyes are the window of the soul. Well this soul, was pure evil.  Peeking into his eyes was like looking into the soul of the devil itself. In addition, every time tokoloshe was around my sense of smell was heighten. The whole room was reeking of expensive cologne that was meant to epitomize wealth and intense masculinity, but instead it felt like tokoloshe was overcompensating for something. I no longer laid in the comfort of my laptop, I now cuddled with my own version of Tokoloshe.

I want you to close your eyes, and for a few seconds recollect the fear you used to feel when you were a child and you believed there monsters in your room. I want you to focus intently on the fear, don’t rationalize it, just let it engulf you completely. Now imagine your lying in bed, surrounded by all your favourite toys, your blankie and night light. Your bed is surrounded by these figures that only have an upper body and float around the room, like a white feather would float towards the sun. All these figures look like the person you fear most, and everywhere you turn you see them. The light night light that was left on for you to keep away evil becomes your worst enemy; because instead of scaring those evil figures away it illuminates their vice a million times over. It’s an evil that cannot be described accurately but you can definitely feel it, in core part of your being. Now, imagine feeling that way every day of your life. That’s how a rape victim feels. A rape victim has an innate fear that convinces them that they will never escape their rapist, or the shame they feel, or ever overcome their pain. A rape sees their rapists everywhere they go. He’s in their home, car, office, supermarket, and church; all because his image is tattooed into their mind’s eye. A place where you can neither physically get to, nor  erase. It’s like your stalker is using your own body against you.

…

Looking back now and looking how far I have come. I can only cite my recovery to my God, family, friends and an awesome medical team.

I will keep saying this to yah. If you know anyone that has been raped or if you yourself have been raped, please seek help and find the courage to speak out. Silence only protects him and creates a ridiculous amount of fear and shame in your soul; and you are not the one who should be ashamed it your rapist. THEY ARE THE ONES IN THE WRONG NOT YOU!!

Lastly, please follow my blog  and share my blog post. By following my blog, you get regular updates sent to you via email, and by sharing my posts we raise awareness and BREAK THE SILENCE!

[1] https://giordanopoloni.wordpress.com/- image of tokoloshe

[2] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tikoloshe

 

 

©misbeloved/mwk

 

[Maryanne Kamunya] and [misbeloved], [2014]. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to [Maryanne Kamunya] and [misbeloved] with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

Filed Under: My Memoir as Rape Victim and Survivor Tagged With: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

DENIAL!

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Denial and I conversed, and we agreed I should keep quiet and live in an oasis of pretense. Yes, I had told Vuyo, A and Dr Cornell, but as soon as I re-entered my four wall dungeon, I enslaved myself with untruth. I signed a deceitful treaty with denial to secure my peace. The treaty required me to keep up appearances, weep in the confines of my prison and never face reality. This seemed like a very small price to pay in order to retain my sanity. Ironically, silence, pretense, and psychological denial were the very things that destroyed my sanity. They drove me into a land of delusion. I now lived in a dichotomous world of impossibility, where denial fought the truth. Truth reigned in my sub-conscious, while my conscious mind was governed by denial.

The first thing that suffered from my treaty was sleep. In order for any person to sleep, their mind has to be relaxed or in a state of partial Zen. Your thoughts have to be gentle and at the back of your mind. My mind was in a constant state of reflection; it roared like a Ford Mustang and raced across the track like a Buggatti Veyron. Gentle thoughts were non-existent in my mind, both my conscious and unconscious mind were riddled by deep and dark images. Every time I closed my eyes I saw his face and the act of rape that he had committed. Then those seven insulting words rang simultaneously like a cacophony between the piano and harpsichord. Since I had so graciously chosen to honor my Kikuyu roots and suffer in silence, I signed slumber’s arrest warrant and welcomed American motion pictures into my bed. As long as my laptop played movies or series, my sanity could escape into a monarchy of fantasy. Motion pictures kept my nightmares a bay, but unfortunately no amount of TV could stop me from sleeping, especially not after being prescribed sedatives. I cannot recall the nightmares I sustained in the first month, but I do recollect they revolved around death, being attacked, abandonment issues, and ghastly shadows.

My rapist was my first enemy and sleep became his vicious accomplice. After being raped sleep or any form of unconsciousness serves as a cruel form of punishment. It becomes a channel to replay your rape over and over again. It does not serve as a way to rest the mind but it serves as an effective method of torture. Imagine being detained in a dark, isolated room filled with huge screens and high definition sound. Each time you attempt to close your eyes and rest, you’re pumped with shots of adrenaline and forced to keep watching. That is what rape victims endure every time they fall sleep.

For me, my laptop became my companion and defense Major General. He was there for me through thick and thin, he heard me cry and comforted me, he protected me from my own negativity and nightmares by making me laugh and illuminating my room at night. The irony of course being that my laptop personified a male being. The very gender that had violated me was the very gender that I trusted to protect me. This is how effective the patriarchal system could be. My laptop replaced my friends and personified the human companion I needed. The scariest thing for me was darkness, especially when I could not sleep.  I did not want to draw attention to myself by switching on the light and leaving it on, so my laptop acted as my convert defense against darkness and intrusion. The fears I had as a little girl had resurfaced and been amplified to a different height. Instead of just being afraid of external monsters with unrealistic peripheral features, I was now also petrified of the ogre that lay within. The Ogre that lived within wasn’t time conscious he attacked at any time, day or night, because his darkness did not relied on nightfall but rather relied on self-criticism, self-hatred, self-alienation, shame, guilt and any negative emotion that could overpower positive reinforcements. So as much as my journey has been long and full of error, I’d be amiss not to advice you seek medical attention if you feel any of the above feelings, because ignoring your trauma will not make it go away but it will rather length the healing process and cause psychological harm.

My academic performance was the second thing to sustain irreparable mutilation.  Now as much as I would like to sit here and tell you I was an A* student, I’d only be lying. However my grades were above average, and most importantly I loved and understood everything my lecturers taught. All my life I had keenly followed current events. So imagine my delight when I not only got to study these political events, but I also got to analyze the theories, philosophies, economic and social factors that catalyzed these events.  In those days not even death itself could stop me from attending those lectures but as soon as I was raped nothing could get me out of bed. I mean really, I could barely motivate myself to shower; now I not only had to cleanse myself but I had to concentrate and act like Middle Eastern policies would be enough to fix my current realities? Funny thing was, I was desperately seeking any form of escape, and even though my studies could have offered me that escape, they required much more energy than my body possessed. Sadly, I lacked the basic energy needed to be honest with myself; therefore the graduate future I had worked so hard to secure, was now hemorrhaging from shrapnel wounds it would incur for next few months. Those few months would destroy my academic future for what feels like forever.

A leave of absence could have prevented the wounds that my grades suffered but this solution came with its own complications. A leave of absent required me to tell my family what had been done to me, and quite honestly I was so petrified of telling them that I chose to deal with this alone, in a foreign country.

Secondly, a leave of absence meant I would be doing nothing else but trauma therapy and for therapy to even begin I’d have to be cognizant with my rape and I wasn’t planning to do that, as I had signed a treaty with denial. So as long as my inability to face reality was in play, my academic future would continue to loom over my head and my new obsession would take effect.

Here is what I’ve learnt so far.

  • A rape victim cannot recover from rape alone, asking for help does not make you weak, neither does admitting to yourself and others that you got raped.
  • Denying any trauma’s existence whether it is rape, car accident, emotional or physical abuse does not solve the problem, if anything it makes the problem worse and harder to deal with. Seek any form of medical attention. If you are in Kenya, go to your nearest clinic and ask them to direct you to the nearest therapist. If you live in Nairobi specifically, go to Nairobi Women’s hospital and they will assist.

If you live in South Africa or London or USA contact rape crisis center.

  • Escapism whether with technology, alcohol or drugs also only amplifies the problem and makes it worse. Long term escapism and denial has real psychological effects whether it is depression, deep dissociation behavior, alienation and loss of touch from reality.
  • Lastly, without proper cognitive health everything can seem and prove to be impossible. Negativity, self-loathing, self-criticism, only act as barriers of success and opportunities. So ask for support and care from positive people, and set aside any pride or shame that may try and deter you from asking for assistance.
  • Yes, you are the captain of your ship, but every captain has crew members that support him through his or her journey!

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Filed Under: My Memoir as Rape Victim and Survivor Tagged With: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Gukira ni Guthurana: Breaking the Silence on Rape and Survival!

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Hey beloveds, before you this post, please make sure you’ve read the previous post. You can find it on this URL: http://amandlaawethu.org/misbeloved/memoirs-of-a-rape-victim-weeping-melody/

Silence is a rape victims enemy. It forces us to endure ounces of shame while protecting the very person who should be tormented by their actions. Inner thunderstorms become our daily bread.

The literal translation of my title is: Not talking is to hate! Ironically, victims tend to remain silent about their trauma because, for most rape victims, silence becomes golden. This silence is driven by fear—fear of being judged, accused, or disowned. Society teaches us that we must have done something to encourage our rape. Yet no amount of rape culture can ever justify rape.

Silence only protects the rapist and denies victims the opportunity to get the physical and psychological support they need.

It may sound hypocritical for me to urge other rape victims to speak up, as I lacked the strength or courage to do so at first. But I’m speaking up now, and this blog is my medium. Since I started blogging, my courage has multiplied tenfold, and peace now flows like a river.

I won’t pretend this blog has been my sole source of healing. I’ve attended therapy—and continue to do so—found an unwavering support system of my mum (she has been my biggest pillar of support), my family and real friends, and educated myself as much as possible about rape, rape trauma syndrome, and depression. I strongly encourage other rape victims to seek therapy, build a support system, and learn about the realities of rape. Knowledge has been a profound source of power for me.

There has been significant contestation about my title, Memoirs of a Rape Victim. Many prefer the term “rape survivor”—therapists, friends, family, and others close to me. While I agree we demonstrate incredible strength every moment we choose to push forward, I intentionally use “victim” because we were victimized. The term “rape survivor” glosses over the immense process required to survive.

Summoning the strength to escape an attacker, find safety, ask for help, or endure a doctor’s probing during a rape exam—all while confronting rejection from friends or family who prioritize the rapist over your trauma—these are fragments of what it takes for a rape victim to survive. Survival is not automatic; WE CHOSE TO SURVIVE BECAUSE IT WAS OUR ONLY LIFELINE!

…

My survival instinct didn’t kick in until I was forced to rely on it. My first instinct was to seek comfort from one of my closest friends, long before I succumbed to my weeping melody.

Immediately after being violated, I was taken to the pharmacy near Pick and Pay in Rondebosch, Cape Town. I use the word taken because contesting the rapist’s demand to get the pill was too frightening.

The streets of Rondebosch were bustling. Everyone I saw seemed to be his friend. I couldn’t trust anyone. So, like an obedient servant, I walked into the pharmacy as he watched from his car. I whispered across the counter, asking for the morning-after pill, and my rapist stood right next to me.

When the pharmacist heard my request, I bowed my head in shame. My thoughts raced like wildfire, all revolving around the shame I felt. My only hope for assistance lay with men—the very gender I feared most in that moment. Rondebosch was crawling with men of all shapes and sizes, including the pharmacist. My fear grew. I was certain that if I asked for help, they would unite against me.

I didn’t understand why people call the brain the most powerful organ until that moment. Every possible scenario I imagined ended in disaster, paralyzing me into silence.

On my way out, I bumped into one of his friends. I couldn’t say anything but was convinced he could see the shame and disgust etched on my face. We exchanged pleasantries, and before I could summon the courage to ask for help, my rapist came up behind me and pushed me toward his car, exchanging a distant hello with his friend.

When I returned to my dorm, my subconscious sought a safe haven. My eyes landed on my bed sheet. The bright white stains of his semen on my royal purple sheets mocked me. They stared back with sovereign power, as if they were the king and I the slave.

I stared at that sheet for what felt like an eternity. My mind sketched a sinister picture of my future—a black hole behind Satan’s leer. Eventually, I dug a microscopic hole in that darkness and found the strength to cleanse myself. I grabbed my bottle of Dettol, a faint glimmer of hope, and escaped to the bathroom.

Afterward, I wandered through the quad in the rain, seeking solace, and ended up at my little sister’s doorstep. Each step reflected the dark skies above, the black clouds mirroring my insides.

Vuyo opened the door with a bright smile that quickly faded. I was laughing hysterically—my mind teetering on the edge of madness. Every laugh dissolved an ounce of my sanity.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“Sex,” I said. “I just had sex. No, wait! I didn’t. Wait, yes, I did!”

The disbelief on her face spoke volumes. She ushered me in, and I told her what had happened. Each word cut like a blade on my tongue.

When I finished, Vuyo said, “You were raped. He took full advantage of you.”

She tried calling him, but his phone was off. The next day, we saw on Facebook that he was on his way back to Nairobi. His departure didn’t comfort me. It disempowered me further. Leaving was his final act of cowardice.

Hearing Vuyo say it—You were raped—forced the reality to sink in. Those words shattered me, yet they also marked the beginning of my journey toward survival.

 

P.S. Please feel free to leave your comments, but destructive negativity will not be tolerated. Remember: Compassion is humanity’s co-captain, steering us toward survival.

 

©misbeloved/mwk

 

[Maryanne Kamunya] and [misbeloved], [2014]. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to [Maryanne Kamunya] and [misbeloved] with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

 

Filed Under: My Memoir as Rape Victim and Survivor Tagged With: , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,
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