Speaking out about my rape is part of my journey and I cannot ask other survivors to speak up and break their silence, without first freeing myself by speaking out.

Every time I’d visit my GP he would ask me:

“Why do you choose to hold the weight of the world and the shame of your rapist on your shoulders? Every time I see you, you walk and behave as though you committed the crime against him; but he is the one who should be ashamed of what he did to you.

My response was always the same:

“I walked and behaved as though I am guilty because I feel guilty. I carry my rapist shame on my shoulders because I think I must have done something to deserve this. In addition, I know everyone knows and blames me for this.”

My rapist was known and loved by so many people at UCT. In the East African Society (EASOC) he was known as and called the godfather. So for many years I was too scared to speak out about what he did to me because I was sure no one would believe me.

I also need you to understand. South Africa was not my motherland. It was a country that looked very different from Kenya, the people spoke different languages than my people, and most importantly, it was a place that I had not fully embraced as my home yet. Thus when I felt homesick, I latched onto my fellow countrymen and women for support. Even though, my closest friends were actually from South Africa and other nation-states. I sometimes needed physical anchors to my heritage to make me feel whole again. Unfortunately when I finally got the courage to speak up about my rape and against my rapist, some of my countrymen and women were the first to call me a liar, disown and shame me.

However, when I finally found the courage to speak to God about my rape, he did not disown nor did he blame me. Instead, he said:

“BE STILL MY CHILD! BE STILL! I’ve loved you from before you were born and I will continue to love even after you die.”

And thanks to his mercy and grace I survived.

This entry is going to be very graphic; I’m not going to sugar coat anything because I need you to understand the pain and destruction that rape leaves in its wake.

I met my rapist at the beginning of 2006 when I started my studies in Cape Town, South Africa. When we first met, he seemed like a normal and decent individual. He was short, petite, and overall a typical 20-something Kenyan guy. His demeanor and attire mirrored American Hip Hop culture. In fact, the only thing that reflected his nationality was his accent, though even that didn’t fully represent most Kenyans. It mostly reflected the type of schools he had attended—private schools—and the fact that he came from an affluent family.

I did not find him attractive, nor did I see him as anything but a friend. He just seemed like a polite person who might make a good friend. So, I classified him as an acquaintance or big brother. I hung out with him and his friends once in a while and occasionally sought his assistance when I felt I needed it. During my time at Abbotts College, where I was finishing my last year of high school, I anchored myself to him and his friends. They provided a kind of familial feeling for me.

In late 2006, early 2007, I was accepted into the Humanities faculty at the University of Cape Town and became an active member of the East African Society (EASOC). I lived in the university residence, Tugwell, on the lower campus, which was across from my rapist’s apartment building. Because of this, I spent a lot of time with him and his friends. However, with the added pressure of my double major and other commitments, our friendship started to take a back seat, which upset him and his friends. From mid-2007 to mid-2008, our relationship became strained until 2009.

Although we weren’t close from mid-2007 to mid-2008, we still saw each other and interacted at EASOC and other university events. In 2009, we began hanging out again and became friends once more. Naively, I believed he saw me as one of his male friends. Boy, was I wrong. By letting him back into my life, I unknowingly opened the door to my personal version of hell.

…

In May 2009, I was struggling with academics and life in general. My third year was incredibly stressful—the workload was heavier, the reading material more complex, and the fear of failure had become nearly debilitating. Additionally, the disappointment of not getting my hip replacement surgery was increasingly frustrating.

At the end of 2008, I was scheduled for a hip replacement, but due to unforeseen complications, I had to postpone the surgery. This left me bitter, as I thought 2009 would be the year I could realize my full physical potential. For years, I had imagined trying new things, like surfing or some other crazy sport I couldn’t attempt before. I pictured myself letting out my sunny disposition and acting like a carefree child again—no inhibitions, no concerns that I wouldn’t be able to join the fun, or worse, that I might hurt myself. Just to clarify, my hip sometimes limits my range of motion, but it doesn’t define me, nor does it rule my life.

Anyway, on May 12, 2009, I was having an absolutely horrific day. I had failed a test that I’d spent a great deal of time studying for two weeks earlier. I hadn’t slept in days because of assignment deadlines, and as a result, I felt overly emotional. Luckily, I had attended all my morning lectures, so I decided to take the rest of the afternoon off to relax and gather my thoughts.

On my way back to my room on middle campus for lunch, my phone began to vibrate. (Note: my phone is always on vibrate, and the ringer is always off.) I tried to ignore it, but the sound was so unsettling and loud that I had no choice but to answer it. I picked up the phone from the bedstand and glanced at the screen. His name appeared, and instantly I felt a sharp pain in my abdomen. A small voice whispered, “Don’t pick it up. DON’T PICK IT UP!” Of course, like a complete fool, I ignored that voice and answered.

It was my rapist. We exchanged pleasantries, and then he told me he was near my residence and asked if he could pay me a short visit. At first, I was hesitant, as I really just wanted to be alone, but for some reason, I decided to let him come over. I lived in Woolsack on middle campus, so it was normal for me to entertain guests in my room. Honestly, it had never occurred to me that inviting people of the opposite sex into my room could pose a security risk—especially in this case.

I like I said above, I had known my rapist for years and he had visited me before and, he had never done anything to harm me.

Before I continue, it is important for me to point out rapists that do not look a particular way, neither are they of a particular race or class. Most rapists are people we know, trust and have some sort of relationship with. Sometimes rapists are complete strangers, however, this is usually not the cases.

Therefore, telling a rape victim they should have dressed more appropriately, or acted differently, doesn’t help them, neither does it solve this epidemic. What it does do is place blame on the victim instead of a perpetrator.

In addition, for those of you that told me I should have never let my rapist into my dorm room, or I should have yelled or that it was my fault and that I wanted to have intercourse with him. Go fuck yourselves, as your arguments are not only fallacious they are ridiculously stupid!

My rapist arrived a couple of minutes after the call. He didn’t call me to swipe in, as someone else let him into the residence. I heard a knock at my door, I moved to the mirror and made sure my eyes weren’t too puffy. Back in those days, I didn’t like crying in public, I was firm believer that people who cried in public were attention seekers and feeble. Little did I know this would become my MO for many, many years. After I put some eye drops on, I moved to the door and let him in. We exchanged pleasantries. Unfortunately, despite my best efforts, it was very rather obvious I had been crying. So he asked me what had gotten me so upset and if I wanted to talk about it. I replied with a vague answer and tried to change the topic, but he kept pushing and before I knew it, I was spilling my guts out. His response was I should cheer up and take comfort in the fact that other people out there had much bigger problems than I did. This really pissed me off, so I asked him to leave, as I really would rather have been alone rather be patronised. He insisted on staying and cheering me up. For some stupid reason, unknown to me, I let it go and let him stay. He asked me if I had ever watched a movie called Amelie and I said no, and he began to download it.

As the film was downloading, he began to make moves on me. He run his hands up and down my chest while trying to kiss me. This made me very uncomfortable and angry. I mean who makes advances on an individual whose clearly upset and preoccupied?

I mean, seriously, who?

Once again, I asked him to leave. He declined and I didn’t insist, I just reasoned that I would throw him out once his downloads were complete. Within a few minutes, Amelie was saved on my laptop. He copied the file onto my VLC player and we started watching the movie. I felt very uncomfortable, because within the first five minutes, there was already a hectic, steamy sex scene. I didn’t like it as I was a huge prude and quiet honestly I thought it was an inappropriate film choice.  Now, don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t an angel. I had seen films with sex scenes before but all I’m saying is I was very conservative and naive at the time.

In addition, I had little to no level of interest in the content of this movie or his company. Honestly, I just wanted to be left alone to cry and console myself. I asked him to leave but he insisted on staying and cheering me up. He asked me again what was wrong, and I repeated my story about my hip and how disappointed I was that I didn’t get my hip replacement. The more I spoke about it, the more upset I got, before I knew it; tears started rolling down my cheeks. I tried to hold them back, I tried to breathe and shout at myself internally, but like many of you know sometimes you just have to let your sorrows flow like the river Nile.

It was at this moment that he saw his opening. It was at that very moment he decided to steal my power and declare it as his own.

Sexual assault is not about sex but rather it is a way for a rapist to exercise their power over their victim.

“Rape is a crime that is committed through a sexual act without the consent or agreement of the people involved. Rape is traumatic, humiliating and can have life changing consequences. Rape is never the victim’s fault. Rapists make the choice to rape, and they are to blame.

You can be raped by a stranger or by someone you know or are going out with (date rape). A woman can also be raped by her husband. If you are raped by two or more people at the same time, it is called gang rape. Statutory rape is when someone age 18 or older has sex with someone under the age of consent (16 years) whether or not she gave consent.” (Rape crisis centre SA: http://rapecrisis.org.za/about-rape/)

 

 

 

 

 

©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.