Who would have believed?
Who would have believed if I told them that Jide, the son of
Kosoko liked children, and he liked them anyway he could get them? No preferred sex.
How could I have formed the words that I write now?
I can smell the scandal, it would have caused- “the son of
catholic priest, allegedly molests girl member of his father’s diocese”
How can I explain to you the currency with which my silence
was bought?
You see, Jide was everybody’s star- the choirmaster, altar
boy, he was in everything- extremely present, with his smile that made everyone
see a halo on his head. The crown of this evil was that Jide went to my school,
and he was the people’s man too! I had no safe space.
How could I have communicated, that it was best me, with confession
after, a confession of all of my 'sins'- it was going to be me in submission, or
my brother and I - when I showed disobedience or just my brother if I dared to
never show up for these bible classes. Bible classes, that was how he got me on
Saturdays, every other day it was mandatory that we saw, now that I think about
it, I think that life just wasn’t my friend.
Myself or my brother? And of course, to save my brother from this churchly wickedness, I was present every
time, like a lamb ready for slaughter. I hope now you understand- that this
suffering was bigger than me, and the consequence of not suffering even bigger.
I truly want to be able to say that my mother noticed my
absence- not physically, I mean my mental absence, how I never truly spoke
again, or how eating became laborious, the way my eyes lost their shine and how
I became a shell of everything I was- if there’s anything worse than an empty
shell, imagine it- I was it.
I remember one of those times, where Jide had buckled his
belt and was about to leave the church office, he turned to look at me, tears
in his eyes and apologized. I wish I could say that it ended there, and this was
the end of all of it, but the next time- he came at me stronger and harder,
with so much anger- like I caused his tears. Jide was SICK.
Sometimes, when I think of how I’ll tell this story. Yes, ‘this’
not ‘my’.
It’s not my story, it’s
an unfortunate series of events, that I was greatly unfortunate to have the first-row
experience of. I think of how much fingers will point and not in sympathy,
because as much as I hated it, Jide was god to some.
There was a time I was free though, my body not my mind- the
only benefit of me traveling for university. My body was free from unwanted intrusion and
hands who held it in disgusted worship, so if you saw me- I was put together, and
looked like all was well, I was however losing my mind, because the nights weren’t
for rest, they were for battle- fighting with despicable memories that Jide
left me with.
I wish I could say that Jide changed. I went home and my
brother no longer smiled- and I knew, I just knew, that it was time for an end.
I want to sugar coat the end- the freedom of my brother and I-
and right now I wish I did it in a way, that I’ll be cheered for, sweet and
nice and full of spite. No, it was gritty and messy, twice with a knife to his
chest in his sleep- then I watched him bleed to his final exit.
That day, I could’ve run, really far- I chose not to, and I sat
in the corner of his room and waited.
This is the last confession I’ll ever make, the one before,
being my plea of guilt. I will not stand in court for one more day and be
paraded like a killer, when I helped Jide, I helped him stop. When you find
this letter, I’ll be long gone.
This is what happened, this is why Jide was killed- I think
that twelve years was enough silence, lucky for me- I will not be here to
listen to your opinions.
So, my last words will be; I CONFESS TO HELPING JIDE, I
HELPED HIM STOP.
