Thanks for waiting. In case you missed the preview, find it here, so you know what to expect. If you are not sure what Beneath the Smile is about, please check the preview out.

The project aims at looking beyond the smiles of the next person, to see what’s really beneath, what’s really going on? How people really need help and won’t bother saying anything about it but would rather cover it up with a façade of strength, with a smile.
It’s time to look beneath the smile and lend a helping hand. People are going through real things, these are their stories.

We hope that you’d be kind enough to leave a comment. Your feedback is important to us.

Today’s story was sent in by one of our readers, who has asked to stay Anonymous.

This is her story.

Please Read.

The ‘Beneath the Smile’ Project.

You see…

Life is a beautiful mess. People will shit on you and YOU must pack it. How you put yourself together is what matters the most. There’s a Yoruba proverb that goes….

“Eni to yagbe o kin ranti, sugbon, eni to ko, o’kin gbagbe”
“He who deposits feaces does not remember but he who packs, never forgets.”

My story.

My father was a “big man” at the time I was born but he was not legally married to my mother. You would think she benefited at least a little from mothering a child for him but that didn’t happen. My mother worked hard for everything. Practically nothing was given to her on a platter of gold as should have been expected. It is safe to say I knew the hard life.

My mum would go to work early in the morning and leave us with our neighbor’s houseboy. She couldn’t exactly afford a nanny at the time so after school, I and my sister would go and stay over till she came back home. I think our neighbor had twin daughters. I don’t remember clearly.

All I remember is that at age 6, I was raped by this boy.

I knew something terrible had happened to me that would change my life forever, but nobody said anything. Nobody noticed anything strange with me and so I was quiet. Life continued.
Life soon got better for us all. My father started to acknowledge us and was now paying for our secondary school fees. We came over for holidays to see my dad. He lived in a very big house now.

Money sweet o.

He had house keepers and a young man who did the laundry too. Sometimes I wouldn’t feel like going back to Lagos. For what? Stay in a 3 bedroom flat? Although my mum was the owner of the house in Lagos, she had to rent out two of the “self-contain” under our own flat. That wasn’t much of a big house to me.

On one of our trips to Abuja, I realized the laundry man was getting too close to my sister. I warned her. Like he sensed I did, I had to take the blow for her. Only God knows if he hadn’t already ruined my sister…
At 12, I was abused as a child, for the second time.

Yet again, I didn’t speak. Speak to who? I lived like nothing happened. At some point I’d get really depressed. I knew something bad was really happening but I wouldn’t talk. I feared the stigmatization. If I dared to speak, people would address me as: “The girl who was raped.”

The next questions would be
“Where was her mother?”
Same mother who did everything to make life comfortable for us? I couldn’t live with the pain. I tormented the laundry man till he gave up his job. I was rude in every way… It was the least I could do.

I was rounding up with secondary school when I came across the word “Orgasm.” To the best of my knowledge, the dictionary didn’t do a good job explaining. All I knew was that a doctor would explain better to me. The school’s doctor was a very good friend of mine at the time. A handsome young man, who just got married, wife was pregnant, had a great job, very approachable, always willing to help, very nice man.
I asked him what orgasm meant and he said
“Well, there’s the theory and practical” He started.
“After the theory, you may not still understand but with the practical, it’s straightforward”
Like a lamb led to slaughter, I put myself in harm’s way. I was only 15… going on 16.

Till tomorrow comes, my parents know nothing about this. I do not intend to speak up either, not because I am afraid but because the stigma it brings is just enough trauma. These incidents have psychologically changed my life in ways indescribable but still, I find solace in making others happy. Smiling every time I can like I have no worries but indeed, the pain beneath is beyond this world.

My life may not be perfect but I do believe my accidents have made me to this point. There is joy in making others happy even though I rarely ever get that back.
Hi! I’m yet to be 20 but I believe there’s something more in life for me. Oh look! I just graduated from the university too!

NEMS.

• • •

Don’t just read, say a prayer.

A PENNY FOR YOUR THOUGHTS?

N.B. The project goes on with Tomorrow’s ’Her Story, XXXI’ by an Anonymous writer.

You can still send in your own true stories to obafuntay@gmail.com

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