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|Tormented by safarigirl(f): 10:18pm On Apr 10, 2015|
Well guys. Writer's block brought me here, for lack of what path to take on my 2 other stories, I decided to start this new one. Might not be the wisest decision, but this story has been on my case since last year and refuses to go. It also has a blueprint ...I really would love reviews/feedbacks on this story. Tell me if I should keep going or trash it. Thank you
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|Re: Tormented by safarigirl(f): 10:20pm On Apr 10, 2015|
All Rights Reserved Copyright © safarigirl
You never really know what terror is until it's staring you in the face like a dounle-barelled gun. You imagine it, you see it on tv and maybe...just maybe, you see it on the faces of others. But you're helpless. You pray for them, hope they get through it or away from it and then forget about them.
At least once in every man's life, he is faced with terror so gripping there is a momentary pause in breath, sweat breaks out of the skin, the joints are paralysed and the bladder is unable to hold back liquid waste. In that moment, he prays. Even the one who says there is no God, prays.
I've known fear my entire life, but terror only visited me once...and I made sure it never returned
September 15, 1997
Run! Run! Run!
Tiny feet carried me towards familiar surroundings, to my place of safety. The only things ringing in my ears were my heavy breathing and my inner voice egging me on, but it seemed like the farther I ran, the closer he got.
I tried to shut out his voice, his curses. But they hit me as hard as the stench of his breath after he returned from his drinking with friends.
"Come back here! Don't run away from me!"
He was inebriated so that helped- almost. He was unsteady but not slow as I could just hear him gaining on me. I saw the door ahead, it was slightly ajar. A few more feet ahead and I would get to it. To my safety.
I pushed harder.
I had reached it. I ran in and pushed the door close...
I found myself flat on my ass with a blinding pain on my right hand. I let out a scream. But those things were useless. No matter how loud I or my mother screamed, it always seemed like we were the only ones. Trapped in our own private hell.
I tried to scramble away, but he grabbed my leg before I could and dragged me against the cemented floor. I screamed again from the pain I knew would leave bruises
With one hand, he lifted me off the ground. At 7, I barely weighed a thing. He shook me violently, "You stupid idiot! You made me chase you for what? Ehn?"
I struggled against him, "Stop struggling you dirty daughter of a dirty ashawo! You wan die?" He shouted, I turned away to avoid his smelly breath as my eyes watered. I didn't want to die, I just wanted to be left alone. I wanted to be left in peace and away from their drama.
From the corner of my eye, I saw the corner of his dark lips raise in a smile, "You know say as you small reach, you take style fine" he reached for my hair, but I shook him away.
He frowned, "You no wan make I touch you?"
I shook my head in response. The next thing I felt was a slap that rendered me temporarily numb with pain. I swear I could feel vibrations in my ear and even now, that slap rendered me partially deaf.
"You dey craze? No be ashawo your mama be? You better pass am?"
My body trembled in fear and tears dropped from my eyes. My tormentor was apparently amused by my tears.
"You wan cry? I never even start you don dey cry."
He more or less flung me to the ground like I was nothing- I probably was. His eyes raked over me and a twisted grin that made my insides roil formed against his lips exposing yellowed teeth, "Oya, comot your cloth."
I literally felt the air leave my lungs at that statement and true terror overcame me. I shook my head, "No, abeg leave me alone, abeg."
"Oh, so you sabi talk" he lauged and it sounded like a demonic roar in my ears, "My friend comot your cloth sharply, no waste my time."
Even at my tender age, I knew that whatever this scum was up to wouldn't end well for me. So I ignored his instruction and continued to plead. Hoping, praying this scoundrel had a heart or an atom of it somewhere within.
I hoped too much.
There isn't much information on r-ape in third world countries. There are little or no statistics on the subject, just speculations mostly. Since there really is no body in charge of keeping numbers in these countries, it makes so much sense if there are no statistics.
Besides, even if there was, it's not likely the numbers would scratch the actual facts. Most victims never speak out on it for fear of stigmatization, so they resort to killing their demons themselves.
Some women never get over it. They live in fear of men the rest of their lives and so are unable to enter normal relationships. Sometimes, the demons kill off their harbourers, so it's not that hard to find victims of r-ape who succumb to suicide.
Some do get over it, although with time and eventually go into successful relationships with men. Those are the lucky ones.
Then there are those like me.
Bitter. Angry. Vengeful
And no. I'm not mad at myself alone. I'm mad at men, women, the world. I suffered 3 years of constant molestation. 3 years of dirty, filthy men touching me intimately, making me do vile, disgusting things. And I suffered it all under my mother's roof.
She never did anything. She knew. She always knew when her male visitors would come into my room and touch me. Defile me. She heard my cries and my screams for help. She even peeked in sometimes. I would see the door slightly open through eyes blurred by tears. I would see her check in. Till now I didn't know what for and I never bothered to find out.
I wasn't the daughter of a prostitute. I was the spawn of the devil.
And it only took 3 years to unleash the true me.
One day my mother's friend came to check on her and found 2 dead people. One man and one woman. And the little girl who lived in the same house was gone.
I spent the next 2 years on the streets. It was difficult, but not half as difficult as living in that house was. That place was my own little hell, compared to it, the streets were just purgatory.
My saving grace came in form of a female pastor. Mrs Gladys Ugwumba. She took me in after she caught me stealing in her provision shop.
Ee have a working relationship, I and Mrs. Gladys. She gives me her opinion on my life and I mostly ignore them. She realises it's my personal choice to accept this God she preaches of andd has left me to my devices. I like that she isn't pushy about it and she's never tried to guilt trip me to go to church or practice any of those rituals she believes in. She could do that, afterall, she's trained me the past 12 years of my life. But like she always says, it's wrong to blackmail anyone to follow Christ.
I can't follow Christ. I'm damaged goods, even I know that. Besides, my chosen path doesn't allow for any form of religious shenanigans. I'm married to revenge and have a blood oath with it. The sort of bile within me would ensure any attempts to step anywhere close to a religious edifice never bore fruits. I'm sure to get paralysed if I move anywhere close to a church.
I spend my days in the midst of the creatures I've vowed to end- men. Of course I can't possibly end every man on the planet, even I know such wishes are a bit out there. But I will end the men who have chosen to make life hell for vulnerable ones like me.
How do I know such men? Well, you may think I'm a bluffer, but I have a pae-dophile radar if you may call it that. I can spot thos slimy bas-tards from a mile. They're not as conspicuous as most people would think they should be. It only takes a little attentiveness. They leer at kids, they tend to get more touchy feely than necessary. They're disgusting rats the world would do better without.
I don't kill them though- at least not usually. I just maim them, break a few bones. Death is for those who either fail to get the message or just didn't get it early enough.
When I'm not being batwoman and a good citizen by wiping the streets of scum, I like to lounge at home with my best pals- whiskey and cigars. They help me get through tough times. Help me keep the monsters away- and they're loyal too....well, at least they've never given me reasons to question their purposes in my life.
I also drive to Ikoyi to visit a good friend of mine. Let's just say he's a strong soldier who just happens to be familiar with the struggles of kids who live in abuse. We talk....well, I talk mostly. He's not very fluent in English. But he's good company when he's in a good mood. He has a heart-warming smile, especially after a satisfying meal. He's one of the few males that make me think there's actually hope for the malefolk. But I choose to not get excited for him....after all, most men start off good just before they become animals. Right?
My name is Isidore. I have no surname, they serve no purpose. I make my own destiny, I form my own path. And slowly but surely, I'm currently commanding a path of destruction.
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|Re: Tormented by Savigne(f): 11:52pm On Apr 10, 2015|
I'm FTC on a Safarigirl story.,...
Signs of better things to come this month
|Re: Tormented by treasuregr8(f): 6:54am On Apr 11, 2015|
make I book space.
waiting for the next update
|Re: Tormented by Nobody: 10:04am On Apr 11, 2015|
Welcome back safari
bt u said d story of jaiya is completed, it is just for u to post
I beg try all ur possible best to complete at least one of the two stories. This will be d third story u are starting.
this is nt good for ur image.
don't mean to b harsh
I love u loads
1 Like 2 Shares
|Re: Tormented by safarigirl(f): 11:18am On Apr 11, 2015|
titigold:the jaiya story isn't complete. It's Christmas Party that was complete.
I don't know where to go with that story yet. I may just rush it to an end, but right now, I'm blank
I know what it's like, but I always do this. It helps
|Re: Tormented by MoNickk(f): 1:48pm On Apr 11, 2015|
|Re: Tormented by Nobody: 2:13pm On Apr 11, 2015|
Lemme book space
|Re: Tormented by Nobody: 3:26pm On Apr 11, 2015|
I will still b here.
take care of ur self.
|Re: Tormented by Nobody: 3:28pm On Apr 11, 2015|
I will still b here.
take care of ur self.
|Re: Tormented by jezuzboi(m): 4:36pm On Apr 11, 2015|
Alright, I'm seated
|Re: Tormented by jezuzboi(m): 4:56pm On Apr 11, 2015|
One more thing;
Fiction or Non-Fiction?
|Re: Tormented by Missmossy(f): 5:23pm On Apr 11, 2015|
|Re: Tormented by HDoc(m): 10:05pm On Apr 11, 2015|
|Re: Tormented by Kassia(f): 9:48pm On Apr 13, 2015|
|Re: Tormented by safarigirl(f): 10:57pm On Apr 13, 2015|
|Re: Tormented by jezuzboi(m): 11:42pm On Apr 13, 2015|
safarigirl:Good to know. Cuz I was already getting frightened for the guyz that would fall prey to her rage.
Ride on. I'm well seated for the journey
|Re: Tormented by tijehi(f): 12:03am On Apr 14, 2015|
My new best writer is on a rollllllll. You are just too dope.
|Re: Tormented by tijehi(f): 12:04am On Apr 14, 2015|
#too dope ooooo# not too drug. Chei all these ovasabi phones that will correct you by landing u in trouble..choi.
|Re: Tormented by tijehi(f): 12:06am On Apr 14, 2015|
This fone wants to put me in trouble.
# you are just too much safarigirl# please ignore the drug part.
|Re: Tormented by safarigirl(f): 8:07am On Apr 14, 2015|
tijehi:it's not your phone, it's NL auto-correct that changes d'ope to drugs
|Re: Tormented by safarigirl(f): 8:28am On Apr 14, 2015|
"Miss Isidore, the Manager will see you now" the light-skinned secretary called out.
I rise to my feet, somewhat grateful for the timely intervention. I'm minutes from snapping at the two dogs that have been leering at me since they stepped into the waiting room like they've never seen a female in their pathetic lives. Agreed, I do get a kick out of dressing sensually, but I've never been one to have a lewd dress sense the types of which would attract unsavoury attention and cringe-worthy comments. I'm still in training as far as being used to male attention.
I don't like it. I never will, but some things are a necessary evil and what I've chosen to do entails more than a healthy amount of male attention. Well, a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do.
I strut towards the secretary, my 4-inch heels clicking against the tiled floors. I wonder why they won't get a rug or something to mute the sound of clicking heels. I grace the secretary with a small smile which she returns as I make my way past her.
I open the Manager's door an I'm hit with a blast of cold air reminding me why I don't like to come here. The Manager either has a deathwish or is practicing for a trip to Russia. Luckily, I only have to deal with the cold and the man himself once a month. I would be dead if these meetings were held on a weekly basis.
"Goodmorning Madam." He says cheerily as soon as I step into the room.
My expression remains flat. His cheery voice irks me, but even worse is his refusal to drop the 'madam' tag despite my constant pleas for him to do so. I may have a lot of money, but I'm far from a 'madam'. 'Madams' are either reasonably old women or brothel owners. I'm neither.
"Kunle." I acknowledge him with a slight nod of my head, "I hope your day is going well" I remain on my feet. I never take a seat bedore being asked to do so. I'm a lot of things, but I do not lack courtesy.
He nods with a grin. I hate it when he even smiles at me. I don't think he realises how creepy his smile is.
"Now that you're here, yes. Have a seat."
I slid into one of the seats casually and then looked at my watch. 9:32 am. Okay, I'm on time. I should spend about 25 minutes tops here and be on my way. I have breakfast to deliver.
"So, what does it look like?" Straight to business. The longer I seat here, the higher my chances of catching a cold.
"Well, the CEO loved your plan and wants to see you in 2 days."
Well, that would explain his cheery mood. I would smile at the news, but smiling is an expression I haven't quite mastered. I try, it just never works out. I can't remember the last time I smiled, I know it was back when I was youg and impressionable though.
"Good." I replied simply.
His smile faded slightly, "You don't sound excited..." He started to walk toward me. My back straightened at his approach. I don't like being in close proximity to men, "...you don't understand, this is a 10-million naira job and you're..." He stopped talking when I pulled my hand out of his hold faster thann he picked it up. No contact.
At this point, a nervous laugh is expected, unfortunately, laughing is also something I'm not quite familiar with just yet. Lucky for me, he grasped the message without my having to speak a word to him.
He stood up and gave me my space, "Well then, I should let you go out and celebrate."
I nodded, "Of course." I stood up eager to leave the place more than he was to dismiss me, "Have a nice day sir." I nodded at him.
He returned the nod and that was the only communication between us before I walked out hastily. Once I was out the door, I pulled out a wipe from my handbag and wiped my hand. The one he touched. My racing heart calmed and I was able to proceed to my car. I looked at my watch. 9:47am. He would be expecting me anytime soon. He was just the one I needed to ease my nerves. Sometimes, my repulsion for men overrode my senses, like what had just occurred. I tried many times to stop it or at least control it, but apparently, I haven't done enough.
I need to work on that.
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|Re: Tormented by radical4jesus(f): 8:53am On Apr 14, 2015|
ride on ma nd tanks for d update
|Re: Tormented by TheRealAdonye(m): 1:29pm On Apr 14, 2015|
Interesting so far.
Greeting and time is way off though.
|Re: Tormented by safarigirl(f): 3:23pm On Apr 14, 2015|
TheRealAdonye:thanks. The error has been fixed
|Re: Tormented by safarigirl(f): 4:08pm On Apr 14, 2015|
This area has always been unsightly and uncomfortable for me. It brings back memories of cardboard boxes and cold grounds, of repugnant smells, sickness and poverty.
This place was my life for 2 years and I know exactly how terrible the living conditions are for a child. I remember having to tread carefully, after all, I was a little girl and I was alone so it was easy to prey on me- or so the perverts had thought when I initially got there. They soon learned they were dealing with a possesed child who wouldn't hesitate to kill if pushed. There were some very stubborn ones though...
A shiver went through me at the thought of my past. This place always made me remember the days of hardship, hunger and insomnia. You'd think I'd stay away from such places, but my purpose for being here always trumped my reservations.
My eyes scanned the place for a head of bronze, curly hair, ignoring the other people that looked like they wanted to snatch the clothes off my body. After visiting this place daily for the past 4 months, you'd think they'll be used to me by now and stop staring.
This part of the city was the little part reserved for beggars who were mostly of Nigerien origin. Some were Tuaregs, from adults to little kids, I didn't come here for grown men with hands, feet and sight who preferred to sit on their behinds and bully little kids of their meagre earnings after hours of begging.
Where was he? I couldn't stop the little burn in my chest at the thought of him being hurt. I was here just yesterday, what could have happened in 24 hours?
The sound of the tiny voice behind me made me release a breath I didn't realise I was holding. I turned around to see my little friend- Ismail. He was a 7-year old little boy of Tuareg origin evident in his full, curly hair and bronzed skin. I first saw him while driving past this place, he was sitting with a female I later found was his mother who had a tot at her back. There was traffic, the type I knew wouldn't be moving as fast as I wanted.
I had taken a glance out my window and my eyes clashed with the forlorn ones of an adorable little boy. I don't know if he could see me through my wound up window but by the way he never took his eyes off me, I assumed he did. The pain in his eyes, the haunting look hit too close to home. I had that look in my eyes for 10 years of my life and even till now, it still made an appearance when a particular victim hit too close to home. In the 3 minutes I stared at the boy, it felt like we both looked into each other's souls. Understood each other's pains, even as young as he was, he had known suffering far beyond his age.
And then I saw a man stomp toward the boy, he dragged him off his feet and shook him violently, he looked like he was shouting at him, and all the boy did was stare blankly at the man until he smacked him hard against his cheek. I winced, but the boy, unlike I did when I was his age, didn't shed a tear. Even I knew then that he was going through far worse things than I had and I made a resolve to wipe that haunting look off his eyes as I drove away when the line moved.
I had been visiting him with food, drinks, snacks and fruits since then. It had taken him a while to warm up to me, especially as he barely spoke any English and my French had been a bit rusty initially. Even now, I do not think he's totally trusting of me and I really don't expect him to. Considering what he's been through, it's expected that he would be wary of strangers. I had been the same way with Mrs Gladys.
I turned to see him looking up at me, "Bonjour monsieur, comment allez vous?"
"Je vais bien"(I'm well)
"Avez-vous mangé?" I know he hasn't eaten. I'm the only one who brings him food. He has no use for money. I see the way the man who bullied him that day glares at us whenever I drop by. Initially, I would just drop the food with him and leave, but when I noticed he was looking malnourished, I would take him to my car and watch him eat inside after we dropped a plate with his mother. Then I'd be sure he at least had a meal. Something told me the bully would take his food when I left.
He shook his head. The action causing his hair to jiggle. If I could, I would smile at how adorable he was.
I stooped lower and ran my hand through his hair, an action he only began letting me do last month. Before that, I couldn't even touch him, "où est ta mère?" I asked.
He turned his head to a direction and I followed his eyes to find his mother some metres away. She was blind. I reached into my bag and got out a plate and handed it to him, "Donner cela à son."(Give this to her) He took it from me slowly, "alors venez prendre le vôtre, oui?"(Then come take yours, yes?)
He nodded and ran off as I watched. I took a cursory glance around and sure enough my eyes fell on him. The bastard who got a kick out of harrassing children. He was glaring at me as usual. He was also of Tuareg origin, Ismail had never told me his relationship with the man and after I hit a brick wall with him the first time I raised the topic, I knew not to question him on it again until he chose to open up himself. His skin was dusky brown, a little darker than Ismail, his hair was black, it had an ashy colouring to it and straight, his eyes were narrow slits. He had high cheek bones and a roman nose on a slim face. He could be called handsome in that dark, villainous way, but I didn't care much for him. I secretly wish his demise, if anything for Ismail's peace of mind, but even I know that when one lived on the streets, the death of one tormentor was no uhuru, there was always another lurking in the dark, just waiting to assert dominance.
As I watched Ismail run back to me with a ghost of a smile against his lips, I wanted nothing more than to put a permanent smile on his cute face. To rid him of the agents of darkness that tormented him everyday and give him the normal life every child his age deserved. The kind of life I had been denied, but our relationship hadn't gotten to that point yet. Until then, I would remain the friend he could count on. The friend he needed
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|Re: Tormented by Nobody: 4:28pm On Apr 14, 2015|
Am Oliver Oliver twist.
safari u Av a way with words.it is like am in the story viewing it on 3d. Keep it up.
suspense at its best
|Re: Tormented by jezuzboi(m): 9:44pm On Apr 14, 2015|
It makes sense.
|Re: Tormented by safarigirl(f): 10:22pm On Apr 14, 2015|
Won't be able to update this story for a while after today pending when I'm able to access the internet again.
Bear with me guys
|Re: Tormented by safarigirl(f): 3:04pm On Apr 16, 2015|
Sunday morning. Sunday easily gets the coveted prize for my 'Worst Day of The Week'. It's usually my lazy day. Nowhere to go, nothing to do, no one to visit...well, no one but Ismail. I usually visit him in the evening though.
What do I hate about Sundays? Well, for one, I hate that those damned churches have megaphones at their rooftops disturbing my peace. I mean, anyone who isn't in church chose not to be there for a reason, so why would they think I want to hear whatever it is they're saying? And the worst is, there are 3 churches in my neighbourhood, so imagine the raucous they make when one church has a preacher condemning fornication strongly, another has the preacher praying in tongues by the way, and the third has the preacher leading a praise and worship session.
I personally do not think even the devil has to deal with all that noise in hell.
Another reason is the usual call from Mrs. Gladys. I dread her Sunday morning phone calls like an average Nigerian dreads a police check-point. Because even while I continually tell myself that I have no business with church and God, a deeper part of me is saddened whenever I turn down her invite. She always has so much hope in her voice, it never matters that I've been turning her down every single Sunday for the past 7 years, she still has never missed a Sunday, at 6am sharp, my phone rings and Gladys is on the line, not a minute later.
Mrs. Gladys is someone I greatly admire. She's a strong-willed, soft-spoken empath. When she took me off the streets 12 years ago, she took me to her house, a modest 3-bedroom house in Ikoyi. I later learnt she wasn't there because that was all she could afford. Mrs. Gladys is a widow, she used to be married to Paul Ugwumba, a serving Assistant Inspector General of Police who died on duty in a car accident. She has more money than she knows what to do with, so she donates money to charity whenever she can. And by charity I don't mean a foundation. My foster mother has sponsored more people than I can remember on trips abroad for medical treatment from those with kidney problems to anyone in need of surgery for any deformity, and she does all of this anonymously.
When she adopted me, she told me she has a son who had travelled to Canada to study two years before she found me. Till this day, I've never seen this son, but she tells me about him everytime. They speak at least 3 times a week and everytime he calls, she calls me immediately after and tells me all about the calls. The last time she called me, she told me he was considering moving back to Nigeria after 14 years. I don't think I've ever heard her sound as excited as she sounded and inwardly I was happy for her. I didn't smile, but I knew she knew I was happy for her. I can only imagine how much she must have missed him.
When she speaks of him, she does so with pride. In the 14 years he's been abroad, he's gotten a BSc in Forensics and an MSc in Psychology. He works with the law enforcement, just like his father. I like to assume he's as nice as she makes him out to be, and Gladys is too good a woman to have some rascal as a son, and the fact that he's in that line of work speaks well of him.
His name is Chukwuma, she lost her womb at his birth hence his name, I've seen a few pictures of him, most from when he was a teenager, he seemed like a cute little boy, and lanky as well, the picture of him at 16 which is the most recent I've seen, depicts a lanky boy, rather tall for his age . I fully understand why she dots on him. Sometimes, I wish I had a child I could dot on like that, someone I carried for 9 months and birthed. The idea of it seemes interesting enough, but ideas were far cries from executions and knowing how much I loathed the male folk, it wasn't likely I'd ever get to the execution part. The closest I've ever been to having a child is Ismail, that's the closest I'll probably ever get and it's enough for me.
I sprayed wisps of perfume against my skin lightly. The heavy scent of my perfume could get nauseating if I sprayed too much. Many people didn't know this and it annoyed me whenever I had to sit next to someone who soaked himself in heavy cologne.
I'm on my way to Gladys' house, she said she wanted to see me and I can only imagine what for. Not that her request is out of place of course, we see at least once every week, she either visits me, which is the case most of the time, or I visit her. Still, she usually has some good information whenever she requests my presence in her house.
As I walk out my house, I feel my phone vibrate in my purse, I slip it out, it's a text from Kunle
The meeting is set for 9am tomorrow at the company building. You'll be addressing the board as well, be ready. Goodluck
I scoff at the 'wink' emoticon at the end of the message. And then I remember that the meeting is likely to keep me past the time I'm to meet Ismail and that thought brings a frown to my face. I've never had to miss my 10am visit since I began 4 months ago. I sigh, I'll have to tell Ismail this evening that I won't be able to be early tomorrow
4 Likes 1 Share
|Re: Tormented by nellyme(f): 6:08pm On Apr 16, 2015|
This is good, got me crying .
A lost soul is the darkest to lighten. I hope Isidore finds a reason to smile.
|Re: Tormented by jezuzboi(m): 11:20pm On Apr 16, 2015|
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