I remember one day in Shoprite amidst giggles from other girls and the raucous laughter of men. I was discussing with a love interest. I was telling him that one out of five women in Nigeria has been called an Ashawo at one point in her life.
He shook his head; ‘No’. He insisted that my stats had to be grossly exaggerated.
I told him it had nothing to do with what you were wearing, who you were with or even where you were. Heck! If you have been to any Nigerian market as a woman, the chances that you have been called an “Ashawo” or some other derogatory term at one point is tripled.
He looked on dubiously.
I think about that conversation sometimes especially now.
I think about how many times I have been called names because I refused someone’s advances.
I think about how many times I have had to give someone a wrong contact instead of an outright ‘No!’ because I was afraid he would get violent.
I think about how many times I have had to wait for another vehicle because the one I would have entered is occupied by men.
I think about how many times I have had to run home because it’s a little bit past seven pm.
I think about how many times I have had to change my outfit because it showed my armpit or my legs.
It’s in the little things.
I can’t explain how I have been feeling these past few days. At some point, I had to hug myself because I could feel myself coming apart at the seams.
I think death is too kind a sentence for rapists.
They deserve to die a slow but painful death. They deserve to have their phallus scraped off one layer at a time and dipped in hot boiling water.
Hot boiling water filled with a generous quantity of pepper and salt.
They deserve to have all this done to them while hanging upside down, screaming like the cowards they are and when they eventually die, they deserve to have that be their fate in the deepest parts of hell.