home/sick
I want to go home. Back to the Yoruba land where my family is from, where my ancestors are from. Back to where my pain is from. Back to where my so-called exotic roots were born. Several times here I’ve mentioned the childhood sexual abuse in my past. I’ve found it very freeing to be able to talk about the fact that it happened, to not be the one who feels like I should be ashamed anymore. That shame was almost worse than the pain itself and the emotional aftereffects. Some people don’t see what a big deal it is. And that’s okay with me, as long as they aren’t advocating that it happen to people, especially children. I’ve had male friends and lovers call me impure, or tainted, or damaged because of what happened to me, particularly after learning the horrifying extent. The extent… the first three months after my family temporarily moved to West Africa, there was an incident almost every day. I was 9. I can’t remember most of what happened to me before I was 9 years old without some drama. In some cases there are years blocked out. And so, I haven’t been back to Nigeria since 1984. I was born here, there seemed to be mostly pain there, so even for my only female cousin’s wedding, who is practically like a sister to me, I could not go back. But now that time has passed, now that I have spent more than 20 years