Gukira ni Guthurana!

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Silence is a rape victims enemy. It forces us to endure ounces of shame while protecting the very person who should be tormented by their actions. Inner thunderstorms become our daily bread.

Gukira ni Guthurana

The literal translation of my title is, not to talking is to hate! Ironically, victims tend to remain silent about their trauma because for most rape victims silence becomes golden. Their need to remain silent is driven by fear. Victims fear being judged, accused and disowned because society teaches us that we must have done something to encourage our rape. The truth is, though, no amount of rape culture can justify rape.

In addition, the silence only protects your rapist and denies you the opportunity to get the physical and psychological support you require.

It may sound hypocritical of me to ask other rape victims to speak up because I did not have the strength or courage to speak up, but I’m speaking up now and this blog is my medium. Since I started blogging, my courage has multiplied ten-fold and peace flows like a river. I will not pretend that this blog has been my only source of healing, I’ve attended and I’m still attending therapy, I found the perfect support system (which is family and real friends), and I’ve educated myself as much as possible about rape, rape trauma syndrome and depression. I would highly encourage other rape victims to attend therapy, find a support system, and read up on rape, as knowledge has really proven to be a source of power.

Lastly, there has been enormous contestation about my title Memoirs of a rape victim. The word victim is contested because everyone wants to refer to you as a rape survivor, your therapist, friends, family and any other individual close to you. I totally agree that you are a survivor, every minute that you choose to push forward; you demonstrate colossal strength, a strength that we ourselves cannot explain. Here’s the thing, though, I referred to us as rape victims because we were victimised. I cannot condone the use of the words rape survivor because it grosses over the process it takes for any rape victim to survive. Just summoning up enough strength to get away from your attacker and get yourself to safety, or the act of phoning a friend to ask for help, or the strength it takes to utter the words please help me I was just raped, or the strength it takes to compose yourself as the doctor probes your vagina during a rape exam, or the strength it takes to stomach rejection by ‘friends’, family members or a complete stranger because their knowledge of the rapist trumps your trauma. That ladies and gents these are but fragments of the journey a rape victim has to endure in order to survive! WE CHOSE TO SURVIVE BECAUSE IT WAS OUR ONLY LIFELINE!

My survival instinct did not kick in until it was forced to, my first instinct was to seek comfort from one of my closest friends (this is wayyyyyy before I succumbed to my weeping melody). Immediately after being violated, I was taken to the pharmacy next to Pick and Pay Rondebosch, Cape Town. I use the word taken because contesting the rapist’s statement to go and get the pill was too frightening. While at Rondebosch, I saw a male acquaintance, a fellow Kenyan who lived nearby. I tried to rush towards him and ask for his assistance, but at the corner of my eye, I saw my rapist approaching. He had left me for a short while to go park his car. The second I spotted the short, tiny excuse for a boy, my lips forced themselves shut and my feet stuck to the ground.

In the pharmacy, I whispered across the counter and asked for the morning after pill, my rapist stood right next to me. The minute the pharmacist heard my request, my head bowed down in absolute shame. Thoughts rushed through my head like rapid fire, and every thought I had, revolved around the shame I felt. Mind you, my only hope for assistance seemed to lie in the male species. Rondebosch was crawling with men of all shapes and sizes; even the bloody pharmacist was male. My fear grew bigger and stronger. I was certain the minute I tried to ask for help, all these men would stand in accord and devour me. I never understood why people accredited the brain as the most powerful organ, until that very moment, for every possible scenario to ask for help, resulted in irrational thoughts that obstructed my ability to speak up.

I got back to my residence and my subconscious mind sought out a safe haven for me, and my body followed suit. I walked through the quad of my residence in the rain and landed at the doorstep of my little sister. Every step I took in the rain was reflected in the darkened skies, the black clouds mirrored my insides. I knocked on the door of the sweetest, loveliest, intelligent woman that God had ever created. Vuyo opened the door with a big smile on her face but was shattered by my demeanour. I was laughing hysterically, as my brain was sending out signals of opaque madness. With every speck of laughter, an ounce of sanity dissolved and madness sunk in. Vuyo asked me what was wrong and I said “sex, I just had sex! Wait! No, I didn’t. Wait no I did.”


The disbelief on her face spoke volumes. She ushered me into her room and I told her what had just happened. Every word that came out of my mouth was a blade that slit my tongue. The minute I uttered the last word, Vuyo said to me, you were raped, he took full advantage of you. She attempted to call him and give him a piece of her mind, but his phone was off. The next day we found out through Facebook the miniature ‘man’ was on his way back to Nairobi. The rape was his final offering to me.  The knowledge that the little bastard had left the country, did not make me feel any better, it disempowered me further. The act of leaving was the biggest showmanship of cowardice! I shook my head in

The knowledge that the little bastard had left the country, did not make me feel any better, it disempowered me further. The act of leaving was the biggest showmanship of cowardice! I shook my head in denial because the truth was too painful to bear, let alone hear out loud. It was confirmed that I was just violated and for some reason, that fact only sank in after Vuyo uttered those very words………

In a state of denial, I stared at my bed sheet. The bright white spots of his semen, that struck out against my royal purple sheets, cheerfully mocked me. The semen stared back at me like it held sovereign power and authority over me, IT WAS THE KING AND I WAS THE SLAVE. I stared at that sheet for at least an hour or more, although to me, it felt like a century! While staring, my brain was sketching a mental picture of my future. It took ages even though the sketch was just a sinister, black hole behind Satan’s leer! I dug a microscopic hole inside the sketch and found the strength to go cleanse myself. I glanced at my bottle of Dettol, and it shone like a glimmering light of hope. My corpse escaped from my four-walled prison, of my dorm room, and barricaded itself in the bathroom….

It is in the soul of humanity that you will find co-captains to help steer your ship! Long live the grace of compassion.


P.s please feel free to leave your comments, although any form of destructive negativity will not be tolerated!



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