I am a child, who has lost my childhood

I am a child that has many hurts

I am a child, who needs love

I am a child, who needs to heal

-Lela Albert

The preacher said again last week – when I finally made my way to church. – that I am the image of God. He didn’t say “I” of course, he said “You” and looked at me as he said it. Or was he looking at all of us?

I must be a poor imitation of the lord then. For he is all powerful and I lack all brawn, he is everywhere but I hide in my room. It is the one place I feel comfortable. Away from prying eyes and scathing tongues. Safe from palms that reach into my pants and grab my shaft making my body tingle with desire that I do not want.

Or do I want this?

The first time it happened I was twelve. Mom had gone for a meeting and left me in the care of Aunty Cornelia.

“I know you want this” she whispered in my ears rolling her tongue along the edges of my ear lobe. Her hands in my pants, going up and down my rigid member.

I ran. Straight to my room and bang the door and slap myself and curse that traitorous part of me that would always rise at her call. Whenever it happened I found solace in the four walls that was my room. Maybe because the walls hadn’t eyes nor hands.

I wondered why she didn’t choose Ikenna, my tall fair cousin or Uche with his stocky arms. Why did it have to be me?

On my fourteenth birthday she whispered in my ear how much man I have become. She asked if I wanted to do what real men do. I smiled. I can still hear the creak-creak of the six spring bed as my aunt bounced up and down on me making the same sound the naked people in Uncle Ike’s phone made. I was lost in the snare, thinking of nothing but the sensations coursing through my whole being. Somewhere in the deepest parts of me a loud voice was echoing loudly in my ears how evil I have become. I stifled the voice that spoke and have kept it mute. There were more nights like this. Nights when I watched the silhouette we made on the wall as our bodies joined at the waist. This is what I have become, broken, scared to look in the mirrors for fear of what would look back at me.

Years later, when I think back to the days of my debasement, I remember the voice that died within me. I remember I died.

Ifesie Ozichukwu is a second year student of the department of English and Literary Studies, University of Nigeria Nsukka. He is the publicity secretary for The Muse, Nō 47. You can find him on Facebook @Ifesie Ozichikwu C.