29/05/2025
When Mummy lost her job at the hospital, our lives changed. Just like that, things stopped working. The generator stopped. The fridge stopped. Even her laughter stopped. She packed our lives into two Ghana-Must-Go bags and we moved to Grandma’s compound in Kaduna.
Her house wasn’t just a house. It was a universe. Five face me I face you apartments, twelve children always playing ten-ten or suwe, two dogs that barked more than they bit, and Alhaja’s corner shop where the radio was louder than the customers. But life felt safer than the silence we left behind.
Then came Uncle Dayo.
He wasn’t family, but Nigerians like to call every familiar man “uncle” and every woman “auntie.” Uncle Dayo was different. Clean shaven. Smelled like mint. Always in white kaftan and dark shades. He was the type of man adults rushed to serve and children were told to greet on both knees.
He started with gifts, biscuits. Not the N50 cabin ones. Imported. Golden brown with creamy cheese in the middle. He brought soft drinks, sometimes money. "My wife," he would say, tapping my cheek softly. "You’re too fine, like your mama when she was your age."
I was ten.
At first, it felt harmless. He tickled me playfully, my sides, my arms. But slowly, his hands began to forget their boundaries. The tickles moved. My thighs. My backside. The quick hugs lasted too long. The way he stared made my stomach twist, not with butterflies but with dread.
One Sunday afternoon, after everyone returned from church, I stayed back to help Grandma in the kitchen. She went outside to dry clothes. I stayed back to rinse plates.
The door creaked.
It was him. Uncle Dayo.
He smiled. Locked the door behind him.
“Let’s play our little game,” he whispered.
I froze.
But something in me maybe that part that had heard whispers of courage from those late night conversations between Grandma and Alhaja snapped. I screamed!
Loud!
The kind of scream that makes goats stop chewing.
The compound went quiet.
Grandma came in first. Then two other women.
He had stepped away by then, straightening his clothes like nothing happened.
But the slap I received from Grandma was louder than my scream.
"Are you mad?! Do you know who he is? Respect your elders!"
Mummy didn’t say a word. Her eyes remained fixed on the wall.
No one asked me what happened.
For weeks, the silence grew louder. I began to hate the smell of cheese biscuits.
Until a new teacher arrived at school. Auntie Chinelo.
She wasn’t like the others. She didn't twist her nose when someone spoke vernacular. She looked you in the eye. She taught us Body Safety education. Consent, boundaries, secrets that hurt, NO-YELL-RUN-REPORT rule. She told us we had rights, even as children and our voices are powerful.
She looked me in the eye one day and asked, "Are you okay?"
I broke. And then I spoke.
It started small. A whisper. Then a flood. And she held my hand through it.
The police got involved. The school counsellor did too. I got therapy. Uncle Dayo was never seen again. Grandma didn’t speak to us for a while. But Mummy she hugged me tight, every single night after that.
Today, I’m 19. A final year student of Psychology. A survivor. A speaker. A child protection advocate.
To every school owner, religious leader, parent and guardian who thinks Body Safety is optional, I ask:
How many children are being abused under your care and you call it “play,” “discipline,” or “harmless uncle behaviour”?
You can’t protect children if you refuse to equip them with the knowledge and skills for self preservation.
