This novel follows the life of Morayo Ajayi whose life was cruelly altered when her cousin defiled her at a very young age. This book is more than the life of Morayo. It represents most women's stories out there in so many ways, a reality we pretend does not exist so we can move on sanely in the world.
I love how Yejide centers only on women in her stories, how she finds a creative way to tell each woman's story while hammering the essence of community and belonging. Yejide writes about womanhood, love, family, community, albinism, rape, shame, and healing.
In so many ways, Morayo reminded me of 13-year-old Nwabulu from Cheluchi's Son of the House, who was raped by her madam's husband and could not speak about it. She also reminded me of Esi from Bisi Adjapon's Of Women and Frogs who had so many questions about love and sex but could not ask her step-mother or elder siblings for fear of being called a bad girl.
Above all, Morayo reminds me of myself and many women out there whose voices have been muffled by shame.
Morayo was barely 15 years when her own cousin started defiling her. First, it was a brush here and a touch there. Even at that age, Morayo knew it was not proper behavior, but who was she to tell her mother. She was the same mother who dismissed her feelings with warnings and threats when she wanted to discuss the strange feelings she was having for Kachi, her childhood friend.
During this time, it suddenly felt strange when Bros T pulled me onto his lap when we sat in the sitting room. Some days, he would sneak up behind me and hug me tightly, laughing as if we were playing a game. But it was starting to feel like a game whose rules I did not know. Sometimes in the car, he would stretch his arms across my back, brushing his hands against the sides of my chest. I knew that something did not feel right…
Morayo's story is not foreign to me and women in general, especially African women. It is one we are familiar with; the shame, the fear, the rape, the abuse, the silence. I do not know many women who have not been sexually harassed by men. So, believe me when I say this book is very personal.
Morayo's cousin Auntie Morenike was the only person who provided Morayo with the support and community she needed to live through life without the shame, having been a victim of rape herself. Auntie Morenike gave Morayo community, warmth, the kind so rare these days, the kind of community we do not get from family, the kind only victims of similar circumstances can offer you because they understand your situation.
I was in uncontrollable tears by the time I finished reading because of the overwhelming sadness and heaviness it brought. I felt Morayo's pain as if it were my own. What am I saying? Of course, Morayo's pain is my own. The threats from parents not to bring disgrace unto the family, the fear, the silence, the blame, and the punishment.
Each time Bros T had his way with her, she couldn't tell anyone. She was afraid, the kind of fear that can only stem from shame and blame.
It was nothing more than the shame and blame for Morayo, and it was evident in how that incident changed her completely and led her unto a path she loathed so much but stayed because she hated herself.
Each time Bros T left her room at night, all she wanted to do was scrub that shame off her, remove the blame, punish herself for her body responding to the act even though Auntie Morenike had already explained to her that her body's reactions didn't mean she wanted it. Regardless, she still blamed herself and saw herself as having failed her younger sister Eniayo.
Even after she gathered the courage and informed her parents about it, they never spoke to her. They never hugged her or soothed her pain. She was even more depressed about the incident because of the silence in which she was treated at home. She felt worthless and lifeless.
Morayo said she knew nobody wanted her. I mean, who would want damaged goods? That is exactly how I felt. Damaged and ruined.
While reading this book, my own shame kept whispering into my ears, "I told you, you are ruined. nobody will want you, do you see Morayo".
Even as I write this review, my body shakes, and the voice in my head keeps reminding me that everyone will know how dirty I am. The shame will never leave me. It is not as if this incident was the first, but something about this incident broke me.
Like Morayo, the evening I got home, I went straight to the bathroom and scrubbed myself so hard I felt my skin sore, but I didn't care. The physical pain was nothing compared to the pain I felt when he held me onto the bed. It was nothing as compared to the feeling of being ruined, clouded in shame.
I couldn't speak about it, and the nightmares wouldn't leave me. I would occasionally catch a whiff of his breath here and there, his grunting and moans. Slowly I was shrinking into a person I did not recognize. My spirit was broken, and I often wondered why me?
Why women?
Why did I have to carry this shame like a second skin? And every day for a month after the incident, I would usually find myself whispering to myself, "I am ruined." I wasn't 13 or 14 or 15. I was an adult who walked into the room by herself, who offered herself and lay there, mute and stunned, while he took till I couldn't take it anymore.
I constantly found myself asking, how can I wipe this shame off me?
For a while, I tried convincing myself that it didn't happen. I said, oh, I didn't wait for him to have his fill before pushing him off me, but then the burning pain reminded me that someone had been there, someone had taken from me, and I felt the shame clothe me all over again.
For weeks I felt everyone knew what happened to me with the glances I was getting my way. I still carry the shame visibly like a hunchback.
We often blame ourselves for sexual abuse and harassment and rape and everything bad. No one listens nor believes us. Only a few of us find a Morenike. In fact, to ourselves, we are both Morayos and Morenikes in one person. We are Morenikes to people who tell us their story and Morayos to ourselves, and so believe me when I say this book hit a nerve.
Years later, when Bros T returned and tried speaking to Morayo, I was so angry. He had moved on, had a family, and thought everything was good and right in the world. So he came back to speak to Morayo. Somehow he thought the years had blurred the memories and healed the pain so he could just speak to her, and then everything would be fine, and they would start hugging and laughing again.
But it was only Bros T that moved on. Morayo never did even as a married woman. The trauma stayed with her, lived with her and in her, reminded her of the shame: exactly how we are treated, discarded, our pains forgotten or even relegated to second place.
The assumption is that we would be fine. We are fine. After all, are we not commodities that exist to serve a utility.? Our bodies are not ours, they belong to men, so it is nothing when they take from us without our permission. We have no right to be traumatized.
The audacity of a rapist to say sorry and blame immaturity. How dare Bros T apologize? How dare he follow her to her place of work and insist she be his personal banker. Some sins cannot be forgiven because the pain doesn't just go away. The memories don't just fade away. They remain there, triggered by appearances. We never really forget.
Just because he, Bros T, had moved on did not mean Morayo too had moved on. How do you move on from this? How do you move on from shame, from the cruel memories of force and threats? How do you do that?
The fact is that it never leaves us, the childhood touching and fondling, the almost rape incidents by people our families trusted, they never go away. Some nights when my demons visit with memories, I find myself reaching out for my phone and texting the man who took it from me. I find myself asking him, "how do you sleep at night with the knowledge that you stole from me?", "how do you sleep at night, please teach me because the memory haunts me".
It never goes away, and it didn't go away. It is still there every time, that voice whispering my shame to me, my unfortunate self. Telling me that I am worthless, damaged, ruined, and just like Morayo said, "nobody would want me."
This book had me in stitches and left me an emotional mess. The themes border on traditions, community, love, rape, relationships, sisterhood, marriage. I particularly like the storytelling and intentional characters. The diction structure is written across three generations of strong women- strong because they have had to live life strong or perish. The calm, the storm, the gentle but all of whom are warm.
The title aptly describes us, the victims, the Daughters who have walked this path, for so long we have lost our way back home.
