Have you ever been falsely accused of something, yet not allowed to defend yourself? That sense of powerlessness when your truth does not matter? Now imagine enduring that as a child. This is my story from over 30 years ago, a story that still sends shivers down my spine.
I was a wide-eyed nine- or ten-year-old at the time, and my life changed dramatically. My older sister had recently married a truck driver, and since he was never home, she had someone to keep her company in their city home. When my mother mentioned that I was to move in with them, I jumped at the chance. Who wouldn't? The city promised adventure, a big TV, and freedom from farm work every day back home in our village.
The household was busy with five of us staying in a two-room flat. There was my sister and her husband, his younger brother, another sister, and me. We kids spent our days watching TV and playing, a complete change from farm labor I had grown up doing. Life was one big vacation. Compared to the village where we used to go to the farm almost daily during holidays, here we were free to play all day and eat whenever hunger struck us. My sister and her husband just needed us children around to keep themselves away from loneliness.
This all went out the window when my brother-in-law brought home a beautiful new leather cushion set. We children were thrilled but warned to be careful of the furniture. And then came the fateful afternoon when someone discovered razor blade slashes in the leather. The slashes were new, and the culprit had to be one of us children.
My brother-in-law was furious. His fury turned into an interrogation that we would never forget. We were questioned one by one, beaten. Regardless of the pain, I could not confess to something I had never done. And then there was the betrayal, my brother-in-law's younger brother accused me of having a razor blade. It was outright fabrication, but my testimony was not strong enough against his.
My sister was at a loss, between protecting her young brother and protecting her husband. She was not able to say anything to protect me, as she knew her husband would hold her responsible. What happened is still in my memory. My brother-in-law was not satisfied with the beating he had already given. He tied me on his motorcycle and drove straight to the police station.
At the station, it was worse. They instructed them to torture me so that I would confess. These men showed no mercy to a little boy. They beat me with rods and planks. The worst was carrying heavy truck rims on my head, the kind you know would break a child's spirit, not to mention their body. They did not even think twice about torturing a little boy.
Pain had a way of getting you to do things you wouldn't have thought. When I couldn't take it anymore, I did something unthinkable. I confessed to something I didn't do. Nobody cared about what I was saying. Nobody was willing to hear the truth. All I had to care about was eliminating the pain.
The next three days were a blur of agony. I couldn't move out of bed or get off the ground and play with children. My body was injured, but something more basic was cracked; my belief in adults, my notion of what's fair, my sense of safety within my own family.
A week after, when my body had begun healing, I made a decision no child should ever have to make. I begged my sister to take me back to the village. To our parents. To the farm work I had originally tried to escape. Anything was better than to be with individuals who could damage a child this badly over an item of furniture.
This is not a tale of a damaged cushion or a coerced confession. It is a tale of children's vulnerability in a world where they are routinely silenced. It is a story about the long-lasting effects of childhood trauma, the way that one incident can echo through decades of your life.
Now, over 30 years later, I still have this memory. Not as a scar, but as a reminder of the need to hear children, protect the vulnerable, and fight injustice no matter how trivial.
The image used is AI generated.
This is a submission for the #marchinleo daily writing prompts challenge published to #hivenaija community.