I am fourteen.

My sister has just returned from her afterschool lesson. Her face is stormy as she dashes to her room, unwilling to respond to our greetings and customary question, “how did your lesson go today?”

Mama asks me to go see to her, ask what is the matter.

I find her lying face down on her bed, head buried in the pillow, quiet sobs shaking her shoulders.

My sister is reserved. She doesn’t speak unless she wants to; she’s always had a mind of her own. So, I know that nothing I say will make her tell me what’s wrong.

We will have to wait until she’s good and ready. So, I put my hand on her shoulder and tell her everything will be fine.

I say, “You can always tell me what’s bothering you, you hear?"

I get up and head for the door. My hand is stayed when I hear her whisper something.

I turn back and find that she’s raised her head. I ask her if she’d said something.

“I’m NEVER going for that lesson again.”

I swallow hard, imagining the worst.

“Why?” I ask.

She hiccups and with a fierce swipe, wipes the tears from her eyes.

“The two of them…stayed in front of me and started doing it.”

It takes me a few seconds to understand. It really is the worst. My eyes widen at the horror of the picture in my head. My sister is nine. Surely, she’s mistaken. What she’s saying is impossible, unimaginable. No!

My voice is hesitant as I ask, “Are you sure?”

Her glare is cutting, almost belligerent, daring me to doubt her.

“I’m not lying,” she snarls. “They started doing it in front of me. Then he asked me if I like what I’m seeing. I’m never going back there again.”

I recoil in disgust, mouth hanging open in shock. I know who she's talking about: her lesson teacher and his live-in girlfriend.

My baby sister is nine. I wish I can wipe away the memory, take it from her forever. But this can never be. What is seen, cannot be unseen.

I am twenty-three.

He’s my colleague and very nice. A compliment here, a smile there and the occasional wink. I’m old enough to feel uncomfortable yet again; I have had experience.

But I do what I know I shouldn’t do; I rationalise. He’s just being nice, I say.

Maybe I'm imagining that his hands have begun to linger. I tell myself not to freeze up when his hand falls on my thigh the third time at work.

I know what this is but I’m unwilling to confront it, for doing so will make it real. This means another cycle of fending off a man.

But it's real. As real as the day he locks the door and beats the stuffing out of me. He says I’ve been teasing him with that pink dress I wear to work. That whether I like it or not, he will have sex with me. Rape me.

I fight—I fight with every fibre of my being.

I fight until he slams my head on the wall and I black out. As I come to, he's removing my skirt. I mutter a prayer in my language. He jumps off me, says I’m cursing him. He lets me go.

In this eerie, miraculous, unexplainable way, I am spared further pain and humiliation.

I am twenty-eight.

He’s promised to give me a job. The offer is good—better than good. It comes with a six-figure salary and international travel as part of the package.

I’m happy; my dreams are about to come true. Until he comes around and puts his and on my shoulder.

Before I can say a word, those hands are cupping my breasts. And he goes on talking, like he’s done nothing out of the ordinary.

I am stunned. This man. Of all people, this man? I know his wife, his children. His family knows my family, have done so for years.

Like an old veteran, I pull on my armour of dignity and outrage. I slap his hands away. I add a violent tongue-lashing piece. Then I leave.

But not alone. I take with me feelings of violation, shame, pain and filth. I feel so dirty. Back at home, a shower doesn't wash them away.

I am thirty-four.

Mama has done what mothers do.

“Come and meet Mr So-and-So. He lives in your city and is connected. I know it’s not easy doing this your entrepreneur thing. I’ve spoken with him he will help you get some jobs.”

Mama has done a good thing and I am hopeful.

Now I am sitting here, reading Mr So-and-So's SMS.

“It may be a little awkward for you, since we met through your mother. But that shouldn't stop us. I’ll take care of you and you’ll take care of me. See, I've already reached out to my contacts and we have two jobs for you.

Us meeting each other was destiny. I miss you, baby. I miss that beautiful smile. When can I see you again?”

I am thirty-four.

I am crying. Because I am tired of fighting groping hands, getting conditional promises; tiptoeing around egos, doubting my intuition and my mind.

I’m tired of their gaslighting.

"I did it because I like you."

"You are too harsh."

"You overreacted. Chill out jor!"

"Is it that small touch I touched you that you’re doing like this?"

"Come off it. Are you a small girl?"

"Are you a virgin or what?"

I am scarred and battle-worn.
But I cannot afford to put down my weapons and shed my armour. Because these men, they won’t stop. They see no boundaries and will not take no for an answer.

The war is far from over.

Pardon me, I'm emotional tonight.

Permit me to be tired and vent on Twitter. Tomorrow, I shall be back to factory settings - you know, love and light and all that sparkly sh*t.