My Father’s Betrayal Left Silent Scars

I was just eleven years old when mom died. On that unhappy day, I was looking out the window and could see how the women from the neighborhood came into our garden one after one, putting their wrappers around the waists tightly, taking water, and the next morning cooking rice to serve the people who were mourning. There was a voice that said “Be strong,” and I put all my efforts into that. The first time I cried it was when they took her body, and my father turned his face away from me as if he couldn’t stand the sight.

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After the burial, my aunt who lived only two streets away took me in. My father thought it was the right decision. He would come almost every day; at times he came in the evening to assist me with my assignments. He would bring along biscuits and Fanta, tell me work-related stories, and leave small notes in the palm of my hand. “For school,” he would say. He didn’t share a roof with us but did everything possible to make me feel loved.

Each time I went to his place, he would give me money, embrace me, and tell me he loved me. I trusted him. I still want to trust him.

But somewhere in between those visits and my fifteenth birthday, everything changed. It all started with the talk that has been haunting me ever since. My daddy ushered me to the inside and said, “Do you know my love for you is tremendous? Just because I love you this much, I have to do something that no one else should do. Even your mom’s ghost is furious with me because of this. If I do it and you tell anyone, your mom’s ghost will kill you.”

Those words brought about my silence. He told me to take off my clothes, and I did so without any resistance. He raped me. I didn’t really get the meaning of what fear can do to a child until that very moment. Fear is not only about shaking or going into hiding; it’s when your body has a memory of something unable to be told by your mouth.

It occurred on three occasions. With each incident, I experienced a death within me. In the end, I just quit going over to his place. I'm sure that my father felt my detachment, and therefore he started to come over even less. After a year he was gone he got married again and had a family with someone else. I was glad to see him go, but the gladness was not lasting.

Unnoticed by anyone, I carried a wound all through my childhood. Now, at the age of thirty, I am a mother of two kids living in Nakuru with my hubby. I am running a small business, going to church every Sunday, smiling when I should, and playing the part of a “happy woman.” However, the frightened little girl the one who never told what her father did is still living inside me.

My father now is an old, blind man who cannot even speak. I do see him from time to time when we go to the village. He is there on the porch, very quiet, his eyes open but he is not seeing anything, his lips moving as if looking for words still. The moment I spot him, something inside me does a 360-degree turn anger, sympathy, and guilt all at once. I can't even point out which emotion is the strongest.

It is said that I’m lucky to have a supportive husband, healthy kids, and a comfortable life. But what they don’t know is that I have not really slept for years. My nights are long and burdensome. I get up at 2 a.m., all sweaty, hearing my father’s voice saying in my dreams: “You know I love you.” The impact of those words is still very much painful like being burned with boiling oil.

Forgiveness is something I have tried with my father, but it is not a door that opens only once. It is the door that you keep knocking on no matter how long it takes and even if no one responds. Sometimes I feel like confronting him. I want to tell him that I won’t forget anything. That what he did will not be made undone by his silence. That I have been carrying his sin like a heavy stone on my back for fifteen years now. But then I see his frail body, his blind eyes, the saliva at the corner of his mouth, and I just stop. I tell myself, “He has already paid the price.”

But has he really? Or is it I who is still in agony?

There are times when I think about going to church and making a confession. Would the Rev. Father know everything? But what am I going to say? “My father shattered me”? “My father handled me inappropriately”? Even before being spoken, these words sear my tongue. Such are not the things of daughters in our society. These are the things you hide under the cover of religion, under respect, and under the silence of the righteous.

Nevertheless, silence is like a prison.

My husband is totally unaware of it. I have tried to tell him on two occasions. The first one, I began to cry midway through the conversation, and he comforted me, inquiring what was wrong. I replied that it was nothing. On the second occasion, I put it down in a note, but I burned it before he arrived at home.

How to say to a man that you are married but that he cannot fix you because you are broken in ways he cannot reach? That sometimes when he makes love to you, you freeze not because you are not fond of him, but because your body has already learned that love can be painful?

I am caught up in that paradox daily. Not long ago, my father’s spouse called. She informed me that his health was deteriorating and that the family should come together now before it is too late. I disconnected the call and lingered for quite a while on the edge of my bed. A thought crossed my mind; perhaps it would be a good idea to speak to him before he passes away. Perhaps I should say that I forgive him, even if I do not mean it. Maybe it will liberate me.

Yet, in another way, the little one inside me who has been locked in that old house says no. That some phantoms are better off staying buried. That unearthing them simply gives them life again.

Last week, I attended church and took a seat at the back. The priest was speaking about forgiveness. He mentioned, “Often, the very persons who cause us pain are already paying for it in a manner that we can’t perceive.” I gazed at the cross and thought about my dad that, perhaps, was the cause of his being blind. If he were to be judged by God already. What if, then, I was the one punished for not saying anything?

At this moment, I am putting my thoughts down because I am really confused. I am not sure whether I should talk or keep quiet. Whether I should let that person die without showing him the complete extent of his impact on me.

The only thing that I am certain about is that I am no longer going to endure this burden by myself. Whenever I shut my eyes, the picture of my mom, her tired hands, her kind smile, comes to my mind. There are times when I think of sharing everything with her and in my dreams, she hugs me tightly and whispers, “You are free, my little one.” I get up crying, my pillow dripping, and my heart pounding.

Perhaps I need that release. No payback. No even pardon. Only tranquility.

I cannot foresee if I will ever come across it.

However, this evening, before I go to bed, I shall compose a letter for my dad. I will enumerate all the things I was unable to express. Moreover, in case he cannot read it, in case his sightless eyes will never catch a glimpse of the letters, I will set the letter ablaze and let the smoke ascend. It could be the wind that will take it to the spirit that is still keeping an eye on the one who is destined to be watching over me.

Perhaps, then, I will get to enjoy the eternal rest after all.  
—Alika

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