My Mother’s Past Still Haunts My Relationships

The day concluded like any other. After school, I went to the market to pick up the keys. Once home, I played with my friends while waiting for my mother to return from her shopping trip to prepare dinner. She arrived around 6 PM, the usual time, but instead of cooking, she brought home waakye leftover from the afternoon that she hadn’t eaten. That was our meal for the night. Around 7 PM, she asked, “Have you done your homework?” I replied, “No, I didn’t bring any homework home today.” I was in JSS one, around fourteen or fifteen years old, still holding onto the innocence of childhood. I dreamed of growing up to be a successful man, marrying, having children, and making enough money to provide my mother with a better life.

These were the dreams that every child has while growing up. We didn’t think much about how we would make that money; we simply wanted to be the solution to our parents' struggles. That night, my mother went to bed early. We didn’t have a TV; well, we did, but it was broken, so I went next door to watch TV until about 9 PM when I returned to sleep. My mom heard me come in and asked, “Did you lock the door?” I answered, “Yes, I did.” She then asked, “And the trap door? Did you lock it?” I assured her, “Yes, Mom, I did.”

We lived in a single room divided by a curtain. My mom slept on the bed behind the divider, while I had a mattress on the floor in front of it. As I mentioned, the day ended like any ordinary day, and I expected the night to follow suit, but it didn’t.

I was asleep when I heard men’s voices in our room, commanding my mother to be quiet. One of them said, “Shhhh, if you make any noise, we will kill you.” I thought I was dreaming and kept my eyes shut. Then I heard my mother’s voice pleading, “Please don’t kill me. I’m poor, but I can give you everything I have. Everything I made at the market today is here, under my pillow.” I still didn’t open my eyes, thinking the dream was turning into a nightmare until I heard a loud slap, bam! That sound jolted me awake. When I opened my eyes, I saw two large men in masks. One held a heavy stick with nails protruding from it, while the other wielded two machetes, one in each hand, standing by the door and watching.

They threw my mother to the floor beside me and began ransacking the room. At that moment, I couldn’t tell if this was real or just a terrible dream until I received a slap from behind, wham! I fell onto my mattress, and the man said, “Lie there quietly. Don’t try to get up.”

If they had found anything more than what my mother initially offered, I would have been surprised. She had nothing. My school fees were unpaid, and sometimes I went to school without pocket money. During breaks, I would rush back to the market to eat and then return to school, a journey that took longer than our break allowed. When the men found nothing, they rummaged through my mother’s bag and took the new clothes they found. She had no use for those clothes but had bought them as an investment. “When you go to senior high school and things get tougher, I’ll sell them to raise money for your education,” she had told me. But that night, those men took away her investment.

After they finished searching and were about to leave, the one at the door told me, “Hey, get up, turn around, and face the door.” I complied. He handed his machetes to the other man. By the time I realized what was happening, he was struggling with my mother, trying to assault her. She was pleading, crying, “Please, my son is here. Don’t do this in front of him, I beg you in the name of God…” Her voice was muffled, perhaps by my pillow. He had his way, got up, and buckled his belt. I lay on the floor, crying and terrified. After buckling his belt, he stepped on my back and said, “It’s your turn now.” “My turn? What do you mean?” I asked. He replied, “I know you have a girlfriend, but your mother doesn’t know. Come and show her you’re a man.”

They pushed me on top of my mother. She was frozen, her skin cold, and the side of her dress soaked with tears. I couldn’t bear to look at her face; she turned away, her body too exhausted to resist. The man slapped my back with the flat side of the machete, “Come on, do it and stop wasting our time. Or do you want my brother to come and teach you?” They pulled down my shorts, placed me on top of my mother, and watched as I moved up and down on her. I was crying, and my mother was crying too. They stood there laughing. I was still on top when they opened the door and ran away.

I thought it was a nightmare I would wake from. I prayed it was just a bad dream one of those dreams you wake up from and think, “Wow, that felt real.” The rooster crowed, birds began to chirp, and the sky brightened for a new day. My mom got up and opened the windows to let in some light. I waited for that awakening, that touch that would pull me from my dreams. It never came. My mom wiped her eyes and acted as if nothing had happened. Before she opened the door to start the day, she said, “Whatever happened last night must never be mentioned. It’s a curse. Don’t ever speak of it to anyone. It’s a secret you must carry to your grave. Even when I die, don’t mention it to anyone. You’re a child; you’ll forget and live as if this day never occurred.”

She opened the door to find a crowd of neighbors discussing the attack. We weren’t the only ones targeted that night; the entire area had been attacked, but no one spoke of sexual assault. Perhaps it happened to them too, and they chose to keep it quiet, just like my mother did.

My mom believed I would forget, but I never did. The memory haunted my childhood and tormented my thoughts. I couldn’t look her in the eyes. Never. She would say, “Hey Sammy, look at me. Look at me when I talk to you.” But my gaze would drift to the floor, searching for something that wasn’t there.

Time passed, and I grew up. I had my first girlfriend in university, Alice. I had never encountered a woman with such beauty and intelligence. We started as study partners in our first year. I proposed to her in our third year when she mentioned another guy was pursuing her. Perhaps I proposed out of fear of losing her. Alice noticed my struggles from the beginning of our relationship. I would visit her dorm but stay outside. She thought I was shy of her roommate, so she would ask her to leave us alone. That made it worse. I would pressure her to take walks with me, intentionally bringing up coursework to discuss.

When she tried to kiss me, I pushed her away. She asked, “Don’t tell me you’re still that innocent at your age.” I laughed it off, saying, “That’s not why I proposed. I want us to wait until marriage. Don’t get me wrong; I love you deeply and would do anything to keep you, but let’s be patient.”

We graduated and returned for the ceremony. She booked a hotel for us, which I initially resisted, but eventually, I gave in. That night, she did everything to prepare for intimacy. I was ready too, but my body failed me. Despite all efforts to revive it, it would only falter at the crucial moment. She said, “I understand now. That’s why you’ve been avoiding me since the start of our relationship.” I blamed it on stress and pleaded with her not to take it personally, but she did, and our relationship was never the same again until it fell apart before our eyes. I lost Alice. It shattered me. The only woman I had loved was gone, but I refused to accept that I had a failing body. It worked fine in the morning and could stay up as long as I wanted, so everything should have been okay, right?

I tried with my next two girlfriends, but the same story repeated. Whenever it reached that point, memories of that night flooded back—my mother’s tears, her cold skin, her helplessness, and what she had told me that morning. Those memories would ruin my good days.

Now, at thirty-seven, I am gainfully employed and doing my best to care for my mother. She no longer sells at the market and lived with me in Accra, but I thought her presence was a reminder of the past, so I found her a new place, far from me, to help her live better. I talk to her often, but I don’t see her frequently. Yet, the issue remains.

She asks why I’m not married. “You’re my only child. I gave birth to just you. Don’t you think it’s time to give me grandchildren?” I still can’t look her in the face. I get flashes of that night. I wonder, “What is she thinking? Is she so strong that she’s forgotten, or is it just my weakness that prevents me from moving on?” I know I need help. I’ve researched my issues and found that talking to a psychologist could help. They suggest I open up, perhaps even to my mother, so we can both seek healing. I know that’s the right path, but I can’t find the courage to bring it up. My mother has suffered enough. She has endured for so long, and now I can see her smile, a smile that seems genuine. I don’t want to dredge up the past and reopen her wounds.

I understand she has worked hard to achieve the peace she has now. It’s my turn to work hard and find my own healing from the pain of the past. It won’t be easy, but I will take it one day at a time. Sharing this story is my first step toward healing. Until now, no one knew what happened to us that night. But I’ve shared it here. Many have heard it now. I know it’s anonymous, but it’s still a significant step. I’ll read my own story, and a crack will open within me, allowing light to enter a light that will dispel the darkness within me so I can become whole again. I know my demons, and I’m ready to confront them. Hopefully, I will prevail.

—Sammy  
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