The caged bird
The caged bird is me. The bars were not of iron, but of duty, of expectation, of a love that felt like a prison. And the most insidious truth was that for a long, long time, I found a profound, twisted comfort in that restriction. Within the confines of what I knew, I didn't have to face the vast, terrifying uncertainty of the world outside. My cage was my sanctuary. I could only dream, and in my dreams, I was unshackled.
I don’t think they can travel back in time, those dreams. I try to clutch them, to pull their fading textures close, but they are wisps of a different life. These were the dreams of my young age, when life was still fair to me, when the sun felt warmer and the air tasted sweeter. In them, I was a bird, yes, but a free one, a sparrow darting through the thick, moist air after a rainstorm, a swallow soaring on thermal winds with a clear, undeniable purpose. I was the only girl in the family, the precious gem, treated with a care that felt like being wrapped in the softest cotton wool. Although we didn't have much, we weren't poor. Our poverty was not of things, but of truths.
My mother was the engine of our home. She was a whirlwind of tired energy, leaving before the sun painted the sky with its first gentle brushstrokes of orange and returning long after the fireflies had begun their silent, blinking dances in the compound. She was the hardworking one who provided, her back a little more bent each year, her smile a little more worn at the edges. A reverse psychology, right? I know. The woman building the walls, the man… my father… was the settled dust within them.
My father on the other hand did nothing but sit at home from morning till night, a king in his armchair throne, presiding over a kingdom of quiet stagnation. But he loved us. I have to believe that, even now. I have to cling to the ghost of that belief. It was evident in his eyes, a softness that would appear when he looked at me, and in the gentle tone he used only for me. It was this love that built the most dangerous bar of my cage.
The memory unfolds like a slow, sickening dream. The main room of our house, the air thick with the smell of last night's stew and the faint, ever-present scent of my father's old wool sweater. Each time we were alone, the world would shrink to the space between his chair and the crackling radio. He would pat his lap, a familiar, summoning gesture. "My little princess," he'd coo, and I would climb up, settling into the hollow shaped by his body, a part of the love and care, at least, that was what I thought, what I had been taught to believe.
His hands, rough from idleness, would begin their ritual. He would use them to trace patterns on my back, then, with a slow, deliberate shift, his hand would wander, cupping my not-so-developed breast, a small, shameful bud beneath my school uniform. His other hand would stray lower, touching my private part. I would laugh, an innocent, nervous sound, a child's response to a confusing sensation. At first, it was a strange, dull pain, an intrusion I didn't understand. But the human body, in its tragic wisdom, learns to misinterpret any sustained attention as affection. I grew to… not enjoy it, but to anticipate it as the price for the warmth, for the whispered words of being his favourite. I cried in between, silent tears that I would blink away before I climbed down, the salt of them a secret I kept from myself.
The fabric of that twisted normalcy tore the day my mother came home early. The squeak of the rusty front gate, a sound that usually heralded the end of the day, came during the afternoon lull. She stood in the doorway, a bag of groceries slipping from her grasp, a tomato rolling across the floor like a drop of blood. Her eyes, wide and uncomprehending, locked onto us. He moved so fast, pushing me off his lap as if I were on fire, his face a mask of manufactured outrage.
"Do I not have the right to carry my daughter again or what are you trying to insinuate, Tomilola?" He talked angrily to my mother, his voice a thunderclap in the silent room. The word 'insinuate' hung in the air, heavy and poisonous. I had to run outside, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird, to find my younger brother playing with a worn-out tyre. We sat in the dust, and I could hear their voices from the compound, his a low, threatening rumble, hers a desperate, rising plea. The quarrel only ended when we went to bed, the house vibrating with a silence more deafening than any shout.
The role of a woman, I was taught, is to take care of the family, to be the soft place to fall. But my mother, in her own way, had built her own fortress. She didn't give a listening ear. Each time I tried to tell her things, to bridge the gap between us, she was a blur of motion. "I'm already late for work." Or, "Tell your daddy." That was always her response, a mantra of deflection. She was the breadwinner, and in our society, that was a precarious title that required her to be humble, to not "ruin her marriage" with pride.
She didn't even know when I started my menstruation. I woke one morning to a dark, frightening stain on my sheets. I thought I had injured myself in my private part, that his touches had finally broken something inside me. A cold, primal fear seized me. I was very scared. I couldn't tell her. Instead, I ran to my class teacher, Mrs Adekunle, a woman with kind eyes and a calm demeanour. I whispered my terror to her in the empty classroom. She didn't flinch. She went out and got a pad for me, and in the staff toilet, she was the one who taught me how to use it, her instructions gentle and matter-of-fact.
Then she held my shoulders, her gaze firm and serious. "Listen to me," she said. "You are becoming a woman now. You must be careful. Do not allow anyone to touch you there, anyhow. You can get pregnant if such happens."
The world tilted on its axis. That was when I gained knowledge, a devastating, clarity that shattered my innocence. What if I get pregnant with my father? The thought was so monstrous, so blasphemous, that it stole the air from my lungs. What will people say? The shame would be a shroud that would bury me and my entire family. I made a silent, desperate vow: I would stop sitting on my father's lap. I couldn't bring myself to tell my mom about my first menstruation because she didn't have time, and my father, whom I could have told, was the very source of this new, chilling fear. I couldn't speak up; the words were stones lodged in my throat.
On a Saturday evening, the air thick with the scent of frying plantains, he called me to him. "Come, my princess. Your throne awaits," he said, patting his lap. The familiar words now felt like a threat. My blood ran cold. I stood my ground, my voice a trembling reed. "I don't want to sit on your lap."
The silence that followed was absolute. He was surprised I could talk back at him. His surprise curdled into a cold, swift anger. He was angry so, he beat me for talking back at him. His belt was a searing pain on my legs and back, each lash a punctuation mark on my defiance. I cried out of my eyes, my sobs echoing in the house, but no one came to my rescue. My brother had fled outside. My mother was not home. I was utterly alone.
When my mum came back, her shoulders slumped with fatigue, and I saw a crack in her armour. I tried talking to her, my voice raw from crying. She was a bit different today. She sat on the edge of my bed and gave me the listening ears I've longed for. For a glorious, fleeting moment, I saw a lifeline. But my father, paranoid and sharp, thought I wanted to tell her about the way he touched me. He could see the new knowledge in my eyes, the lack of trust. He found an excuse, a sudden, urgent need to go to the market, to take my mother out with him. Even when my mum tried to protect me, to say she was tired, he insisted. To be the good wife, to not provoke him, to keep the fragile peace, she followed him. I missed the one opportunity I had to converse and let it all out to my mother. The door closed, and with it, the last of my courage evaporated, extinguished by the fear my father had set like a concrete block in my heart.
School became my only refuge. In Basic Science, our teacher taught us about puberty, about how to take good care of our bodies. She advised us to be careful so that we won't get pregnant because she knows that we are all in our puberty stage. Although, we all laughed about it, a nervous, collective giggle when she started talking about the breast, and our private parts. We all felt ashamed because the boys were there, their smirks and elbow-nudges a constant, humiliating commentary. I attend a mixed school, so we all received the lecture together, a roomful of adolescents drowning in awkwardness.
After the class, my friend, Tiwa and I talked about the topic covered in class. I was shy, my face flushed, but Tiwa wasn't. She was bold, her voice clear and unashamed. Emboldened by her courage, I told her about starting my period and how scared I was. She encouraged me, her arm around my shoulder. "It shows that you're getting mature," she said. "You're becoming a woman now. You have nothing to fear." I was happy because I had someone to tell my fears to, a tiny island of solidarity in my sea of isolation. But I dare not tell her about my father's part. That secret was a rot I couldn't expose, not even to her.
It was in the library, during my course of study, that I found the word. The word that named my nightmare. Molestation. I read it in a sociology textbook, and the definition was a perfect, horrifying description of my life. He molests me. The sentence formed in my mind, clear and damning. He takes advantage of my innocence. It's a disgraceful thing. I slammed the book shut, my hands trembling. I can't bring myself to say that out loud. I'll be judged by everyone. I don't want things to get any worse. It will even tint my image as the good girl everyone knows that I am. The shame was a cage within the cage.
This is why I loved to go home very early. Immediately the closing bell rang, a frantic, metallic sound of release, I was the first person you would find at the school gate, my bag clutched to my chest like a shield. I loved home even though it didn't feel like home anymore. It was a place of danger and silence, but it was still where I got to keep my head, where the rules, however terrible, were known.
One Tuesday, Tiwa asked me to wait for her after school. "A teacher wants to send me on an errand," she said, her smile quick and easy. "It will only take a minute." After closing time, I waited. I watched as the bustling schoolyard emptied, the sounds of laughter and shuffling feet fading into a distant murmur, then into nothing. I waited for one good hour, perched on a low wall, the concrete digging into my thighs. The sun began its slow descent, casting long, distorted shadows. I couldn't find her. A cold dread, separate from my fear of my father, began to creep up my spine. I had to take my leave. I knew how angry my father would be. He hated it when we were not on time; punctuality was the one virtue he strictly enforced.
On rushing outside the school gate, the world had transformed. Everywhere was so quiet. I wasn't used to the kind of quietness that had descended upon the street that led home. It was always noisy, filled with the sounds of other students, of hawkers selling puff-puff and groundnuts, of buses honking. Now, there was only the whisper of the wind through the tall, dry grass by the roadside and the frantic beating of my own heart. I became agitated and scared because I hate walking alone. The silence felt predatory.
After summoning a fragile courage, I began to walk, my steps too loud on the dusty path. That was when I saw them. A group of boys, maybe four or five, lounging in the shade of a half-constructed building. They were wearing an unfamiliar uniform, one I didn't recognise from any nearby school. They were doing something that the bad guys do in the films. They were drinking from brown bottles and smoking, the acrid smell of tobacco and something sweeter, more illicit, carried towards me on the breeze. My fear increased, a metallic taste in my mouth. How will I walk past them? They seemed not to be themselves anymore, their movements loose and exaggerated, their laughter too loud and sharp.
My courage went down the drain immediately. I kept my head down, praying to become invisible. Walking close to them, one of them stood up, unfolding himself from the group with a languid, dangerous grace. He started walking towards me. I tried to quicken my pace, to walk past him, but he stepped directly into my path, forcing me to stop. He pushed me back, a sharp, dismissive shove. "Why you no greet me?" he slurred, his eyes bloodshot and unfocused.
I was confused, my mind blank with terror. "Good afternoon, sir," I stammered, the honorific a desperate attempt at appeasement. I just wanted to leave the place.
He sneered. "You be rude girl. You no get respect." What made me more scared was the tattoo on his neck. It wasn't the usual tattoo. It was a dragon, coiled and menacing, its scales intricately detailed, its eyes seeming to gleam with a malevolent intelligence. It was symbolic. Our civic teacher taught us about things like this, about gangs and their signs, but I could not just place a meaning on the tattoo. It was just pure, abstract evil.
He slapped me when he saw that I was lost, staring at the art on his skin. The crack of his palm against my cheek was a shock of white-hot pain. I saw stars. He called the rest, his voice casual. "Make I teach this one small lesson."
I went on my knees, the gravel biting through my uniform. The pleas tumbled out of me, broken and desperate. "Please, sir. I beg you. I dey go house. My papa go worry for me. I beg you." I clasped my hands together as if in prayer. He turned a deaf ear to my plea. His face was a mask of bored amusement. One of them, a lanky boy with a cruel smile, removed my bag from my back and threw it into the bushes. The other two moved in, their movements practised and efficient. One carried my arms, pinning them behind my back, while the other lifted my legs. I was suspended between them, a helpless animal trussed for slaughter. They kept laughing at my tears. They found me to be funny, a source of entertainment.
They took me to the building that was yet to be painted, its skeletal structure a bleak silhouette against the darkening sky. The air inside was cold and smelled of cement and urine. They dropped me harshly on the floor, the impact knocking the wind from me. I tried to scramble up, to run away, but they pushed me back with no mercy in their faces. My elbows scraped against the rough concrete, the skin tearing.
Tade, I was able to grab his name from the way the others called him, the one who had first approached me, crouched down. "You dey mess with my head, you know?" he said, his voice a low growl. "I need to calm down." He slapped me again when I began to shout, a raw, guttural scream for the help I knew, with a sickening certainty, would not come. This time, his subordinates were no longer interested in playing nice. Their patience had worn thin.
"Tade, just do am na. We dey wait," one of them said, his voice edged with excitement.
I looked at Tade, my vision blurry with tears. "Tade, please..."
He grinned, a hollow, terrifying sight. "Oya, make I take the lead since I be the one wey bring the meat." They referred to me as the meat. The final, complete erasure of my humanity.
Before I knew what was happening, his subordinates took position, holding my hands and legs firmly, their grips like iron vices. I couldn't move but only cry, the sobs wracking my body. He removed my underwear, the cheap white cotton with its small floral pattern, a final humiliation. He fumbled with the button of his trousers, removing the long pants he had on. Then, he thrust into me with no mercy.
The pain was an explosion, a tearing, burning agony that eclipsed every other pain I had ever known. I cried out, but the sound was swallowed by the vast, space. I could see his friends laughing at me, their faces blurred and monstrous. Tade grunted, his body moving in a brutal, rhythmic violence. "She be tear rubber," he spat out, the words meaningless and cruel. I could hear his friends saying they wanted to also have a taste, their voices eager, like children waiting for a turn on a swing.
I could no longer fight because I was now weak. My spirit, already battered by years of my father's betrayal, shattered completely. Fighting wouldn't undo what had been done. My body went limp. My mind detached, floating somewhere near the ceiling, looking down at the broken girl on the concrete floor. They all took turns, their weights and smells and grunts merging into one long, continuous violation. There were five of them. When they were satisfied, they left, their laughter and footsteps fading away, leaving behind only the sound of my ragged breathing.
Time became meaningless. After I've cried and tears refused to come out, my body aching and hollow, I summoned the ghost of courage to stand up. My limbs were heavy, not my own. I found a tap around the back of the building, a lone pipe sticking out of the ground, dripping cold, rusty water. I had to clean myself up because I was stained with blood, the blood of my stolen virginity, the blood of my murdered innocence. The water was icy, a shock that did nothing to cleanse the filth I felt was now etched into my soul.
While doing that, I could not help but think about my purpose on earth. I traced the life I had known, the caged comfort, the paternal betrayal, the maternal absence, and now this, the ultimate defilement. I couldn't find any purpose. The caged bird had been taken from its cage, not to be freed, but to have its wings torn off.
I decided to go home, moving like an automaton, each step a monumental effort. I was hoping only to face the judgment of my parent, to have my lateness be the worst of my problems. To my surprise, the house was dark and silent. None of them was home. A hysterical laugh bubbled in my chest and died. I was happy because I could have time to myself, and no one would get to question why I came back home late or what happened. The silence was a gift. On the other hand, a deeper, more wounded part of me wished my mom were home to give me a shoulder to lean on, to hold me and tell me it would be alright. But I knew what her response would be, even if I tried my luck to converse with her. She would ask me to go and meet my father.
From that moment onward, I made a new vow, one forged in the fires of that unfinished building: I would not have anything to do with any guy. I hated that gender so much, a deep, abiding revulsion that included my father. It all started with him. He was the first crack, the one that made all the other shatterings possible. I lost it all, my trust, my safety, my body, my future. I could not help hating my younger brother although, he did not harm me. He was simply a reminder, a symbol of the gender that had orchestrated my destruction.
Society places value on virginity. I lost mine. It is seen as a sign of being morally upright, a prize for a husband. Now, I was spoiled goods. If I try to speak up, I'll be judged. They will ask different questions: Why was I walking at that time of the day when I'm supposed to be at home? What type of clothes did I put on for those guys to come to me? Was I smiling at them? All sorts of questions that would turn the hand of the clock back, making me the accused in the court of public opinion.
Why speak up when it is all going to be based on sentiment and judgment? The cage of shame is the strongest of all. It has no physical bars, but it confines you just as completely.
So, I'll just have to live with it. This is my own cross which I have to bear and carry. Christ carried his own, so do I. But as I lay in the darkness of my room that night, the physical pain was a dull, persistent throb, and I wondered if His cross ever felt this heavy, this lonely, this utterly devoid of hope. The caged bird was now broken, and the silence of its song was the loudest sound in the world.