Photo by Josh Campbell on Unsplash
I realize in some way, that this is me; has always been me. But I have sat on it, repressed it, stifled it, trapped it in a cage, sedated it like a tiger. The need for attention. But more than that, the need for affirmation.
When I was a child, all I ever wanted, was to grow up. I looked forward to when I could use the shower while standing, instead of crouching over a basin to bathe. I yearned to have my own pocket money, to buy whatever I wanted like my older siblings and to stay up after the nine o’clock news to watch late night TV. I hated being young. Hated the ‘last born’ reference. Hated the lack of independence.
But when he first grazed my breasts, pretending that he did it unnoticeably while reaching for the remote, I wanted to be young again. When he tickled me and I was not sure whether to laugh or cry, I wanted to be bathed in my basin by mom again. I wanted to be the protected last born; the one everyone took care of. I wanted to be anything but the girl who was abused by a man of the cloth.
It happened so long ago, I almost believe it didn’t. Eighteen years is long enough to doubt your recollection of things. Yet the facts followed me like steps in a dance and it hit me, with such clarity, that I was in fact, abused. I carried the burden of the event as a bad thing I did. As something I allowed. Spherical thoughts that had no end. So I was keen to archive them away in the cabinet of my mind.
The regular person believes that unless a man covers your mouth with one hand, while squeezing your neck with the other, unless he holds you down and gives you a menacing look, unless he forcefully pries your legs apart and yanks your hair so hard, your eyes bleed, then it can’t be abuse. You must fight, kick and bite. You must cry, scream and resist. You must flail your legs as if you are cycling in the air for it to be stamped as abuse. You must have bruises to your head and neck, tears, blood and semen in your private parts, skin under your finger nails for them to say, ‘she was raped.’
What they don’t know is that a form of abuse exists that involves grooming. You don’t see it coming and even when it’s right at your doorstep, you still don’t know you are being marinated. Society has written a guideline for abuse that when what happens to you does not meet the criteria above, then you simply were not abused or worse still you wanted it.
No one knows his sheep better than the shepherd, a pastor, his flock. He knows first hand who comes from broken families, whose dad is struggling with alcoholism, who recently became unemployed, who is separated, widowed, whose child ran away, who has a low self esteem.
When he singled me out the first time I was elated. He was applauding my return to the church because at some point I had walked away and then trooped back like the prodigal son. He was ecstatic to have me return. He said, ‘the youth group suffered in your absence. Many became rudderless when you left and left too. Now that you are back, let’s work together to create a stronger youth ministry. And no one does it better than you.’
He was right about that. I had the kind of personality and energy that could bring people together for anything. So I came up with ideas. Basketball tournaments, movie nights, concerts, plays, crazy Olympics; the things that young people are drawn to. And lured they were. We attracted a sizeable following and I became the de facto youth leader.
The more time I spent in church, the more time I spent with him. After meetings, he would ask me to stay behind to debrief and then offer to drop me home. My mom — a recent widow — didn’t think anything about it. She was still going through the cycle of grief and if anything, was pleased that I was now devoting a lot of my time in church. Who doesn’t want their child spending their youth at the feet of the cross?
“Movie night is coming up, let’s go buy the snacks needed together,” Pastor would say; or “I need help picking out the stationary that will be used, for the activities during youth week,” or “one of the parents has called me saying they are having trouble with their teenage girl. I think you can relate to her better. Let’s go.” When there was a youth trip, the youth would go in the bus and he would insist that we follow in his car to prepare the agenda for activities. There was always a thing. An excuse to be alone with him. And in between the picking, shopping, counselling, there would be a random lunch or a quick coffee.
This went on for months. That by the time he asked me to go to his house, because it was too late to drop me home, I didn’t think much about it. On that particular day, the youth group had gone away for a bible camp for a week. My mom prohibited me from going. She was the parent who never allowed sleep overs believing that all sorts of ‘bad things’ happened in those places. What she didn’t know is that the bad thing had been lurking around for a while. She was still adjusting to being a sole breadwinner, struggling to fill her children’s bellies, so she wouldn’t have noticed what was happening if you hit her with a brick.
Now that I am old enough, a mother several times over, I know that those errands, lunches, debriefs and consultations were all designed to make me feel special enough, comfortable enough, important enough to believe that spending so much time with a forty something man of the cloth was not a bad thing. It made me feel chosen. By a man close to God.
So, “no,” mom said, “you can’t go for camp.”
“But mom I am the youth leader. I need to be there.”
“Sure. You can go spend the day there but you must come back home.”
“But mom there are evening sessions that run late into the night.”
“You must sleep in your bed and you can’t come in after nine o’clock either. Remember how insecure our estate is.”
There was no need to continue pleading. Mom’s word was final.
On the first day, I went and stayed through all the daytime sessions. Pastor knew of my situation. “I will drop you back. Don’t worry.” He said.
The first night of camp is usually the best. Everyone is hyped. There is music, dancing, bonfires and communing. I was having so much fun having never attended a camp prior.
Before I knew it, it was 8:30pm. Mom would be upset! “I have an idea,” I told him. “Since it’s already 8:30 pm, what if I tell mom we were overtaken by events and I have to sleep at camp? In fact if you tell her, she will agree.”
“No. She has entrusted me with you. I have to take you back home.”
That was the thing about him. He was a sort of assistant Jesus. He never swayed. That’s why what happened that night still confuses me to this day. It is why I kept quiet for years because assistant Jesus can do no wrong.
I stalled and stalled hoping to break his resolve to take me back home. A night at the camp is what I wanted. But he stalked me and put his foot down. “We need to leave.” We left. After 9pm.
We had barely left the camps compound when mom called me, “*Angela! Where are you eh?
I thought I was clear!” Her tone was clipped.
“I am on the way. We have just left. Pastor is dropping me off.”
She clicked and sighed. Mom hated night driving and hated knowing that one of her children was out at night. This fear was not borne from nothing. A couple of neighbours had been shot and killed in our neighborhood in the recent past. We had been carjacked a few months back as well. As if imagining me dead she said, “I am not happy with you, nonetheless, it’s too late. It’s ten! Just sleep at the camp. Come tomorrow. But that’s it. No more camp! Not even during the day!”
“Ok mom.” All her shouting didn’t matter as long as I could stay behind.
Looking back, I wish I insisted that we go back. I wish I never stayed longer than I should have. I wish I never went to the youth camp. I wish I was not the youth leader. I wish, I wish, I wish.
Because he said, “We can’t go back. It’s past lights out. It will be complicated for them to get you a bed, get bedding...”
“So now?”
“Now that your mum has expressly said you can’t go home, let’s just go to my place.”
It made sense to me at the time. Too late to go home, too complicated to stay back; only option left was his suggestion. I didn’t think of any ulterior motive because this person could as well have been my dad. A whole congregation trusted him. Young and old sat on pews every seven days to listen to him.
But after having been groomed for months, you don’t realize. You don’t know. You trust the church and you blindly trust the people you meet there.
A regular person would ask, “You agreed?” “To go to his house at that hour?” “What were you thinking?” How do you go to a man’s house by yourself?”
Tell you what. For years, I asked myself these questions. I threw a dagger to my mind and convinced myself that I was to blame. That I had done something bad. When I go back to that night, my feelings get muddled and scattered as though I have been ransacked.
So when he said, “Just come to my house,” to me it meant just that.
But it wasn’t just that.
We got there and he was formal at first. Took out bedding and said he would sleep on the couch. Served me food and we ate reverently as if it was communion we were taking. But after dinner, he suggested a movie and moved to sit next to me. While reaching out for the remote he accidentally brushed my breast but said nothing. Meaning it was probably in my head right? How do you say, “Pastor, did you just touch my breast?” When he looks like he didn’t.
As the seconds moved to minutes, the reverent gap between us decreased as his accolades of me increased. “You have done so much good since you got back to the church. The youth are vibrant. Look at so and so and how they have grown.” His hand was leaning on the back of the seat. “You have a gift my dear. God is using you.” His hand was now on my shoulder. And so it went on and on. A word of affirmation followed by a physical act.
I didn’t like it. I knew it wasn’t right.
I could feel a thrum of tears at the base of my throat.
But for the life of me I didn’t say anything!! I was busy swallowing down the fireball of shock that had leaped from my gut to my throat. Even when he stroked my hair, I said nothing. All I could think of was the camp. When he caressed my arm, I thought of mom, telling me to bathe using a basin because I was too young. When he rubbed my back and brought his lips to my cheek, I thought of my older brother who used to tease me about being a last born. When he lay his heavy body on top of mine, I regretted wanting to grow up.
I feel like my life became fractured after that. To a before and after. I not only peeled myself from his house the following morning, I completely left the church after that. My heart chilled as ice. No one understood the sudden shift. They asked and got tired of asking. I walked away as suddenly as I had walked back and carried the heaviness of that night with me. I cried quietly, endlessly, until my skin felt tight and raw. Sometimes I would wake up feeling upside down, not knowing where I was. The floor would be the ceiling and the ceiling would be the floor.
Months later, in a twisted form of fate, I discovered that two other girls had been victims of the same. They too, like me, had been active youth members, and like me had one day just disappeared. The agony of hearing their experiences was excruciating. But even then, we still kept quiet.
I wasn’t held down, slapped around and muffled. My hair was not yanked until blood pulsed through my eyeballs, I was not hit unconscious and I didn’t scream until I lost my voice. But I was abused by someone I trusted. The world and by extension church leaders became tainted in my eyes.
I know you want to ask what became of him. Well, nothing. He was in fact promoted. He still stands behind the pulpit. I hear he still raises his hands and his voice to heaven. He still is.
The nuts and bolts were always scattered askew in my mind but now, after starting therapy they have come together, locking into place in my head. I finally understand why I am so uncomfortable with compliments, thinking that the person giving them is after something. I long for the day I no longer have to metaphorically hold my nose when our paths cross. Now I can talk about it and begin to heal from it. And he will one day be a sub-plot in a distant past.
*This story has been told to me by a female doctor who wishes to remain anonymous*
Written by Adongo S Meme
What is grooming This is when someone builds a relationship, trust and emotional connection with a younger person/child so that they can manipulate, exploit and abuse them.
Stages of grooming Identifying your victim — someone who is obviously vulnerable, with little parental supervision, low on confidence, emotionally deprived.
Gain their trust — often begins with friendship. Get to know their likes and dislikes and pretend to share common interests.
Gifts and favors — to make the child feel indebted. Going on special outings, buying lunches.
Isolating — from people who may be watchful or helpful. The offender exhibits exemplary behaviour before parents.
Sexualizing or desensitizing to touch — The abuser increases non-sexual touch like hugs and tickling. Creates situations with nudity involved like swimming.
Secrecy and maintaining control — Warn their victims that no one will believe them.
There are several types of abuse:
Emotional abuse
Physical abuse
Sexual abuse
Financial abuse
Organizational abuse