Unholy Bond
by Nathaniel Bivan
The crumpled paper had rolled off the little girl’s palm, landed in a spot that will remain engraved in her mind when she makes slow calculated steps from the door of the church to the front of the pulpit. There, she will hear her fiancé say “I do” and later wonder if she actually responded amidst the screams in her head. And still later, the frighteningly familiar sensation as he hung over her, heavy breath like that first wind of damnation, making her lips tremble as though in revelation.
There will be none.
A headline from the past will quickly surface: ‘Girl aged eight defiled’ and a courtroom drama to prolong the agony. So she will fight terror with ecstasy, close her eyes to naivety’s landmark—a fifty naira bond and memory to last a lifetime.
“Kasham,” her husband will whisper, but it is another’s breath that will cause the tremor, the moaning, and the tears. It will sting her eyes and he will happily mistake them for pure passion. Innocently, he will strive to take her to where he hopes she will beg him to stop.
He will succeed.
Only, she will not be in that soft bed and candlelit room, but on a flat mattress, on a hard floor, in a compound of twenty rooms and an outhouse. There, where everything was taken from her—her childhood, her joy, her innocence.
* * *
That morning Kasham’s joy was stolen; she was out hawking doughnuts in her neighbourhood. She first went to Sani’s mechanic workshop, where the men patted her fondly and bought half what sat on her wide tray. Happy, she went to the marketplace. There, she sold everything. “Don’t come back to this house until you have sold everything,” her mother had said.
Kasham trotted home by twelve noon.
Then it happened.
Her wrapper came off and gripping the folds, she realised the money, all the money, was gone. She cried. Weeping, she walked home.
“Why are you crying? What happened?” A voice called. It was Teju the barber, standing outside the compound where he lived. Everybody knew the house. It was even called the bachelors’ den.
She told him and he promised to give her what she lost.
“But only if you come into my room and do exactly what I say.”
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Nathaniel Bivan
Nathaniel Bivan is a journalist living in Abuja, Nigeria. he is married to Winnie and they have a daughter, Swaan. Sometimes, when he is in the mood, he writes poetry. He is presently working on a novel.
A painful story highlighting the lingering impact of the sexual molestation of a child. I found the opening sentence cryptic. I was also puzzled by the description of how Kasham lost the money. AGB
Agburstein, thanks for the comment. In Nigeria, ordinary female folk, particularly traders, are known to secure money in the folds of their wrapper.
I too found the opening sentence difficult. Is the crumpled paper something to do with the lost money? You made me feel for Kasham.
I feel the story, the opening was abstract art in its purity, the words made it seem I was watching a movie, I took every step with Kersham.
A realistic tale of child molestation.
Beautiful story.
This is the reality of girl child molestation, it is our collective responsibility to fight this menace. In Africa more than anywhere else in the world we need child social welfare officers.
Kudos
Nathaniel Bivan
I always knew you as a good story teller with a pen. In this story, I couldn’t relate with Kasham. I always thought it should be Amina, Hadiza or Fatima in that kind of circumstances. You brought a new perspective to me, and you nailed it nonetheless. I am anxiously waiting for your novel that I think I inspired.
This is the bitter reality of what our society has become. Children are now molested on the street by adults who should protect them. The rendition of this story is top class and your diction is superb. Kudos to the writer whose work I always look out for. Thank you for the tag, Nat.
Nat. Thanks for bringing the predicaments of the girl child, especially here in the northern Nigeria to limelight. Many girls are suffering in silence with no one to stand for them. They need a voice! Bro you’ve got skills, and please don’t stop using them. Thumbs up!