Sunday, 29 November 2015

Who lied Between Sugabelly (Lotanna Odunnze-Igwe ) and Mustsapha? Audu

The two loverbirds

Read between them. 

Perhaps the biggest rape scandal of the decade, the case of Lotanna Odunze-Igwe and Mustapha Audu, one of the sons of Prince Abubakar Audu, a former two-time governor of Kogi State who passed on last Sunday is an interesting one. Lotanna, popularly known by her social media identity, @sugabelly on Sunday exposed horrible details of how she repeatedly suffered sexual abuse in the hands of Mustapha, his brothers, his cousin and his friends. Her tweets, laced with graphic details of brutal sexual assault came moments after news of Prince Audu’s death filtered into the Nigerian media. Her story, gory and dehumanising as she portrayed it, immediately drew the sympathy of a wide section of the Nigerian public with condemnation and attacks targeted at the alleged perpetrators of what many thought was only possible in seedy x-rated Hollywood productions. All through this moment, the accused were silent. Their side of the story was completely lost in the social media mob that was already screaming blue murder! Perhaps, the accused sons of the late Prince Audu were too engrossed mourning the demise of their father to be bothered about allegations and condemnations that had gone viral in the social media. Just yesterday, Friday November 27, 2015, the accuser once again released another bombshell, this time a detailed blog account of her ordeal in the hands of Mustapha, his brothers, his cousins, and his friends. It was a chilling story that sparked further sympathy towards the “victim” and more condemnation towards the alleged perpetrators. In this exclusive interview, Publisher of SIGNAL, Ohimai Amaize and Editor of SIGNAL, Yemi Adebowale sat down in a chat somewhere in an apartment in Asokoro, Abuja face to face with the man in the eye of the storm, Mustapaha Abubakar Audu. This is his story.
Their facebook conversation

Who is ‘Sugabelly’ to you?
Lotanna as her real name is called, is someone who we were colleagues together while I was serving at an IT firm in Abuja called Alteq. She was a staff at Alteq. We were colleagues for a while and at some point we dated for about two months. I came back to Nigeria in 2006, and it was at Alteq I first met her. I’m not sure how long she had worked there before I came to the company for my NYSC. It was a long time ago. I was about 24 then. We talked like every other person. There was a time she had a party for the office, I thought it was a party for the office but it was her birthday party, her 18th birthday party. It was in March of that year. I didn’t go for it. I usually don’t go to office parties. I had another business. I was working at my company and at the IT firm as well. So one day at the office she came to me and harassed me that I missed her party and I said, oh, don’t worry I will make it up to you. I will take you out for sharwama and I took her to 212; then they used to sell sharwarma. This was the first time I took her out. There are emails to corroborate this. From then on we started talking. She was a very interesting personality. She is very brilliant and she reads a lot of books. I read a lot of books too and I don’t meet people who read a lot of book. I used to read a lot of fantasy books. All these Game of Thrones people are watching as movies now, I read them as books like ten years ago. Knights of Shallaman, Wheel of Time, Lord of the Rings, Inheritance Cycle, many many books I read years ago and there were very few people who knew these things. She was one of them. She read a lot and she wrote. She was a very brilliant writer; in fact, I think that was why she was working as someone’s secretary at the office. She used to write a lot of letters for the company. Claims have emerged from her that as at January of 2007 I was in a relationship with her and doing all sorts of wicked things to her. Just like now, in December, precisely December 17, 2006, I lost my mum. I was in the UK. I watched my mum die. I loved my mum. I brought her body back to Nigeria, so just like now I was going through a period of grief. So it wasn’t possible all the things she is claiming that I did. I would be mourning.

How long did your relationship (affair) with her last? 
Our relationship lasted like a month and a half. Not even up to two months. I found out she was sleeping with my friends. She slept with a couple of my friends. I discovered and told her about it. She told me she loved me, she wanted to marry me and was madly and deeply in love with me. And I told her it’s not possible, we can’t get married because I am not at the stage where I wanted to be married. And you’ve had something to do with my friends, so the relationship ended. While we were in the relationship, she had told me things about her mum, that she hated her mum, her mum wasn’t there for her and stuff like that. She sent me an email once making reference to her having visions of violent rape the first time that we had something physically. She said she had visions of violent rape from a past memory and that we weren’t close enough for her to tell me the details. On one occasion then when we spoke on the phone, she said I shouldn’t abandon her, and then she told me that her mum’s boyfriend raped her. She said a lot of negative things about her mum. This was part of the reason I didn’t want to release these emails to protect her.

But the main reason I am doing this is because I got a call today, someone told me that her friends disclosed that she’s being planning this for while, she is actually writing a book and planning to finish a book, she wants to start an NGO, she wants to appeal to the US government about surviving rape in Africa and she wants to use my family, because of my family’s political name to get traction. I heard she is getting influential people involved, I hear she has involved the lady behind the Bring Back Our Girls campaign, Dr. Oby Ezekwesili. Dr. Ezekwesili reminds me of my mum. She reminds me of someone who should have been my mum and if someone said something about your son, you shouldn’t immediately go to the world and say “Oh, you are this or that.” At least call your son, hear him out. And this is not even about me wanting to say anything to defend myself.

Please read the communication between me and this girl. Everytime I sent her a message, it was always about “How are you doing? Hope you are doing okay? Don’t be too nasty in college. But I know you are very smart and you will do well. Even in the emails, I mentioned that I encouraged her. She even sent me a message on Facebook apologizing for flirting with my friends, how she loves me and I told her, it’s okay. It’s not the end of the world. And now, people are saying I’m such a beast and I’m such a monster. You didn’t even talk to me. You didn’t even ask me… These things are so horrific. What kind of person can actually do these things? Not only did I do that and I did it with my younger brother that was just 15 back then? I did that with my older brother who was about 30 years old then? And this older brother is not my immediate older brother. He is two brothers ahead of me. Then my cousin? Then my friends? Then the Nigeria Police Force? This is such a movie.

How is your family reacting to this?
Of course it’s very hard. We are mourning. She’s been releasing these this for a while. She’s been doing this for a while but my family has kept quiet all along because we know the truth. Yes, some of my family members are really shaken right now. We are grieving. I have just been orphaned. I loved my dad. My dad is a hero. Anybody from Kogi State knows that. Look at his burial. How many people have received his burial? Look at the whole country? If we were such wicked people, if my dad was a monster, would people react? There was a rumour that my dad had risen. If you saw the people the way they were praying and rejoicing. And now this girl has used this unfortunate incident to capitalize in painting my family as evil.

How long have you been married?
I have been married for like six years now. I got married December 15, 2009. And that was when my problem with her really started; when she found out I got married.

Have you ever raped anyone?
Common, why would I do that? It doesn’t make any sense whatsoever. I can never and will never support such heinous act. Common! It’s not even a question you ask a normal person. It’s like asking, have you committed murder before? Because it’s such an inhuman thing! And I understand why people would do this and she’s brilliant. Because she knows human beings are emotional and sentimental. Play on their intelligence. Play on the fact that women have been raped before and for us men, we hardly speak up. I am not saying men are angels. I’m not saying I am an angel. But I have never raped anyone in my life before. I am happily married. I have three little daughters. I can’t even imagine it. God!

You know what? I am going to step out for those who have been accused falsely. There are a lot of people who have been falsely accused. You know, because of my last name, I am fortunate to have the opportunity to speak up. You see, people don’t even need to hear me speak. Just read the conversation I had with this lady and you can read her blog. It’s just a blog. You can compare the two. In my email conversations with her, you can tell that I have genuine feelings for her and she has genuine feelings for me. We are communicating as human beings. Then you read this blog and it’s something else. In her mails to me, you will read her asking about me, my brothers, my friends, my cousins, telling me how she knows that I’m so hardworking and that I’m a good person. I don’t understand how that translates to a blog that says I was such a terrorist.

What do you think she wants from you?
It’s fame. It’s simple. Fame. She has skills and in her heart, she’s found out that you know what? My blog isn’t really getting a lot of traction, I’ve been working on this story, I’ve been writing a book, so let me put out this story first. First, she got some Twitter people to put it up, when that didn’t get as much traction, she resorted to this. That was the groundwork for this. Now she has put this on her blog and everybody is going to her blog, she is about to launch a book on surviving rape in Africa; all of this is some sort of elaborate plan to make money and fame to the detriment of someone who hasn’t done anything to her. Whatever it is that’s bothering her, I think her mum should speak to her. Her mum honestly needs to speak to her. Her being in the US and being away might not be the best solution. She should actually have a sit down. What is bothering her? She told me she hates her mum, that her mum’s boyfriend raped her. Let her talk to her mum about that.

What is your next line of action?
It has to be a legal action. I’m not doing this because I want money from her. The suit I am going to carry out against her has nothing to do with money. I want her to write a public apology, publish it in the newspaper, take down her blog and retract all she said against me. I want all those she has lied to, to know she lied against me. She needs to come out and tell the world: “I lied about this. These people are innocent of all I said against them.” That’s what I want from her.
And going forward, I want people like Dr. Ezekwesili to think before they act. People called me to draw my attention to her tweets. I thought she was fighting for a cause. I thought she was a mother. I know her sons and they know me. Chine and Chuba used to play football together with me every weekend. They know me. I am not a rapist. I had a mother and my mother would not be proud of Dr. Ezekwesili. What would have been her first reaction if this same girl accused her sons of rape? Would she have gone first to Twitter to condemn them? Would she have gone first to Afe Babalola SAN? If that would be her first reaction, then I must confess, she must be a really terrible mother. Is her cause real? What cause is she on? Is it because Bring Back Our Girls is no longer working? Dr. Ezekwesili, please read the emails. Your sons will tell you the same. They are my friends. They know I’m not a rapist. Have you approached me? Have you said who is the person? Let me approach him? Let me reach out? Please someone give me his number. She didn’t do this, instead she went to Afe Babalola. Chuba is my good friend. If they said this about Chuba, would she go to Afe Babalola? Please answer me?
I never did anything to Lotanna, read the emails. Don’t even listen to me, please read the emails. Since she’s made claims, read our mail conversations after the events she alleged occurred had happened. Read her timelines. Some of these terrible events were occurring and she wasn’t talking about it? She’s emailing me and I’m emailing her and not for once was it mentioned? Common! No, that just means nothing was actually going on except our normal conversation. I had other people in the office that left, some for the UK that I still chat with. We were colleagues!

what is your advice to men out there who find themselves in your kind of situation?
I have to stand up for those who have been victimized, those who have been condemned even before they were given a chance to defend themselves. I will be fighting, like my father who has always been a fighter. And I am a winner. I will fight this and anyone who believes that what I have done is so terrible based on the allegations, I will ask you, please come and ask me. Come and hear my own. If you are not satisfied then you can do anything. The truth is out there. Nobody right now in the country knows what I am feeling right now, the trauma and the stress. Everyone is calling either to condole with me or to condemn me for what was alleged against me. People are asking, what did you do? I am under tremendous pressure. At the same time, I am grieving. I don’t have a mum anymore and I don’t have a dad. A lot is going on. I can’t even breathe. No one cares. Everyone just sees me now as a monster; this guy, his family… and it’s very painful and it could cause a long-term damage not just for me.

Unfortunately, I am not active in the social media and even if I was, I don’t think it is appropriate to just expose her and her family issues. That’s why I kept quiet. But to all those out there who are quick to jump to conclusion when you hear one side of the story, please have a rethink. It’s not fair. I was long guilty before anybody decided to contact me to hear my side of the story. I thank those who refused to jump to conclusion, but for the many majorities who did, it’s not right, especially given this time that I am grieving. I just got orphaned. It is very very sad. She probably did this because she knows I will protect her. I have children and I know what it’s like. I will not release everything she sent to me. But please read the emails and Facebook conversation.
I will also like to appeal to mothers today. They need to take responsibility for their children. I am certain that there are many people sitting and rotting in jail because of this. I will not go down quietly. I will not let them tarnish the good name and image my father built. I will not let someone my family’s grief as an opportunity to launch a social or a media career. I will not allow it to happen. I will start a legal process and I will sue everyone who decides to make me their next launch pad. Once this is over and the dust settles down, I will be starting an NGO for those who have been falsely accused and for those who have been falsely accused by authorities bigger than them and for those who have been falsely accused of rape. I believe they need a voice and I will be that voice.

Earlier on her blog, the girl wrote:
Very time I see a white Nissan Altima, my palms go sweaty, and my knees get weak. It’s an involuntary reaction born of so many nights being driven around Asokoro pinned to the floor of Tunji’s white Nissan Altima, barely able to breathe, the stench of weed stinging my eyes while I choked on the penis of whomever it pleased Mustapha to force me to pleasure that day.

I can’t have music playing while driving around in a car either. Or just sitting around at home. I can’t have music playing period. Especially not Maroon5. If I get into your car, please drive in fucking silence or you will make it hard for me to breathe. Right now there are thousands of people running wild with their “opinions”, talking authoritatively about what Mustapha, Abdul, Tunji, and their band of friends and brothers did to me, as if they were there. As if they hovered around us unseen like evil spirits, listening to everything that was said, seeing everything that happened, as if they know.

LMAO @ gold digger and prostitute. I never asked Mustapha for anything, and I’ve always done honest work for my own money, which is very telling, since I met Mustapha at WORK. In the beginning, Mustapha and I would go out for lunch, and I’d put gas in his car, and we’d buy our own shawarmas, and eat out of each others. I had a massive crush on him, and he told me he loved me, and called me “his woman” which made me feel special. I was getting paid 20K a month, which is nothing now, but it was my first real salary back then, and it was nice to have more money of my own to spend, and spend on him I did.

I actually wish this was true. At least it would be compensation for all the money I’ve had to spend on psychotherapy over the last few years.
I’m no stranger to money. I’ve had a lot of it, and I’ve had very little, and I’ve never been the type of person to be impressed by anyone’s wealth, so it wasn’t cars, hotels, or fancy shit I cared about, I was cool. I attended the best boarding school in the country, and Mustapha didn’t impress me, and I never asked him for anything or took anything from him besides the comic books and novels we traded with each other.

What I needed was a friend, and when I plunked down at my desk that first day of work at Alteq, and bonded immediately over a shared love of books and superhero comics, I thought I’d made one in the guy sitting next to me.
Every day, I came to work, and he was right there. And at the end of each work day, it had become normal to everyone for him to drop me off at home, so when 6pm came, and he grabbed hold of my arm and said “Let’s go.” I had no idea how to justify refusing and making a scene. Even after he was fired in April of 2007, at the end of each work day, he would show up outside our office on Amazon street to whisk me away. I would step outside the gate, and he would be there in his red Mercedes, waiting, demanding I get in. I was terrified that my refusal would mean the exposure of the pictures he had taken of me early in our relationship, photos I told him not to take, but he did anyway, photos in which I was naked and vulnerable.

I wanted to quit my job, but what reason could I possibly give my family for quitting a job I obviously loved, especially when I needed the internship to get into the honours program at the university I was to attend that year?
I had so much to be fearful of. The thought of the videos Abdul recorded of Mustapha and Tunji raping me seeing the light of day filled me with sheer terror. The alternative was keeping it all secret, and so I did.
Masking your emotions is not hard to do, just exhausting, and so for eleven hours a day, from 7am to 6pm, putting on my clothes, going to work, and sitting at my desk next to Mustapha every day was easier than you think.

Because the Nigerian Police is so trustworthy…You’d have to be stupid not to notice what kind of country Nigeria is, and I have never been stupid.
At 17, I knew already that the Nigerian police is most definitely NOT your friend, and that people who have police and army escorts in their homes are generally the sort that can make you disappear (in many little pieces preferably), and pay off  the police to look the other way, or failing all else, buy judges to make sure any court cases brought against them never see the light of day.

I had disclosed already to my priest at confession, and to  a doctor in Maitama General Hospital where I got tested for HIV and other STDS, the horrific things that were happening to me, and nothing had come of it. At the time, I didn’t know whether a rape crisis centre like the Mirabel Rape Centre even existed in Nigeria, or that there were any resources to help someone in my situation, or even what to do after I had been raped to help me get justice. I was scared, and I felt very alone. Their parents were very powerful people, and I didn’t have any faith in the police, especially faced with attackers that seemed to have both the police and the army in their pockets.  It was even more difficult to come to terms with the enormous betrayal of the man who told me he loved me, whom I loved as well, doing unspeakable things to me, and forcing me to do them with others. Even after I escaped from him by moving to the United States for college, I remained torn, and the part of me that loved him could not reconcile with the horror that he had put me through, and we stayed in contact because the mental hold he had over me was still so strong. It took me an additional three years to fully break free of him, and though I don’t live in daily terror of Mustapha Audu as I once did, anything that bears even so much as the memory of him is enough to break me down. In December of 2008, I ran into Bashir in a mall in Maryland, and suffered a complete panic attack. I broke away from the people I had come shopping with, and ran and ran to the other end of the mall. In 2012 and 2013, while out with Nyimbi, I ran into Ema and Tunji at Vanilla in Maitama. Tunji was sitting in low seats opposite the bar in the company of my classmate, Kachi whom I’d attended Loyola with. They didn’t recognize me, but it was all I could do not to break a bottle of whiskey on Ema’s revoltingly globular head, and the night ended with Nyimbi dragging me out of Vanilla in tears of anger and frustration at my lost opportunity to kill them both. Looking back, I can see how so much fear and shame prevented me from exposing what these animals were doing to me, and I question why I let them rob me of so many years of my life. Still, the child I was at 17 was very different from the adult I am today at 26, and my 26 year old self would have damned the consequences, told, and raised hell. As terrifying as it was to come to work every day and have to sit next to Mustapha, I’m saddened by the realisation that in the same place that held such terror and anxiety for me, I had people who loved me, cared about me, and would have done their best to protect me if I could have overcome my fear and shame and cried out for help me.

My adult self sees what my child self could not back then – that had I told my mentor, boss, and friend, Nyimbi what was happening to me right under his nose, he would have stopped at nothing to rescue me from my private hell.
What baffles me, is how so many people who know absolutely nothing about what did happen, can speak with such confidence, the most absurd speculations, about the facts of my life. If this all were not so incredibly sad, it would be quite amusing to me, that there are thousands of people who think I am (by my count so far) – an agent of PDP, a gold digger, a woman scorned, or politically motivated because they personally have never heard of my rape before now. Or that ALMOST EVERY SINGLE POST on this blog in 2007 was about what was happening to me, and my anguish, confusion, fear, hopelessness, and powerlessness to put a stop to it. I started it to document my year at my first real job; a job that would bring me into sustained contact with the man who, accompanied by his friends and siblings, abused, raped, and tormented me on an almost daily basis for the better part of six months.

Mustapha was a monster like you cannot even begin to imagine.
His brother Bashir, was the same age as me, and Mustapha decided, that one way or the other, it was his duty as big brother to rid Bashir of his virginity. At what was supposed to be a casual get together for suya and drinks at Tunji’s house, he dragged Bashir and me into the bedroom, and pushed us inside, saying to Bashir “Fuck her!” before locking the door, and leaving me alone in the darkness with his brother.  All my pleas to Mustapha were in vain, and the only thing we heard from Mustapha from the other side of the door was “Don’t let me come back and find out you’re still a virgin”.

On a different date, his cousin, Jibril raped me in that same room. I screamed, and screamed, and fought, and struggled, eventually sticking my fingers into his nose, and biting his hands. In retaliation, he bit me hard on the nose, and later that night, I explained away the swelling on my nose I came home with as an unfortunate meeting with the edge of a swimming pool. All the while I was screaming, Tunji and Mohammed were discussing business, and when my screams interrupted their conversation, Tunji came by to look at me, naked and pinned beneath Jibril, only to laugh and shut the door firmly behind him. So, when I see ignorant comments from members of the public in reaction to my trauma, I really feel the urge to ask these shameless people, how the fuck do you know?  Were you there ? Because I was there, and you most certainly were not.
I SURVIVED it, not you, so it is I who will tell you what happened to me, not the other way around. The aftermath of my rape at the hands of Mustapha and his cohorts is that for the past eight years, I have barely existed.  
I’ve been diagnosed with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, Anxiety Disorder, and Severe Clinical Depression, among a host of other problems as a result of the trauma I suffered, by multiple psychiatrists and mental health professionals.
Every day is a struggle to not end my life, and I have had to spend a small fortune on therapy and mental health services, as well as anti-depressant medication to make my life livable. Even then, I have to constantly fight through waves of pain, anger, shame, self-loathing, and the urge to make it all just go away to get through each day, and I don’t always succeed.

In 2011, I tried to jump off a bridge, and was hospitalized against my will on a 72 hour hold to save my life. Before that, I had attempted to kill myself by taking an overdose, and woke up in a pool of my own vomit.  I spent majority of my freshman year researching suicide methods, and for most of my first semester of college, besides attend class, I did nothing but cry until I passed out, then wake up ravenous because I’d been unconscious for several hours. The result was I gained over 100lbs in under three months, far more than the 15lbs you’re expected to gain when you first come to college known as the Freshman FifteenFor the longest time now, I have been dead inside. Dead people can laugh and talk, and come to work on time every day too. Dead people can get shit done, and write their college essays, and go to class, and be just like you if they want to too. The problem with dead people, is that sooner or later though, everyone starts to notice they’re dead.  
And so, my life slowly fell apart.

I can’t go swimming at night anymore. I can’t go swimming anymore, period. If you think having a panic attack on land is bad, wait until you’ve had one underwater, and almost fucking drowned yourself even though your Mom taught you to swim when you were little.  
I almost drowned in a pool at the Marriott barely 8 feet deep because being in there reminded me of the night my bikini top got pulled off and I got passed around by Abdul in 6 feet of water, and a man spit in my face and beat me, and soldiers had to drag him off me to stop him drowning me by my hair because he was angry Mustapha decided at the last minute that I had been good, and so he wouldn’t get to rape me after all.  

Nights are impossibly hard for me. How other people just get tired and fall into bed asleep is beyond me. I’m plagued by multiple nightmares every time I close my eyes. I can still feel Ema Oloyo raping me on Abdul’s bed, his oversized head bobbing, his hot, stinking breath buffeting my face as he struggled to force my legs apart. It’s hard to share a bed with people because sometimes I wake up screaming.  
Then there’s the medicine before bed. I have to take that for the rest of my life too. My relationships with friends and family are in tatters because I can barely hide the constant undercurrent of sadness that envelopes me, and the fact that I am always angry. Sometimes I simply cannot cope, and I blackout and my autopilot takes over – a basic, high functioning version of me that appears normal for all intents and purposes while I’m really dying inside.  
I’m so tired of keeping this secret, because I shouldn’t have to. 26 is too young to be a member of the living dead, how much more 17?  
As for the people whose membership claim on humanity is so tenuous that they can even conceive that I would concoct any of this just “to get famous” or “for attention”, let me make it clear to you: You are sick.
I’m sure that rape girl is happy, Nigerian Newsdesk has carried her gist…Congratulations ur famous! — Baddo Sneh (@ms_peee) November 23, 2015
I am actually, a pretty amazing artist, and if at all, I want to be famous for the skills that I have worked so hard and so long to develop, and the discipline I employ to perfect my craft and be the best at what I do.

THIS is the only thing I want to be famous for. THIS is the skill I have sweated and bled to be recognized for not the sordid details of my sexual assault, which will now hang over me like a dark cloud for the rest of my life.
Why on Earth would anyone who has been raped in Nigeria want to call attention to that fact when rape victims are pilloried as whores, gold diggers, prostitutes, and sluts? When all you can look forward to is constantly being the topic of hushed conversation, pitiful looks, social ostracism and being called “Rape Girl”?
That since the news of my horrific rape and abuse broke, that I have received hundreds of messages like this one is an indictment on Nigeria’s educational system, and I find it utterly shameful that grown adults can hear of a child being abused, raped, and pimped out to the friends of a man she trusted and loved, and their first impulse is to vilify her as a slut and not the men who damaged her and destroyed her life.

In Nigeria’s entire legal history, there have been only EIGHTEEN rape convictions, so the chances of a woman raped even under the best of circumstances ( where the perpetrator is a stranger, the victim a virgin, and DNA and video evidence are on file) getting justice of any sort is infinitesimally low, how much less in my case where I had a concurrent romantic relationship with my one of my rapists?
Thanks to them, I will never, ever in my life, touch a game of Risk.
It was always there. That battered box of cards and soldiers, they liked to play after they were done. No matter where we went, it was always there, silent witness that it was. It saw everything. If board games could talk, that box of Risk would tell you all the times I screamed and cried, and begged and bargained, and promised to be good, promised to obey, and how it never ever mattered. Following my post on Twitter in September last year, listing the names of the men who participated in my assault, I received an email from a young woman telling me that she too had had a similar experience with Mustapha, Abdul, and Ema, and that Mustapha had made a sextape of her without her consent, and she was now being threatened with the release of that video.
I too, for years have lived in fear of the videos Mustapha, Abdul, and Tunji made of themselves raping me becoming exposed to the public, and the lady who emailed me is just one of many young women who have survived abuse, sexual assault, blackmail, and rape at the hands of these men.
After my story leaked, my friend received death threats from the Audus, as well as a threatening letter from their lawyers demanding $2 million USD within 2 hours. Such an outrageous threat, but probably not absurd to people who have stolen $11 billion USD already. So yeah.
Fuck your forgiveness. Fuck “Just forget”.
I died, went to hell, and resurrected my fucking self, so now I’m going to live.
If the street you live on is Kwame Nkrumah, or Solomon Barau, sorry I can’t visit you. And if you drive a wine Mercedes, a white Nissan Altima, or a silver Peugeot 206, I can’t ever get in your car. Especially if the license plate is AX247KUJ.

I already tweeted this, but I would just like to add it here as an addendum:
Let me make something clear.
Mustapha and I started out as a romantic / sexual relationship, and that relationship persisted throughout.
I was still in love with him, in spite of everything that happened, so we stayed in contact pursuing the relationship even after going to school.
Not that being in love with your abuser is a smart thing, but Mustapha was very controlling and manipulative and mentally I was attached.
Like I said in my blog post, it took three years after I left for school for me to fully break free of Mustapha emotionally and mentally.

So for years after 2007, there’s a lot of communication between me and Mustapha in the context of a couple. He and his friends still raped me.
At the same time, we did a lot of things a normal couple would do, flirted, argued, talked about sex, sent nudes, etc.
It doesn’t change the truth.
Many abused women are still living with and loving the men who have done unspeakable evil to them.
I was a naive, kid in love, but I’m lucky to be free now.
Also, I’ve been talking about what happened to me for years but nobody was really listening.
Now that everyone is, I’m afraid for my family’s safety in Abuja, and my own safety as well.



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