WE WON’T FORGET.
Look, can we just get over and done with this because my aunt said I had to come for one of these things before I -uh – well, you know. So here I am “Doctor”.
What do you need me to do? You want me to talk my childhood? Cry about how I never learned to swim? Talk about my feelings and depression or OCD or whatever psych crap you wanna label me with? No, you know what, maybe you should do all the talking. After all, you’re the one who’s supposed to convince me not to do it. Try to convince me, like my aunt tried, keeps trying.
Let’s just skip to the part where I tell you what happened, okay?
I was running, because there were gunshots and there was smoke and other people were running, so I ran too. I started to run away from danger, and I ran right into them. I ran straight into a group of 15 men with bloody lips and charcoal stained hands. What did I expect would happen?
The first one held my knees to my chest, told me he was going to enjoy breaking into me, then he ripped my panties off, tossed them to the second one, and shoved himself into me. He put his down down my throat when I screamed in agony.
The second slapped my right cheek, stuffed my panties into my mouth to ‘shut me up’ then licked my ear as he entered.
The third was gentle, said he wasn’t like the other guys.
The seventh asked me if our men were this big, then forced me to say no with every thrust.
The tenth only used his fingers, after flipping me over so my face was in the ground.
Then it was just me, lying there, helpless, weak, raw, ingesting the hatred spewed all over me, broken and humiliated.
And now there’s this thing growing inside of me. The devil’s spawn is growing inside of me, sucking my blood like a parasite, leeching off of my everything. This thing, in the midst of screams, steel rods pounding flesh, hard rock breaking bone, and cowards with a deep seated taste and passion for blood dancing on their lips. This thing came out of that. This thing is death itself. Blackness curdling in my body, and you people expect me to keep it? To let this bastard child of tribalism, this demon tear through my flesh?
Kenya is on fire.
Bodies light up the streets every night, like fireworks.
There are boys in the streets cutting up bodies and raping girls, because of geography! For men, sitting in their homes, comfortably, sipping tea.
And you’re concerned about a thing whose genesis is cowardice, hatred, and ignorance. You sit there with your notebook writing down all this crap about my ‘problems’. What about them? What about their problems?
Those men are sick, and disgusting, and as they walk around, probably getting ready to chop up another body or burn another few, rape another girl, while they contemplate their next victim, I am here, stuck being an incubator for this thing, while they roam free.
I hope they die – all of them!
I hope they are humiliated, stripped bare naked, beaten to a pulp so hard they can’t see past the dried up blood in their eyes. Then, I hope they are castrated and thrown into the fire. I want them to burn in the streets for everyone to see – like fireworks! And I hope this thing dies with them.
After all people have spontaneous abortions, I mean miscarriages. 3 million every year actually, most miscarry right about this time in the pregnancy. Some drink too much, smoke too much, get sick, others trip; I could trip.
Are we done now?
This is a monologue written by Laura Ekumbo, written for the production We Won’t Forget staged by The Histronauts. It is based on the true story of Elizabeth, who survived one of the 900 (reported!) cases of rape in the 2007/08 election violence.