I fear that if I travel to Cameroon, a country so far from Canada, so far from what I’m used to, so far from justice for sexual assault victims and the ever present aftermath of the #MeToo movement letting me know that help – adequate help – is only a phone call away, I will lose.
I will not sleep in peace.
I will be raped in my sleep. Repeatedly. By any man that pleases.
My father pointed out that I should only by skinny jeans when we went shopping today. He said that any other type of pants isn’t flattering on me. Doesn’t hug me the right way. I only felt discomfort then, but that has now snowballed into full-blown fear for my life.
And I can’t do anything. Or say anything. Because the only thing that’s happened to me so far is my brother molesting me. And that was because he was feeling horny. So he molested me in my sleep. No one will ever stop reminding me that kids his age are curious, and like to discover their sexuality. That 15 year old boys touch everything they see all the time. They want to explore.
My body has become a playground. To be “explored” by pubescent boys at their will. And it will soon become a playground to every Cameroonian man wishing to get his hands on me. Any man wanting to pur their hand up my skirt or get inside me as I sleep. And with a family mostly made of men, I have nothing to do.