The Silent Teacher

They say life doesn’t come with a manual, but maybe it doesn’t need one. Instead, life teaches us through its own mysterious language: the sting of failure, the warmth of love, the ache of loss, and the thrill of success. 

Every day, whether we realize it or not, we’re students in the world’s greatest classroom. The question is, are we paying attention?

Sometimes, the lessons are gentle, like a breeze nudging us toward the right path. Other times, they hit like a storm, upending everything we thought we knew, sometimes it strikes with the force of a storm, leaving us to gather the pieces and find meaning in the wreckage. But here’s the truth: every experience, good or bad, carries a lesson.

For many of us, lessons often come disguised as mistakes. We take a wrong turn, trust the wrong person, or let fear hold us back. 

Lessons come better from an experience and Everyone has that one experience that makes them look at life with a new set of eyes. 

My life changing experience happened a little earlier than most. 

I was just about 9-years of age when the unimaginable happened. A trusted family friend, or would I say more of an elder brother, someone I looked up to, violated my trust in the worst way. The experience left me broken, confused, and filled with shame. 

Speaking of it now would take a whole lot of impetus, but then, the serenity and calmness that comes with finally getting off the grip of trauma is worth it all.

It was like every other night, the power was off.

Electricity scarcity has plagued Nigeria for a while, largely caused by faulty dams. Meanwhile,Nigeria exports electricity to neighboring countries like Benin republic and Niger. Interestingly, Benin republic’s citizens enjoy a relatively stable power supply. How sad!!

My 6 year old sister, HE and I were alone in the house.

The rooms were covered in thick darkness, so we huddled together  in the sitting room.

The generator was faulty and the fuel price hike was exorbitant. The rechargeable lanterns were all out of power, and candles were banned in the house due to safety concerns.

There was nothing to do, so HE told us creepy tales that left us petrified and clinging to him even more. Ironically, we found ourselves playing hide-and-seek just few minutes later. As a hyperactive 9-year-old, I’d do anything to avoid sitting idle in the dark, so I eagerly joined in.

HE would make creepy, hilarious sounds, and we’d laugh, run up to HIM, pinch HIM, and then dash away because if HE caught any of us, he’d tickle us until cried.

It went on and on until that one time I ran to pinch him, but HE held me tightly, tickling me so hard that I could feel HIS hands moving around my body with intense energy. Every part of me felt HIS touch. Suddenly, I felt a sharp pain in my vagina, like someone was forcing a sharp pencil inside. It was excruciating, and I screamed. HE dropped me, and I fell to the ground, crying and lamenting that HE had pinched my bum-bum.

My sister, fueled by adrenaline, was laughing and waiting for her turn. I accused HIM of cheating, claiming HIS claw-like fingernails had hurt me. HE apologized and tickled me until I laughed, and we continued the game. 

It happened again. This time, I grabbed his hand while it was still in my vagina. As a 9-year-old in grade 5, I had basic sex education knowledge and knew he shouldn’t touch me there. I asked him why he was tickling me there, and he apologized, claiming it was an accident. I, being a credulous 9-year-old, believed him and forgave him. We continued playing.

After a while, exhausted, I took a break, used my inhaler, and rested.

My sister and I went to bed a few minutes later, leaving only him in the sitting room. As a deep sleeper, I’m usually unaware of my surroundings. However, that night was different.

I felt something unusual and assumed it was a mosquito perched on me. But I continued to swat at it. Unlike other nights, I was unexpectedly aware of my surroundings. Suddenly, I woke up to find him bent over me with his hands on my vagina.

I knew this was inappropriate. I yelled loudly, but he covered my mouth to prevent waking my sister. He dragged me to the sitting room and offered me a thousand naira note as if to compensate for his actions.

I sprinted out of the house as fast as I could. He chased after me, but I was faster. I rushed to my mom’s shop, panting and breathless. I found her with a close family friend and blurted out what had happened.

To my dismay, my mom scolded me for accusing him. She dismissed my story, telling me to keep quiet and never speak of it again. The lady beside her urged my mom to listen and warned her to scold him when she got home.

Crushed, I fled the shop in tears and returned home. I locked myself and my sister inside the room, unable to sleep.

I was emotionally shaken when my mom shouted at me, assuming I was framing him. I became withdrawn, avoiding him and choosing to stay alone in my dark room.

For safety, I started wearing pants to sleep, despite my mom’s disapproval. She believed it wasn’t healthy.

The abuse continued, but I lacked the courage to report it. My brother was away at school, and Dad was often busy with business trips. Fearful of my mom’s reaction, I confided in my 7-year-old sister. She was little so she didn’t know much to what was happening.

I was young and naive. My mom trusted him, but I sensed something was off. He would pinch me, and I’d complain to my mom, but she thought I was just being dramatic.

One night, he offered me money and gifts, apologizing for “pinching” me. I took them, unaware of his true intentions. We continued our midnight games.

When my sister was ill, he suggested watching a movie. The intro featured disturbing noises – a woman crying or moaning in pain. On towel, the lady walked down to the sitting room and a man whom I assumed was her husband pushed her down to the couch from behind and kept falling down on her concurrently.

I felt sad and asked why the man was hurting his wife. HE told me to be quiet and focus.

As the movie played, he caressed my leg. I felt a strange sensation, like tickling in my vagina. I didn’t understand. He kept touching me, offering money to watch the movie. I refused, feeling uneasy.

He locked us in, begging me to stay still. I cried, threatening to tell my mom. He reminded me how she didn’t believe me before. I was trapped.

It was a long night.

Every other night after, was the same dread, pleasure, tears and disgust …

It left an indelible mark on my psyche. The trauma, the betrayal, and the subsequent silence cast a long shadow over my life. I carried the weight of the secret, a heavy burden that weighed me down.

Years passed, and i grew into a Lady. But the scars of the past remained, hidden beneath a facade of normalcy. I struggled with trust, intimacy, insecurities and self-worth. The fear and shame that had once consumed me continued to haunt me, manifesting in anxiety, depression, jump-scare and a constant sense of unease.

Despite my efforts to move forward, the past continued to intrude on my present. Nightmares plagued my sleep, and flashbacks triggered by seemingly innocuous events sent me spiraling into panic. The once vibrant and carefree child was now a shell of her former self.

As i navigated the complexities of adulthood, i found myself drawn to toxic relationships. I sought validation and love in all the wrong places, desperate to fill the void left by the betrayal of my childhood. I  yearned for connection but feared intimacy, pushing people away before they could truly get to know me.

The silence surrounding the abuse had perpetuated the cycle of trauma. I had learned to suppress my emotions, to bottle up my pain, and to pretend that everything was okay. This self-imposed silence had become a prison, trapping me in a perpetual state of suffering.

It wasn’t until years later, when i sought therapy, supernatural therapy 

Holding on to God even more closer and music and tears was the remedy.

I began to unravel the layers of trauma that had been buried deep within me. With the help of a compassionate therapist, a therapist who would never judge you, a therapist who was always ready to listen, a therapist that could tolerate your excesses, that therapist was God.

I slowly began to confront my past, to give voice to the pain, and to reclaim my narrative.

The healing process was long and arduous, but with each step, i grew stronger. With lovely people I came across along the line the healing process was easier.I learned to trust myself, to set boundaries, and to prioritize my own well-being. I also discovered the power of my voice and the importance of speaking out, even if it meant facing judgment and disbelief.

By sharing my story, i hoped to inspire others who had experienced similar trauma to break their silence. I wanted them to know that they were not alone and that healing was possible. My journey was a testament to the resilience of the human spirit and the enduring power of hope.

Lessons aren’t always loud and obvious. Sometimes, they whisper in the quiet moments. A walk through nature might teach us to appreciate beauty in simplicity. A conversation with a grandparent might reveal the value of patience and sacrifice. These subtle lessons shape us in ways we don’t immediately realize, molding our character over time.

The beauty of life’s lessons lies in their universality. No matter where we come from or what we’ve been through, we all have something to learn—and something to teach. Sharing our stories helps others navigate their own challenges, creating a chain of growth and understanding that connects us all.

So, what’s the takeaway? Life will not hand us a manual or an instruction guide. Instead, it gives us experiences—some joyous, some painful—and leaves it to us to find the lessons within. The question is: are we paying attention?

Because in the end, it’s not the mistakes or the victories that define us. It’s what we learn from them.