BN Prose: Tug of War by Titilayo Olurin

You are not pregnant. You know, because a week after that day in July, you had your period. Heavy and in chunky red clumps.

So, you exit the page. You had stumbled upon it, the page, on Google. Something about the title had caught your eye when it popped up among the results of what you had searched for. You are not quite sure what it was. Maybe it was the ‘Sure-Fire’ in ’10 Sure-Fire Signs You Are Pregnant.’ You clicked on it, but only scanned through the first two signs before deciding that the article was not for you.

Now, you stare at the Google search bar, mulling over what to search for next. Chlamydia or trichomoniasis, you cannot decide. You have already searched for symptoms of syphilis. You have, in fact, read and digested everything you possibly can about the disease, and you are certain that you can sit for an exam on it.

The symptoms are not the same as yours. Or are they? That curious inner-thigh rash, maybe. The fever and fatigue, too. But aren’t they common symptoms of other ailments?

You pause a moment, chewing on your fingernails nervously, your lips twitching to the side as you do. Your eyes are beginning to tear up a little from staring unblinking at your phone for too long. Still, you do not blink. You do not even acknowledge the tears.

Gonorrhea. Like a light bulb, it comes to you. Ah, you have not searched for it. You are not sure of the spelling. Is it a double R or one? Is there an H? How did your primary four class teacher spell it in Basic Science class, or was it PHE class? You do not, for the life of you, remember. You start to type it in the search bar, and the correct spelling pops up. You are thankful for Google. The results, when they appear, are overwhelming, and you do not know where to begin. You begin, and read until your neck hurts, your eyes sting and your head aches.

Again, you are not sure these are your symptoms. Painful urination, for sure. But what about the other hundred things going on in your body?

You do not give up. Genital warts, genital herpes and everything genital that you can think of. Your fingers type furiously on your phone as you search. You remain confused. You search some more. Hepatitis. Staphylococcus. Still, you cannot tell what you have.

“Please, use a condom.” You recall the exact words you had said to him that July afternoon, in that moment, when he pinned you to the bed with his weight. You had pushed and pushed, or at least, you had tried to, but you were no match for his thick frame, and you were tired. So, you lie there, quiet, with no fight left in you. Yet, frightened, you had summoned all the strength you could to tell him to use a condom. He ignored you, pretended not to hear, and kept going like you had said nothing.

You imagine how different things would have been if he had only used a condom, if you had not gone to his house, if you had not exchanged phone numbers, if you had never met him. You start to say a silent prayer. A little too late, you roll your eyes despite yourself, despite how you are feeling. You continue your prayer and vow to God never to talk to a man again. Then you proceed to search for the dreaded H-viruses, the ones that you have heard of. HIV. HPV. As sweat breaks out on your forehead and runs in rivulets down your back, you curse the man named Femi, the man who has brought you so much pain, and wish him death–a slow, painful, agonising death.

“Wish evil on no one.” You are not sure of the exact Bible verse, but you are sure that there is such a verse as this, and it comes to you as if on cue. You brush it aside quickly. It wouldn’t be the only Bible verse you have disobeyed, and it certainly isn’t the worst thing you have done. You take a long, deep breath and switch off your phone, tired, frustrated and confused.

“What do you have?” You had texted Femi when the burning just wouldn’t go away, even after taking the antibiotics off the counter. “What have you done to me? What do you have?”

“I have nothing!” he had responded, finally, 10 hours after you had texted. Yes, it was no less than 10 hours, because you counted each second as it passed, chewing on your nails as you stared at your phone, agitated, anxious, and apprehensive, waiting for his response.

Relieved, you responded, “Okay.”

Maybe it was all in your head, you thought. Maybe the weight loss was a result of fear, guilt, shame and regret. Maybe the fever and fatigue, and that rash were just one big coincidence. But what about the burning, the pain, the itching? Could they all be in your head?

You know what you should do, but you do not want to, cannot bring yourself to it. You are ashamed. How would people look at you when you go to the clinic to treat an STI? That patient who sleeps around, they would whisper among themselves, judging you with their tongue and eyes. What would your doctor, the one who has been your family doctor for years, think of you? What about your parents? How disappointed would they be in you? And your friends? They wouldn’t believe you when you tell them that you never wanted it. Just like the judges on Twitter or X, or whatever they call it these days, they would remind you that you went to his house with your legs on your head.

What did you expect to happen? Use your brain now!

A man invited you to his house, and you went. What did you think you were going to do? Play ludo or suwe? Abegy, shift!

After the deed has been done, you want to cry rape because he did not send you flowers and chocolates. Cry me a river!

If it was rape, why did you accept the transport money he sent to you?

“Babe, text me your account details, let me send you money for transport,” Femi had texted as soon as you arrived home that day.

You were flattered, immediately forgetting the physical pain you felt, and the state of panic, regret, confusion and turmoil your mind was in. He had called you Babe and wanted to send you money. No one had ever called you that, and nothing ever entered your account except your monthly school allowance from your parents. He liked you, you were convinced. So, you responded “Awwwn! Thank you” along with your account details. The next day, he sent you 10,000 naira, which you had no idea would later be spent on drugs that would not work. If he was calling you Babe and sending you transport money, maybe he had not meant you any harm. Besides, he had neither tied you up nor gagged you. And if you chose not to scream, if you lay there underneath him, quiet as a mouse, even telling him to use a condom, would you say he had forced himself on you? If you reported him to the police, wouldn’t they call you a fool? Fool or not, you never wanted it, and he had no right to take what you didn’t give him! Your mind was in a tug of war, divided and split in two, one part warring against the other.

This girl be ode of the highest order. Na wetin she tink say she wan go do for a man’s house?

Ashawo! Mumu! You went to a man’s house alone. You got what you deserved. 

You sef! You hear Femi, and you no run.

The tweets keep coming back to you. You had not gone looking for sympathy on social media. You had only wanted to vent. Still, you had not expected to be – how do they say it again? – roasted. You had read of other women being roasted, slut shamed, victim-blamed, but you had not for a moment imagined that it could be you. Thankfully, you had had the good sense to use your burner account. Even then, you had to delete the account when you could not take any more of the heat.

I did not want it, you wanted to scream then, as you do now, at the faceless people hiding behind their keypads. Yes, you had gone to Femi’s house, had kissed him back when he kissed you, passionately too, and had even enjoyed some make-out session with him. That was as far as you wanted to go, and as soon as he started removing your clothes and groping you everywhere all at once like he had the arms of an octopus, you had fought. But he was strong, unrelenting, like a dog with a bone, and the more you fought, the more determined he got, until you caved and let him win.