My past live part 4.
My parents brought seven children into this world—four boys and three girls. I often wonder, What were they thinking? I am the first child, followed by my sister, then another sister, then two brothers, another sister, and finally, the youngest—a boy. Seven mouths to feed, seven futures to secure, in a country like Nigeria where the economy could collapse at any moment.
Did they not have a family plan? Could my father not control his desires? Could my mother not close her legs? These are the questions that haunt me. They were not rich—far from it. If not for the church's support, I don't know how we would have survived.
I never asked to be the first son, the first child. If I had a choice, I would have been born last—into the home of a wealthy man, one whose riches would never fade. But life doesn't work that way. We don't get to choose where we're born, who our parents are, or our place in society. The only thing we can do is try to change our fate once we grow up.
When my father finally became rich, everything changed. His enemies vanished. The so-called "village people" who whispered behind his back suddenly held their tongues. No one dared call a meeting without him. No one interrupted when he spoke.
Money has power. Money commands respect. Money buys loyalty.
If you want respect and loyalty, then obtain money.
At age ten, things at home seemed stable—until my mother brought in her niece, Vicky. She was a tall, dark-skinned woman, at least eighteen years old, with curves that caught the eye. Huge breasts, a tiny waist, and a backside that made heads turn.
Damn.
That was the first word that came to my mind when I saw her. At the time, I didn't understand the feelings stirring inside me. I wasn't attracted to her—not yet. But that would soon change.
My parents never truly knew what their children went through—at home, at church, or at school. We couldn't tell them because there was no warmth in our relationship. The only "love" they showed us came in the form of beatings.
Make a mistake? A beating. Misbehave? A beating.
They would whip us until our skin burned, leaving behind scars—both on our bodies and in our hearts. The pain turned into resentment. But if you thought the beatings were the worst part, you're in for a shock.
Because the beatings weren't the worst.
Vicky lived with us for a few months before she left. But her time in our home was filled with tension. My parents fought constantly because of her.
My mother accused my father of touching Vicky inappropriately. She claimed he would slide his hands up her thighs, toward her private parts, while she slept.
My father denied it. Sometimes, he said he was just praying for her.
The arguments were loud, filled with curses and accusations. The house became a battlefield. And through it all, Vicky remained silent, her eyes filled with fear.
I've never had a problem with my parents fighting. At this point, I'm used to it. The shouting, the slamming doors, the tense silences—it's all normal to me. But what I can't stand is how, every time they argue, they drag me into the middle of it. They turn to me, their ten-year-old child, and demand answers: Who's right? Who's wrong?
How the hell should I know?
Most of the time, I'm asleep when their fights start. They wake me up with their yelling, pull me out of bed, and expect me to pick a side. Do they forget I'm just a kid? What do I understand about their grown-up problems? It's like that cartoon where Squidward just wants peace, but SpongeBob and Patrick keep pulling him into their chaos. That's me—trapped in the middle, with no escape.
My dad is a fair man—average height, strong build, with a belly that shakes when he laughs. My mom is the same height, same light complexion. They look good together, but they fight like enemies. For weeks, months, their arguments never stopped. It was always about her—some woman whose name I didn't even know.
Then, one day, everything changed.
The teen pastor at our church got transferred to a bigger congregation. That left an open position—and my dad was chosen to fill it. Overnight, our lives shifted. Dad was happy. Mom was excited. Even my little siblings and I felt the relief. No more fighting, at least for a while.
The promotion came with a new house—a two-bedroom flat, way nicer than our old place. The living room was decorated beautifully, the kitchen was fully furnished, and the hallway felt like something out of a magazine. Who wouldn't be happy? Plus, Dad's salary doubled. Things were finally looking up.
But where there's good, there's always bad waiting to ruin it.
On moving day, Mom and Dad were busy packing and setting up the new apartment. They left me and my siblings with Vicky. We stayed behind in the old house, ate dinner, and one by one, we fell asleep.
Back then, we weren't seven kids yet—just five. I was the oldest, but still just a child. That night, I was deep in sleep when I felt something strange—a hand, soft and gentle, moving over my trousers. I tried to ignore it, but the touch was too distracting. Then I heard it: brup.
The sound of my zipper being pulled down.
I opened my eyes slowly, confused. Vicky was there, pulling my trousers off. At first, I didn't think much of it—she had bathed me before. But then she took off my pants, and her hands moved in a way they never had before. She massaged me—there—until I felt myself grow hard.
I didn't understand what was happening. No one had ever taught me about this.
Before I could process anything, she removed her underwear and sat on top of me.
Then—warmth.
A soft, calming sensation.
I looked down and saw it—me—inside her.
She started moving, rocking back and forth like a light switch flicking on and off. I didn't even realize when the moans started—hers, then mine. It felt good. It felt wrong.
By the time I understood what had happened, it was too late.
Vicky had taken my virginity.
At ten years old.
Without my consent.
Without me even knowing what sex was.
I couldn't tell my parents. Dad never listened to me. Mom gave advice but did whatever she wanted. Who would believe me?
Vicky stole more than my first time—she took my dignity, my trust, my childhood. And worst of all, she changed my life forever.
This wasn't just a bad memory.
It was the moment I learned that the world wasn't safe.
To Be Continued...