SUICIDE OR LIFE. (THE STORY).

So I have been seeing a lot of suicide reports; especially teenage suicide reports lately. This has driven me to make the tough decision to tell my suicide story embedded in my teenage abuse years.

This story will not make anyone in my family happy. Because It is a very detailed, raw and a true account of my teenage years.

It involves some parents in my family and how they treated another's child.

But I owe it to the young ones of today to tell this story. To let them know that they are not alone in whatever situation that they are faced with right now.

There may be situations that may lead one to
choose to end it all. Situation can occur that can make you favour death over life. This time is never a continuous one. It will always get better with time.

It will definitely end.

Children will definitely grow up.

Suicide is not the answer to life's challenges. Ending one's life is never the answer.

Do not FLAT LINE!

Do not commit SUICIDE.

Death is Final!

There is no waking up, once you die!

This story is here to inspire many people. It will most especially inspire teenagers to choose to live and not die, to choose to forge ahead in positivity.

Life though can be so hard sometimes. It most definitely get better with time.

Apart from my rough childhood with my grandma that was laced with child sexual abuse therein; where I use to just faint off a lot. I fainted a lot.

My grandma use to say that I have some spiritual friends that comes to take me away for some time.

She will tell my mum, śe o mo wi pe elegbe lo omo e nii?. (Don't you know that your child is an Ogbanje child?)

But the actual truth is that I was always fainting off because I was going through a lot in the hands of grandma's house boy, brother Gabriel. The whole sexual abuse process saps me of energy because I was just so little, between ages four and six. The sexual abuse story is a chapter in my soon to be completed Book, ALAGEMO, a memoir of a little girl.

Fast forward to my young teenage years. I had to live with my uncle and his two wives in Ikeja, Lagos State while on holidays from my secondary school.

Clearly a polygamy, I was the natural odd one out.

The young girl is daddy's niece, yes, but with her mother not present, the abuse was sure to replace any niceties.

My uncle is an awesome being, he is a fantastic man. He was really sweet. But he was almost never home.

He was always busy along with my father.

They were building a business.

However, I was never treated well by  my uncle's wives.

Not ever!

My memory of this time sometimes still makes me cry when ever I recount it.

The pain is in the mind, raw and bitter.

For all the years of my stay, I knew raw pain.
I was ill-treated through it.

The beatings, oh my God, the beatings.

The first wife beats me at every and any slight provocation.

What really beats me till date is the fury behind the beatings, the strength that accompany each lashes, every stroke of the koboko!

The need to lock me up first in her room most times before the beatings.

I was so afraid that i started bed-wetting (urinating in my sleep).

Then I was always made to sleep on a Mat, hard cold floor.

I also wet the mat just from the fear of these beatings.

Then I get beaten again from wetting the Mat.

Then I wet the mat again in hopeless fear of the beatings to come again and again.

It was a vicious cycle.

The beatings never stops.

The first wife will use her sharp nails to pierce into both my ears skin, and she will practically lift me up with my ears.

It was an excruciating...