Tell this secret to no one

I was 8 years old then. Uncle used to come visiting from Abuja with trunk loads of clothes and foodstuff for us. He brought me my first bicycle - little Remy, on one of those visits. I've forgotten the colour now; maybe purple or violet. But I couldn't forget the smell of the polythene wrapping; like newness and joy.

Then, I used to think he was daddy's brother. He and daddy used to have long talks during the weekends, seated on foam-covered stools, cross legged, inhaling snuff.. Later, I began to think he was mummy's brother because he spent a lot of time in mummy's room too, when daddy was away. One day I asked mummy-- just to be sure. She said he was brother to both her and my daddy. Somehow, it made sense, and didn't make sense at the same time..

Daddy leaves for work in the early hours of day. Mum leaves a little later to her school. My uncle is usually at home alone then. I always hunger to go home quick when I close from school. But mummy never comes to pick me up on time. It gets worse when uncle comes. Sometimes, I languish in torment for hours. Alone, surrounded by walls and blocks and silence. I play and play till the swings lose their spice. I then drop off to sleep.

Once, I decide to walk home immediately after school. Mummy's excuses for abandoning me in school were becoming stale these days. And that silly sweet name-calling thing she does to make me happy is just annoying. So I walk. Its about half a mile's walk. But I'm up to it.

I reach home faster than I thought I would. Time has sped by so fast you'd think it was chased by something. It was beautiful to actually savour all those sights that usually zoom past the window in mummy's car; the vulcanizer's fountain of bright orange sparks, the rubber trees, gallant and evergreen, the cars slicking by like winds..

I enter the house, only now becoming slightly exhausted, and head straight for Uncle's room. He's not there. I walk back to my room. Then I think to go and rest in mummy's room-- just for the fuck of it. I hear the sounds of strained breathing-- or something like that. I push open the door and mum is there, lying on her back, topless, eyes closed, hands grabbing the sheets. Uncle has his head lost between her thighs, left hand gripping her lap, right hand dillying on mummy's right breast.

I don't know why, but I felt like to cry. I did. And mummy sees and jumps out of Uncle's grip and rushes to me, fumbling with her clothes. Every thing confuses me from here on. Mum's palliating me but I don't even know why. She's telling me to shush and I'm not sure if she wants me to stop crying or not say what I just saw. Then she begs me not to tell my father before mildly berating me for coming back home on my own.

We go to church that evening and mummy tells me to ask God to remove bad memories from my head. I don't think I've had a bad memory so I close my eyes and mumble things to God. Like da-da-ddiuduuddudum.. I think God will understand.

Usually, I and mummy go to church every evening. Some two weeks later, days before Uncle was slated to return to Abuja, I and mummy are in church, I'm in the children's section and its time for "Draw your sword". Shit, I forgot my bible at home. " Draw your sword" is my favorite bible game-- because I'm good at it. I could use another bible, but it won't be as good as mine; we've built a sort of "chemistry" over the years.

I rush to the big church to tell mummy. I see mummy, her head is bowed and wilding from side to side like she was trying to shake it free of something. She's speaking in plenty tongues. I feel bad about disturbing her so I run off without telling her. Home is not too far away anyway. I run, excited, wind rushing past me, the evening sky glossy grey, rain lingering in the sky.

I get home and run through the open door to my room. There's my bible, settled on my rack, waiting for its precious friend. I carry it. Off to the door. A sound, like a glass shattering, stops me. Then I hear wild laughter from two men. My dad and his brother ey? Not unusual. But then I hear a grunt. Then, I think someone says something that sounds aggressive to me. I hope they're not fighting. I pounce off to my dad's room and blast in through the door. My dad is on his knees, barebodied. My uncle's john-thomas is in his face, erect and very long, cradled in my dad's massive palm. The shattered glass is beside daddy and it appears it'd contained some drink which they'd poured all over the place.

Again, I feel like crying. I do. My dad hurries to me and begs me to shush, not to cry. Then he tells me not to tell my mother. I've never seen dad looking so soft, so off balance and lacking character. Why were they all anxious anyway, I really don't know what the fuck is going on.. In all the commotion, Uncle is quietly dressing, my eyes are on him. He's meeting my gaze with a tender, appealing smile.

Well, last week, I turned 15. And I now know what everything that happened meant; why they were begging me to shush and why I felt like crying. Since then, much much more has happened. The secrets I carry are like a world of their own. Lies, disgust and betrayal are like the seas in that world. I want to share them with you -- you whom I have trusted to help me with this weight, for its killing me.. So prepare yourself. These ones about my mom and dad with my uncle, they're only the second of a million. Did I tell you the first? Oh, I didn't? About how my Uncle used to play little games with my butthole? I really didn't? Well, I should get to it then...