I Knew That Voice

Some men don't need to touch you for your body to remember them

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You must understand the culture I grew up in — it was everyone’s pastime to silence the voices of women.

When a man disagrees with how a man talks, he can express his displeasure by asking, “Why are you talking like a woman?”

Being emotional, passionate, opinionated — that made us lesser.

As lesser humans, abuse was easily ignored. We either brought the abuse on ourselves by how we talked or dressed.

It was always in the best interests of the family not to tarnish the pure image of the women for the suitors by speaking up against abuse, especially sexual abuse.

Between my late teens and early adulthood, almost all my friends and I had stories of sexual abuse. Our rapists were often people in our family — that uncle that everyone said was dignified.

Those uncles usually had the same MO. During the day, they were relentless in criticizing everything you did:

“How can you sweep and miss a spot? Ho ho ho.”

“Why are you dressed like that to go outside? Go and cover up!”

To everyone within hearing distance, this uncle was tough, disciplined, and just the person to whip you into shape in areas your parents may be missing.

What they also missed was when he leaned too close. Not so innocently brushing over your breasts. The times you would catch him leering at you.

No one tells you he is a phony. You just know. And you know he is dangerous too.

Accusing the same uncle whom everyone saw as disciplined and moral? Well.

Yes, I am used to men lording it over women, being dismissive, and getting away with whatever. I know that voice. I know it too well.

Years later, I heard that voice again when I went to a food shelter close to my home, which is run by a Nigerian man.

There was a long line of cars. Beside them were about eight women working hard to pack different items together so they could begin to distribute them.

As I got closer, I heard some of them speaking Igbo. I felt happy. I walked up to them, and we greeted. I told them I wanted to volunteer there. They were welcoming and asked me to speak with the pastor over there. He was directing the cars.

I walked up to him. “I think I’m late but can I help the women?”

“Help?” This man scoffed at me.

“Uhhh…yes?”

“You mean serve?” He asked me forcefully.

O…kay.

He spoke like I was missing something obvious, then corrected me: “You do not help God. You serve God”.

What?

Pointing around, “God can turn these stones into humans to serve Him, so here, we do not help God. We come to serve”.

O…kay…?

“And if you want to serve God, you can come on Sunday and worship with us, and you can begin to serve. Okay?”

“Yes, sir!” I responded.

I walked back to the women who seemed happy to see me again. “So you will come on Sunday?” They eagerly asked. “You will like it here. This Pastor is a very good man”.

“Of course,” I told them.

I walked back to my car and drove off, knowing fully well that I was never going back there.

I knew that voice. I have known it my whole life.

The voice that criticizes everything you do — and hides what its hands are doing. Yes, that voice. I knew that man. And I was never going back.