HE FOLLOWED ME HOME AND ASSAULTED ME, THEN SAID HIS FAMILY WILL BURY THE CASE- LADY SHARES HEARTBREAKING STORY

My name isn’t important right now. You can call me “her” or just read and listen. I’ve been staring at this screen for hours, shaking, trying to type this without breaking down again. But if I don’t say it out loud or write it it feels like it’ll eat me alive from the inside.

It was a Sunday morning, February 15th. I have bad insomnia. Most nights I toss and turn unless I’ve had something to drink to knock me out. That Saturday night was rough; I only crashed around 6 a.m. I was dead to the world when the knock came around 9.

I thought it was my neighbor she sometimes checks in or borrows salt. Stupid me, I didn’t even look through the peephole. I just opened the door a crack.

The next thing I knew, I was shoved back hard. My head hit the doorframe, then the edge of the fridge as I fell. Everything went black for a bit. When I came to, he was on top of me. A cloth my own dish towel was stuffed in my mouth, tied tight so I couldn’t scream. My hands were pinned. I tried to fight, kick, anything, but he was stronger. He smelled like sweat and cheap cologne.

I don’t remember all of it clearly thank God for that small mercy but I remember the pain. He forced himself on me. I was dry, terrified, hurting. He couldn’t… go in easily. He got angry, muttered something ugly under his breath. Then I felt cold metal.

He had a small blade a face blade, like the kind guys use to shave. He pushed it inside me. I screamed into the cloth, but it came out muffled. He cut me. Deliberately. I felt the sting, the warm rush of blood. He laughed actually laughed and said something like, “Now it’ll feel like I’m the first. Baby punani, tight like virgin.” He used my own blood… to make it easier for him.

Afterward, he just… left. Got up, adjusted his clothes, walked out like nothing happened. The door clicked shut. I lay there on the floor, bleeding, numb, staring at the ceiling. At first I thought the blood was my period coming early. I cleaned up as best I could, showered until the water ran cold, but the pain didn’t stop. My body felt wrong, violated in ways I can’t describe.

Later that day, my phone buzzed. A message from an unknown number. It was him. “Priston” that’s what he called himself. He described everything in graphic detail, like he was proud. Sent screenshots of our old chats where I’d politely turned him down when he asked for my number weeks ago. He said he’d paid someone to find out where I lived. Then the worst part: “My father has money to bury the case before it even gets to court, darling. Don’t bother reporting. Just know I enjoyed it. Your body rashes nice.”

I couldn’t breathe. I felt dirty, broken, worthless. I kept thinking, Why me? What did I do to deserve this? I took a bunch of pills sniper, whatever was in the house hoping to just sleep forever. But someone found me in time. Neighbors, friends, I don’t even know.

Now people are talking about my video online. Some believe me, some say it’s fake, digging for “plot holes,” saying I must be lying for attention. My neighbors went live saying I’ve only lived here three months, that they heard men in my room before, that nothing happened. It hurts more than the cuts. Like my pain isn’t real unless it fits their script.

I’m scared. Scared he’ll come back. Scared no one will believe me. Scared I’ll never feel safe in my own home again. But I’m also angry. Angry that men like him walk around thinking they own us. Angry that society questions us first instead of them.

If you’re reading this and you’ve been through something similar you’re not alone. It wasn’t your fault. None of it. The shame belongs to him, not you.

I don’t know if justice will come. But I’m still here. Breathing. Typing this. That’s something.

To anyone who can help: please don’t stop talking about it. Don’t let it fade. Because if it happens to one more girl, and we stay silent… what then?

I’m anonymous for now. Maybe one day I’ll use my real name. But today, this is all I can give.

If you’re hurting, reach out. There are people who care. In Nigeria, places like the Mirabel Centre, DSVA helplines, or even just a trusted friend. You’re worth fighting for.

I’m trying to believe that about myself too.