When I started on the anti-rape and sexual harassment campaign, someone asked me to shed more light on it and once I did, she asked, do boys get raped? Yes. Both in child abuse and adult rape. Boys have undergone and continue to suffer from sexual assault and little is being done to help them go through this trauma and get above the psychological torture. Male rape is taken as a privilege when especially the woman is a perpetrator.
As a growing boy in Njoro, I along with others, grew to the story that a male watchman in Njoro Girls High School was once raped by the girls whose sexual desires outdid them to his death. Nobody knew whether it was right or wrong. Nobody dared ask questions of this because people older than us were the ones circulating the tale. It was of course nothing save gossip and moon talk but it was passed on from child to child as truth. In most cases, many boys would say, “if it was me, there was no way they could get better of me.” They all felt they “can never have enough sex.” In a way, many of “us” wanted to be the poor watchman because it reflected the thing we desired the most. We wanted to be the perfect Casanova who could satisfy a ton of women without breaking a sweat.


I was a little kid. About six or eight but I remember it vividly.
Mum was rarely home but she always was. There was a house help who was always around to ensure everything in the house was smoothly run and in place. Dad was never around. I never knew him and I couldn’t ask mum about it. So I was content with having one parent. I shared my room with the house help who was a good friend and did a good job. Great in fact.
On one night, a Wednesday, mum was particularly tired and retired to sleep early. As we had nothing much to do, nothing interesting on TV, besides, it was a school night, we soon went to bed.
I couldn’t sleep though.
Neither could Miriam-the house help. We went on and on talking. Then she said;
“Kevin,” her voice was soft and blended with the silence of the night. “Do you want to see something great?”
“Yes,” I said innocently.
“Come here.” She clearly meant her bed so I crouched and snuck from under my mosquito net and went to hers.
When I laid beside her, she started giggling and softly placed one of her hands underneath my pajama shirt.
“Shhh…” she said as she started caressing me. A soft burning sensation filled my body.
It caused a certain discomfort in between my legs and pants.
“Nini unafanya?” I innocently asked.
“Baby, don’t worry. I know you feel good.” She said as she wandered with her free hand to my private and sexual parts.
I did feel good. I had never done this before.
“Come here.”
She grabbed me and forced me atop her.
“I want you to thump as you’ve never done before.”
I had never thumped anything before. I didn’t even know what “thump” meant back then. Heck, I had never been this close to a woman. Her breath was on my face. And to this day, it is the most uncomfortable thing I go through.
As I penetrated her, I couldn’t deny nor pretend I didn’t feel the pain I was going through. I felt as if someone was squeezing my penis between the palms of their hands. It was nerve-wrecking. Broke through the confines and gates of my heart. I cried. Both to her, to myself, to God and to mum in the next room.
“Close your mouth,” she said with a slap. “Let me show you how this is done.”
She quickly rolled me over and climbed on top.
It was even more painful. Her thumps, grinding and body weight was nothing compared to my little biscuit frame.
She crushed me.

I couldn’t tell anyone I realized. I had no one to tell. Mum wasn’t mummy.
Friends would laugh at me and call me a coward because I did not love the sexual experience I had gone through and received. I would hear them later talking about sex with the most gallant of desires on how they wanted it and with whom they wanted it but I couldn’t. I had had my worst experience in sex and was something I definitely did not look forward to it.
As I matured, I discovered that as a man, there was nothing I could complain about sex. Especially when I was on the receiving end. Rape, I discovered was not for men. It was something only women went through.
A man was strong. A bull and lion. Could only ape and not the other way round.
My mum noticed I was never cheerful in the evenings more so bedtimes but upon her prodding, I couldn’t say a thing. The cloud of Miriam constantly hung over me. Her sexual experiments on me and the pain and torture that scarred my life forever.
She eventually got fired. Cannot remember for what but I heaved a sigh of relief. My life had begun all over again.

When I was around 13, I suffered another sexual assault. This time, it was in the hands of someone I trusted and even closer… (Will be continued)

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