15/07/2025
Boys Gets Abused & R***d Too: My Story
A Story of Silence and Survival
"Why share this very vulnerable story of mine? Isn’t it risky to do so? Why give the public this much details?" A friend had asked me the first time I came public with it in 2019 and I replied "Because, a story may be enough to give another person a voice or let parent know the grey areas they should be paying attention to..."
My story is one that might surprise you with how the "incoherent" can become disturbingly real. I'll do my best to keep it concise, but without skipping any crucial details.
It was when I was around 11 or 12 years old, just starting my JSS 1 in a Junior Seminary School. I was a quiet, shy introvert, deeply phobic of conflicts and large gatherings. This made me an easy target; bullies often got away with their actions, and my belongings would disappear, dismissed as "tapping is a game." In this vulnerable state, I met a boy who took an unsettling interest in me. I was terrified of trouble, fighting, or even an argument. Whenever I tried to speak up, I struggled with a stammer. All of this meant I spoke very few words but found my voice on paper – a skill that, ironically, serves me well today.
The boy I mentioned was in JSS 3. He'd often seek me out during evening preps or Saturday evening hymn sessions. I noticed he always wanted to touch me, all over my body, and I had no idea what his actions meant. Words like s*x, homos*xuality, or anything related were completely alien to me.
I was intelligent or maybe smart, yes, but incredibly naive. I read a lot too but I was only able to read materials available to me at time. I wasn't comfortable with his touches, yet I was too afraid to raise an alarm. I knew I wouldn't be able to control the situation or defend myself if I did. While I constantly tried to avoid him, I was always helpless when he managed to catch me alone.
That Fateful Night
One night, after lights out in the hostel, I was asleep when I suddenly felt a profound unease. I woke up, not fully conscious, but aware something was happening to my body. As full awareness returned, I realized he had pulled down my shorts and was sucking my p***s.
There were about thirty other boys in the hostel, but I was too shocked to scream. It was dark, and no one seemed to see us. I tried to pull him off, but he clamped his hand over my mouth and whispered, "It's nothing. Don't worry, you will like it in the end."
It might sound unbelievable that I didn't react more strongly with people around, but this is precisely how it happened. The shock and fear rendered me utterly paralyzed.
We were both so young. I was still a child, and I didn't even have the words to describe what he was doing. I grew up in a very conservative home where s*x education was non-existent, and my mother implicitly trusted the school she'd enrolled me in. The only thing I knew was that "touching a woman or allowing our mouths to come together is a sin." Even at that age, I instinctively knew what he was doing to my body was deeply wrong, abnormal, something that couldn't be done in public. I struggled silently until he finally left.
It’s important to understand this: there were around thirty other boys in that hostel. I had a bunkmate above me, neighbors nearby, yet no one knew. I never told anyone about it afterward, but it changed everything within me. I started living in constant fear, always hiding at the mere sight of him. I can still vividly recall his young face, the way he would smile whenever he saw me, and a distinctive mark on his face that looked like large eczema.
What happened that night didn't stop; it continued, and still, I was too afraid to speak up. To this day, even my parents don't know, because I was terrified of the ripple effects of opening up. I feared being blamed for not fighting harder, for not shouting, for not reporting it to the school authorities. I thought it was better to remain silent. I didn't even fully comprehend the gravity of what he was doing.
Seeking Escape
At one point, I stopped sleeping in the hostel altogether. After evening prep, I would remain in the classroom blocks while everyone else went to the hostel. I'd stay alone in the entire school block, some nights cold and utterly terrifying. I was simply hiding from someone I felt too weak to confront. My hostel mates eventually noticed my absence and began accusing me of belonging to a secret mystical cult that disappeared at night for meetings. Whenever I was accused, I would break down and cry, which they took as further proof of my involvement in a secret cult.
The situation became unbearable. Sometimes I succeeded in hiding from him, but other times, especially when we gathered for evening hymns and announcements, he would find me in the crowd and start touching me, extending his hand towards my p***s. I was scared, yet felt utterly helpless. I couldn't bring myself to fight back or create a scene; drawing attention and facing questions was something I desperately wanted to avoid. I began desperately looking for a way to escape the school entirely.
One day, we were assigned a Fine Applied Arts project that required us to collect clay from a neighboring town. Some students suggested an easier path through a fallen section of the school fence at the back. It was then I discovered I could leave the school premises from the rear. I immediately started planning with my brother, who was also at the school, on how to escape. His reason for escape was different from mine.
We hatched a mutual plan, though he never knew the true reason behind my desperation; I'm certain he'll only learn of it through this story. Our escape was successful. We roamed the village, searching for a way home, and somehow, we managed to trek from Nsugbe to Nkpor. To this day, I still can't fully explain how we located our house.
A New Beginning
To cut a long story short, my parents repeatedly brought me back to school, instructing the gateman to ensure I stopped escaping. The school authorities remained unaware of the full extent of my struggles until one day, I was finally reported. That morning, during the assembly, my brother and I were called to the podium for public reprimand, and from there, we were suspended from school.
As the suspension was announced by the Principal – who, at the time of writing this, is now a Venerable in the Diocese on the Niger of Anglican Communion – I looked at the boy who had haunted my nights. He looked incredibly sad and defeated. I hurried to the clerk's office after the assembly and requested the suspension letter.
She was visibly surprised by my joy at being suspended. "Are you happy that you got suspended?" she asked in a kind tone. I smiled and responded, "No, Ma," though I was definitely lying. "Well, the suspension isn't an abomination," she said, "just ensure you come back with your parents on the day it is over."
I took the letter and finally left the school with my brother. Before this, I had even dreamt of changing schools, even seeing the name of a new school in my dreams without knowing such a place existed. The suspension made my parents realize that if they sent me back, I would continue jumping the fence and potentially endanger my life trying to get home. They decided to transfer me to another school.
For seventeen years, I remained silent to a significant extent about this, and it was something my family never knew. Even though I have healed from it all, I still feel a profound unease and goosebumps whenever it crosses my mind.
I thought I had escaped what I later understood to be a series of s*xual abuses from another child, who must have also been a victim himself. I later learned that what that boy became was likely a result of his own past s*xual abuse. If he went around exploiting younger boys s*xually at that age, I can only imagine what has become of him now.
When I was finally gone from that school and away from him, I believed it was over. But this was merely an introduction to what would become some of the worst moments of my life. There were far worse things ahead.
This story was first published in 2019.
