image

Faith. That was the name of the house help who showed me my first pornography magazine. It was Kenyan. She was kamba, and a bit learned considering she had been to high school. I was ten years old. My sister was five or four years old. Thus in most times, she used to go out and play. My mum used to open the wholesale at around 6 Am. For some reason I always used to stick around with the help after she had finished her chores, which would be at around 8 Am. After showing me that first one, I now used to join her in going for more from one of her friends who was staying on the other side of town.
That first one wasn’t any arousing. It wasn’t the first time I had seen a penis, but it was the first time I had seen a woman’s private part. I wondered if my chuchu looked like that too. I found them ugly. Human beings private parts that is. But I found sex intriguing. How such a little act could cause people to do strange things. In those magazines, they gave detailed and graphic stories complete with images, of all sexual acts imaginable between all kinds of people unimaginable. All that time, I was a born again 10 yr old, class five student. No one told me what we were doing was wrong. I had never had a sex conversation with anyone. I knew the basics like every kid knows. That children are not bought from the supermarket. But I knew deep down in my heart and I could feel that what I was reading and seeing was wrong.
My mum found us one day reading. She scolded the house help who I’m sure was not older than 21yrs and slapped me on the thigh and told us how ashamed of us she was. She told us to never repeat that again. She never found us again though. We developed strategies of hiding those magazines in places only us knew about. For example in the middle of mattresses.
After an year or two Faith left our house. We got another house help named Faith. But they were complete opposites. I have never loved another “aunt” the way I loved the new Faith. She loved me back too with the ferocity of a mother cat. She was born again. Like completely born again. I don’t remember much of what we used to do together but I do remember being closer to her than my mum. I remember her advising our neighboring teenage girls on sex issues. She believed in sexual purity. That is, no sex before marriage. I didn’t look for those sex magazines when Faith was around. Previously I had looked for them as a way of passing time. Now, the new faith filled my days with stories and fun things. May God remember her soul wherever she went.
Again, faith left. By that time I was almost in High School. In High school came mills and boons. And other more graphic writers like Mary something (can’t seem to remember her name). I have always loved reading novels. I won’t lie I went out of my way to look for books with explicit scenes, I didn’t, but they came my way. How masturbation came around to get me, I have no idea. But it did come. And together we stuck around.
Things got thick when I turned 17yrs old. By that time I was a teenager weighed down by my parents marriage. I was lonely, alone, frustrated, anxious, hopeless and with feelings of having no worth at all. To make matters worse, I schooled among the brightest girls of my time. And the feeling that I did not measure up was constant in me. I felt lost. Because I was actually lost to both myself and to the world. By that time I was a functioning robot. My mind could not even concentrate in class. Like at all. I know God exists when I look at the grade I got and how much effort I put. I was numb to everything. It was the way I coped. Never feeling even a dime. Life passed by me. I’m not even sure I existed. I craved to be loved and treasured so much. So much that I started living in my head. I fantasized every single second I was awake. In my fantasies, I found prince charming, at times he was young, at times old, but always someone who would give their lives for me. I craved for acceptance. I didn’t fit in anywhere in real life. But in my fantasies, I created a world where everyone wanted to be me. I was a diva, a princess, a mistress. But point was, I was adored, loved immensely and normal. In my head I didn’t go through my parents bad marriage, I wasn’t raised by over 30househelps. I didn’t even have parents in my dreams. I simply had prince charming.
I knew those were fantasies, until I met him. We had been friends with him since I was 8yrs old. Let’s call him Peter. Peter was I think 12 yrs older than me if I’m correct. Since I was young, he used to call me beautiful and at every closing he used to buy me those cream cakes. He adored me. Everyone had always known that. My family nicknamed him “Mercy’s husband number 1”. They had given me several. He obviously had gone to high school and campus by the time I arrived at high school. We met when I was in form one. And we talked for like 3hrs. The best three hours my small self ever had. The fact that we connect on another level is something that me or him have never disputed. That is given.
Problem came when he turned up during the December holidays just before I went to form four. This time round, I had a phone. This was no longer friendship. Immediately he saw me, he was wowed by the matured Mercy. He wanted to kiss me at our shop but he had a cold. But I remember him making me feel so beautiful. Remember I was really fat and with a million huge pimples on my face, but this man found me beautiful. This man who had gone out there and conquered the world, he was now a manager. My husband number 1 found me so tempting. No one had ever made me feel that way. That valued. That adored. That loved. That treasured. Peter woke up the girl in me. He had the gift of the tongue, still has. Maneno ya kumtoa nyoka pangoni.
We weren’t allowed to have phones in school. So we only used to talk during the holidays. Remember it was when holiday tuition was banned. And talking we did. We used to chat 24hrs in a day. And that is far from exaggeration. We used to reply to each others text in mini seconds. If a phone vibrates at night, I’ll wake up. I learnt that habit then. Of chatting till you drop dead. And just in case you think my prince charming was telling me bible stuff, think again.
Phone sex. That was it. Well, in case you don’t know what that is, just google. Its simply put, saying to each other what if you were together physically you would do to each other. I think he used to masturbate. I sometimes did. My interest in it was that , he loved me. Me ,who no one else bothered to scratch past the surface. Me, who had to share my best friend with other close friends of hers, yet I had no one else. Me, who was supposed to save my mum and siblings from her husband and my father-same person (stories for another day if not today). Peter loved me. He could have chosen women out there in the world. He could have chosen someone in campus, a working class lady or even a single mother, but he choose the 17yr old me. I cared less about the phone sex we were having, I founded my existence on his love. My saviour from myself. The only person who got me.
In class I could barely concentrate, I just wanted to be out of school so as to be with Peter. Nothing else mattered. Only how he made me feel.
We used to have a simu ya Jamii in school. From second term to my last third term, I got the habit of calling him. I couldn’t resist. I was addicted to how this guy made me feel. In the term I was doing my KCSE, I called him and reminded him the school’s box number. And success cards started streaming in. My uncle sent me a really huge and beautiful one. At first I thought it was from Peter, clearly it wasn’t. More came. My parents made me lots of success cards with their pictures and mine on them. Some students envied me. But I wanted and needed a success card from my love. I waited. And waited some more. And even some more. Exams came. Still, nothing. Exams continued, I was still waiting. Exams ended. Nothing.
That broke me. Crushed my already broken hurt into powder. I might have been naive, but I wasn’t stupid. I knew that if he treasured me enough, a few shillings to buy one and few minutes to post it would be the least of things he could do for me. I was heart broken. I went home sad. I couldn’t believe that this guy who loved me, who had spiced my existence, who had made me feel alive, was a lie. I could see him for who he was clearly, but my heart couldn’t comprehend it.
It hurt like a bitch. That pain moved from my heart to my body. To compound matters, my mother saw some messages we were sending each other. And confronted him. Told him to leave her daughter alone. And told me to stop going after men almost her age. Told me that Peter had tried to even katia her. How true that is, i never know. Told me he had impregnated a lady outside there and her family was insisting he takes responsibility. Obviously he denied all that. Plus honesty is not one of my mum’s best virtue when it comes to manipulating people.
Nevertheless, we broke up and I was heart broken. From chatting with a person twenty four hours to nothing. I missed him like hell. I knew his number off head. And I considered calling him over a million times. Literally. He was all I thought of. I wanted him to come to tell me its all a lie. I needed him to fight for me the way the prince charming in my head do. I wanted to mean something to him. I craved for his love and attention. Regardless of how dirty. My existence stopped with us breaking our relation off. Remember we had never been officially in a relationship. He just meant the world to the lost me. And clearly, I didn’t mean that much to him.
All over again, my numbness returned. My saviour had failed. I needed another saviour. I lost it. I tried finding solace in anything. Back at home, things were bad. Really bad. We were just discovering that I had a step sister my sister’s age and almost look alike. My father was in politics. Coming home at 3Am. Their marriage was at a rock bottom. Guys were hitting on me left right and center. My mum used to go through my phone and call each one of them warning then of impending doom if they didn’t stop “kumharibia” (destroying) her daughter. I tried opening up to a friend on the things happening in our family, she found out and warned that family stuff should remain family stuff.
So there I was heartbroken, and the only people around are broken and messed up and my relationship with my mother was severed by then. I crawled back to pornography. Every night or day at times, I used to download loads of those videos. Like all addictions, I moved from soft porn to hard porn to same sex porn to orgies and all kinds if “sums” (threesome etc). I buried myself in it. I got depressed. I used to bite myself for fear that if I cut myself, the marks would be seen by my mother and sincerely, I had had enough of her. I used to bite so hard that an hour down the line I would be feeling pain with the teeth marks being there.
But when I got a job in coast or even went to campus, I stopped watching porn. Only masturbation remained since I lived in my head. I build walls around myself. I caved in to myself and got used to the fact that I would forever be alone. No one would ever love me. I hated marriage and any thought of it. I despised sex. I have never had sex despite my relationship with pornography and masturbation. Simply because men made me think of my father, who distributed it generously among women, and Peter, who had  used me for a whole year to live out his fantasies. I will not say I hated men, because that is not true. I never thought of them in terms of hate and love. I simply thought of them as humans who act as animals since in my mind they couldn’t control when and who to have sex with. I was broken inside and I decided to never allow anyone inside there. Too bad that a broken heart attracts a broken heart too. The ex I always mention in my blogs, was a broken man with a lot of potential. I sincerely liked him. At some point I even thought I was in love with him. Because of his broken state,I could easily open up to him. I told him about Peter, though I sugarcoated it and made Peter look better so as to comfort myself. He was the first human being I told about my porn. He didn’t think it was such a big deal, I mean after all most people watch porn. At least according to him. This year again I fell for another lost soul. He is  really intelligent. At first I likened him to Michael Schofield. I thought he was that brilliant. At first I thought he didn’t feel things. Since that was how he presented himself to me. And I instantly wanted to sleep with him. Give my virginity to another human being with walls as high as mine. But before we could come to that, he decided to talk about how much he felt we had chemistry Sijui attraction. The damn guy started feeling stuff. And that was how he missed on a chance to get laid. But then I knew that I had to sort out what was inside there. I was tired of attracting broken people. Peter was back. As usual he texted on the way he missed me but making time for me has always been a problem. Priorities. Clearly mine were always jumbled up. Still after like 3 yrs my heart ached for him. Despite knowing he is a messed up man, who yes might actually genuinely love me(yes I’m still that naive), but he can’t give me what I want. I need more than a man. I need a miracle.
11 yrs since I was introduced into porn, I can comfortably say I’m over it. But keeping this a secret has eaten me alive. What if people discovered that the holier than thou Mercy they know actually had been a porn addict? I would loose all their respect. It took me a long time to take it to God. Openly, that is, I used to pray in quotes. For example, “God please forgive that shameful sin only you and I know”. Keeping quiet on it has made me appear whole on the outside while breaking me over and over again. While reminding me that I don’t deserve that respect that people give me. While always telling me how much of a sinner I am. Now its out there. If you see me differently, its all right, I expected nothing less. I’ve finally gotten my biggest secret out there. I will not lie on the way it feels like freedom. I feel like wailing for days. Like burying myself in the sand till this storm passes. I feel like not publicizing this. I’m cringing as I think of some people reading this. But as I said, I’m dead tired of carrying these burden. This is me bleeding it out, and this hurts.

Advertisements