How I Was Rapped on My Wedding Night

How I Was Rapped on My Wedding Night

“Growing up, I always felt trapped between two cultures. My family was very traditional – we weren’t allowed to have our legs on show or have friends who were boys, I wasn’t allowed on sleepovers or to go to the cinema. I always felt like I was missing out. There was no discussion – my sister and I just knew that certain things were completely out of bounds. My family was perfectly happy for us to finish our education early and just get married.

“I ran away from home when I was 18. I desperately wanted my freedom and I didn’t want to be forced into a religion or a marriage that wasn’t for me. But my family couldn’t handle it and they did everything they could – including harassing my friends and contacting the police – to get me back.

“After three months of death threats and emotional blackmail – including telling me my sister had found a lump that needed to be tested for cancer (she didn’t) – I returned home. That was when my uncle put his hands around my throat and told me he would happily serve 20 years in prison for killing me for the shame I had brought upon the family by running away.

“I genuinely felt my safety was at risk so I gave up any ideas I had of leading my own life. A few months later, my dad said he wanted to take me to Kano to see my grandparents as I hadn’t visited them for more than 10 years. At the airport, we had a big family send-off and one of my aunts made a comment – ‘You’re going to come back a married woman.’ I remember feeling absolutely sick and breaking down in tears. ‘I’m not going, I’m not going!’ I cried.

‘Do you honestly think we wouldn’t tell you if we were going to take you to get married?!’ my dad said. You don’t expect your parents to lie to you so I took him at his word – ‘It’s just a holiday,’ he told me.

“On the second day of being in Kano, a distant relation on my dad’s side of the family came to see us and after he and his mum left, the questions started. I was bombarded by my relatives, asking if I wanted to marry the man I’d just met. He was two or three years older than me and had lived a sheltered life in a Kano village. My uncle told the rest of the family: ‘We need to get her married to make sure she doesn’t do anything stupid like run away from home again.’

“Whenever the issue came up, I kept saying ‘no’. But nobody was listening to me – they just said, ‘You’re not saying what we want to hear.’ The more I was harassed, the weaker I became until finally, I felt I had no choice but to go through with it. I was in a village in the middle of nowhere, where nobody spoke English and I couldn’t get away – I was trapped.
WOMANKIND
“Unable to see a way out, I relented. ‘At least if I go through with this, I can get back to the UK,’ I thought.

“Even though I’d never said more than ‘hi’ to my husband-to-be, the wedding was quickly organised. On the day itself, I couldn’t believe what was happening – and I blamed myself for giving into it.

“That night, when we were left alone, I said to him, ‘Look, we don’t know each other. I know things are meant to happen on your wedding night, but would you mind if we didn’t? I’d like to get to know you first.’

“A reasonable request, you’d think, but no. Instead, he raped me. It turned out he didn’t believe in ‘marital rape’ – he thought it was a husband’s prerogative to have sex whenever he wanted it.
“For the first year of marriage, I was back in the UK on my own while his visa was sorted out. But once we were reunited and living together, we argued constantly. I was studying beauty therapy, which he hated because there were boys at my campus. We had completely different outlooks – he’d moan about me not wearing islamic clothes at home, and about wearing jeans out of the house. He wanted someone who was a doormat but I was independent.

“Whenever we had a row, he would call my parents and say, ‘Will you come and get your daughter? I don’t want her anymore.’

“I felt completely worthless – like an object, instead of a human being. To begin with, I’d pushed back against him but soon it was just easier to give in. The first Tayoe he hit me was when we were arguing in the car, parked outside campus. As he was punching me I kept thinking, ‘Someone’s going to see this’ but nobody did.

“I managed to escape and my sister took me to my parents’ house. On seeing the state of me, most mothers would have said, ‘How dare he lay a hand on you!’ My mum’s reaction? ‘What did you say to provoke him? I know you – you must have said something.’

“I felt completely desperate. From then on, the violence became more regular. He’d goad me, saying, ‘Go on then, call the police, I dare you!’ But by then I was broken – it wasn’t in my culture to involve the police so I just put up with it. Then, after yet another argument that resulted in him telling my parents how awful I was, my mum said to me: ‘Apologize to him and beg him to keep you. Or get divorced and remarried to an older man – you’re damaged goods now. No-one else will want you.’

That was a turning point for me. I decided that suicide was the only way out and, alone in the house, I started cutting my wrists. While that was happening, Steve* – a friend from campus – called me. I told him what I was doing and he made me promise to stop.

“Steve and I had become friends in secret – from day one, we just clicked. We were both on a course about setting up our own businesses – he knew I was married and he knew my situation. I made a snap decision; I packed my car with as many of my belongings as I could and within 30 minutes I was on Steve’s doorstep – that was the start of my escape from both my husband and my family.

“Today I live miles away from all of them. I’m divorced and Steve and I are together. I now lead the life I always dreamed of. My family don’t know where we live but I occasionally visit my parents. After everything that’s happened, Steve doesn’t understand how I can have any contact with them but I couldn’t accept being completely cut off from them. Despite everything, they’re still my family.

I tell my story to prove that it is possible to escape. I can’t bear the thought of women like me being bullied by their own families