I was a mere five years old when my stepfather first came into my room in the dead of night. He whispered my name and when I looked up, he was standing over me at the side of my bed. My step-brothers were asleep in the same room. He got under the blanket with me and started feeling me up my t-shirt. He said I was going to be a beautiful woman one day. I closed my eyes and prayed he would just go away.

I had seen him do this to other women at parties. Perhaps it was normal. Then he put his hand in my underpants and raped me with his fingers. It hurt and I cried softly into my pillow. He said if I made a noise and woke them up, he would be really angry.

Growing up near a black township, I was brought up with the idea that black men are evil and we need to be vigilant of their wicked ways. We were better than them as white people. None of their issues touched us because we were superior. My stepfather insisted that black men were devils. He wore this thick gold chain with a cross on the end that dangled over my face every time he forced himself on me. Behind it was an inscription of some sort and I remember how his sweat used to cling to the engraving before hitting my skin.

After a few days of him fingering me, he began to force objects into me. Every day for three weeks, he would use cucumbers, bottles, bananas, and any other cylindrical object he could find. It was so painful. When I let out a whimper, he would twist my nipple. After that, he started with his penis.

The first time I felt him ejaculate inside me I was confused. But as the years went by, I started to accept it. For seven years he raped me almost every night. Whenever my mother was away he would take me to their room. I stopped crying and stopped saying no. He would constantly tell me that he’s not the enemy and he’s protecting me from “the blacks”.

He only stopped when I fell pregnant and he took me to have an abortion. It was illegal then. I had to go to a doctor – I don’t even know whether he was a doctor – who met us in a hotel room. He covered my mouth with a cloth and I passed out. When I woke up, he said he was done and he raped me as “payment”, so my stepfather said.

When I finally left home, I thought I was going to put it behind me. But it haunted me. I couldn’t have a physical relationship with anyone without getting drunk, and when I felt how good it was, I couldn’t stop. I became what they would call “the village bicycle”. Guys would come to my dorm just for sex.

My stepfather died recently, and while he lay on his deathbed, I told the entire family what he did. He didn’t even deny it. He just said “your pussy got so wet, you were asking for it”. He said I was easy and if he didn’t have me, I would have run off with a black man. He blamed me.

He died a few days later, and I knew that my family would shun me. They did. I am all alone now. And I hate him. I hate him and I hate myself.