400 Days of Oppression

XV

The phone rang and every nerve vibrated in sync with the chime. I wanted to scream. My head was cloudy from the pain meds, but the pain was still there, pounding like thunder between my ears. A migraine the magnitude of Mount St. Helens.

I remembered where I was. Why I was there. Attempted rape. It was an old story, but one I thought I’d put behind me. Meeting Kenyatta was supposed to mean the end of drunken date rapes. He was supposed to keep me safe, but he hadn’t been there to protect me.

Hours passed. Nurses came and went, checking my vitals, asking me how I felt and whether I needed something for my nerves. I watched soap operas and game shows. A psychiatrist came in, looked at my chart, then asked me if I was having nightmares, trouble sleeping, if I would be afraid to leave the hospital and go home, and then, finally, the big question: “Have you had any suicidal thoughts?”

I laughed. I don’t know why. I just thought it was funny. Almost every day of my life, the idea of suicide had been there. I even found it comforting to know there was always a way out of this madness if it got too rough. But not now. As crazy as it might seem, Kenyatta had given me something to live for. I had a goal. The idea of checking out before achieving that goal was the furthest thing from my mind.

The psychiatrist left and I tried to sleep. My dreams were all fantasies as I drifted in that twilight between waking and deep slumber; I dreamed of Kenyatta coming to rescue me, taking me back to his house and bathing me like he did that night before the slave auction. Treating my wounds, rubbing me with lotions and scented powders and dressing me in furs. I smiled and wept. Then the phone rang. I snatched it up quickly, hoping it was Kenyatta. I almost said his name until that loathsome voice came whining through the phone. Only this time it was less unctuous, devoid of all threat. It sounded weak. Wounded. It was barely a whisper, but I still recognized it.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I—we—didn’t mean to hurt you. Please...tell him to stop. Okay? Tell him we’ll confess. Okay? Tell him...we’re so sorry. Just call him off. Don’t...don’t let him...don’t...”

I hung up the phone. There was no question who it was, the same asshole who’d called and threatened me before. Only now, someone had threatened him. He sounded completely broken. Terrified. And I knew who had done it. I smiled. I even laughed. Tears of joy ran down my face. Kenyatta still loved me. He was still looking out for me, protecting me. Sleep came easy now. I rolled onto my side and curled into a fetal position. I think I was still smiling when I fell asleep.

“Kitten? You okay?”

He was here.

I woke up and there he was, smiling down at me. I hugged him, pulled him down into the bed with me, and cried on his chest.

“You’re here. I thought you weren’t coming. I missed you so much.”

“I missed you too, Kitten.”

I held his hand to my chest, then I looked at it. The knuckles were bruised and swollen. I kissed them and whispered to him. “Thank you.”

He smiled back and nodded.

“They are discharging you. They said you didn’t suffer any major injuries. Just some minor bruising. No broken bones or anything. They didn’t find any evidence of rape either. No vaginal or rectal bruising or tearing. Delia must have gotten to you before they could...”

“Take me home, Daddy. I want to go home,” I whined, holding Kenyatta’s hand to my face as I wept.

Kenyatta recoiled, snatching his hand away from me. The look on his face was one of shock and disgust. He was looking at me like he’d caught me spreading my legs for another man. I could feel his body tense up. The atmosphere in the room changed. It felt like all the oxygen had been suddenly sucked out. I felt confused. My body trembled.

“Are you quitting? You’re giving up?”

“I—”

“Then say the safe word, if you want it to be over.”

“Kenyatta, I-I was almost raped!”

That seemed to make him even angrier. I didn’t understand. What was going on? Why was he treating me this way? I looked at him, mouth open, unasked questions hovering on my tongue. Delia walked into the room and I looked over at her, my eyes pleaded with her for help, but she would not look at me. As if out of thin air, Kenyatta produced the book, 400 Years of Oppression. My heart sank, knowing what was about to happen.

“In Africa,” he began, “a woman’s primary role had been to raise children. Mothers held an honored place in most African societies. On American plantations, this role was perverted with African women being forced into sexual relationships with other slaves, and even with the slavemaster himself, for the purpose of increasing the valuable labor force and satisfying their white master’s lascivious desires. The children born of matings with the plantation owners and their female slaves were automatically enslaved. The average female slave gave birth to her first child at nineteen and bore at least one child every two and a half years for as long as she remained fertile. Many of these children were born of rape. Slaves were prohibited by law from defending themselves against physical and sexual abuse and would be subjected to vicious beating by their masters or mistresses for doing so. Rape by their slavemasters and other white men was therefore a constant reality for female slaves, a reality that was ignored by white Christian society.”

Delia turned away, looking down at the floor as Kenyatta slammed the book shut, the last word on an argument that had not truly started.

“This is part of my ancestors’ reality. All of it! You can’t take it? You know what to say if you want out. Say it!”

His eyes were angry. It frightened me, confused me even more.

“Do you want out?”

I dropped my head. My bottom lip trembled and tears flooded from my eyes in an endless deluge of woe.

“No. I’m still in.”

Delia handed me my outfit. Stuffing the sundress I’d worn during my ride to the hospital into a plastic bag, she pulled out the latex and leather corset, garters, leggings, and the studded dog collar that had become my uniform on the farm. I wept as I put them back on.

“It’s time to go,” Kenyatta said and together we left the hospital.

I held onto Kenyatta as he walked down the hall. I buried my head in the space between his chest and his shoulder, squeezing him as if I could hold him there by force and prevent him from leaving me again.