Why I Hate Mars Bars (Trigger Warning)
By: Nichole Wanjiru
Tags: Survival, Boundaries, Trauma, Growth, Life Lessons

Dear Friend,

I’ve never really had an opinion about Mars Bars. My favourite has always been anything with nuts really. Mars was too sweet and caramelly — there is no texture. Anyway, like I said, I was indifferent to them. If you’ve ever bought the chocolates “Celebrations” you know that there are like 1 Mars Bars in every 5 chocolates, why does this matter? It doesn’t really…except it does.

Let’s take it back to 4 years ago. I was living in Utrecht (yes I know, its a hard word to pronounce) anyway, I was a big girl in a not so big city trying to navigate college life. This consisted of going to classes, drinking every Thursday through Saturday, working out when it suited me and of course — dating. Now, anyone who knows me knows that I looove love. Not just the romantic kind, I love people, I love learning about different people and I love connecting with people. Does it get me a lot of hurt? Sure. But it’s never stopped me. I’m always out and about making new connections. I’ve made friends in airports (who I still check on once in a while), I’ve made friends in toilets, trams. Bruh anywhere. If you are a human and interesting to me — legggo.

The thing with being young and too friendly and too trusting is that people see this knowingly or unknowingly and push your boundaries — they take your optimism for naïveté. And it was naïveté at some point. So what does a college girl do? Join tinder. It doesn’t get easier than that. Swipe, swipe and just like UberEats, your date will be at the table ready for connection — or not.

Now I went on this date. It was a normal, ok date. He was a gentleman (whatever that is). He did what was expected — that’s better. He pulled my seat, asked all the right questions. We shared humour (y’all know I love to laugh), talked about our childhoods. We had about 3 or so cocktails, the more we drank, the more we shared, the more my inhibitions dropped. Now came to the critical time…do we end the night…do we go back to someones place?

Now, I KNOW we are not supposed to go home with strangers. But it’s such a weird world where it has become commonplace for a stranger to literally pick you up from your house and drop you elsewhere. Just like it’s commonplace to meet a stranger in a bar and go home with them. Everyone in your life was a stranger at some point. These things happen. I don’t know the rules. Anyway, we decided let’s go to his place. I did the “right” “adult” thing. I sent my friends my location, his phone number, his address — at least I thought I did. I really don’t remember.

Nothing changed. He still maintained his gentleman-y demeanour. We got to his place and I’ll skip the details. It was consensual — at first. I did the right thing, we used a condom. It was alright (I was 19/20) I didn’t know too much about female pleasure back then (scratch that, I knew NOTHING) so it was just fine. It was what it was supposed to feel like — I guess. At some point, I started getting uncomfortable and I voiced it. He can’t hear me, I told myself. So I speak louder and say stop. He still can’t hear me. Won’t hear me. How could this man, that could hear me so CLEARLY in a loud ass bar be so deaf right about now? So I maybe said something one more time but because I couldn’t be heard, I gave up. I tried to wait until it was over. I felt small. I felt like a body. I felt numb. I wasn’t understanding what was happening — I wouldn’t for two years. I would tell myself that I just wasn’t loud enough. After the fact, the lights come back on and I have never been so shocked in my life. Why? Because I had never seen so much blood in my life and I’m not squeamish (unless I spot a slug — yoooo I can die). So now I was just so concerned about the blood, I was embarrassed af! Why did this happen? (duh we know what happened). So I start apologising for the blood and he says no problem I’m Caribbean, nothing can phase me. And here I go thinking, damn, how nice of this guy. Y’all trauma is weird.

So, after he changed the sheets he offered me a Mars Bar — I declined. I have never touched a Mars Bar since. We went to sleep, he did — I don’t remember if I was back in my body. The next day, he cycled me back to my house. I went had a shower and went to class. I never saw him again. He tried calling and making plans again but I could not understand why I didn’t want to see him.

Flash forward two years and my friends and I are sharing awkward/weird sex encounters — as one does over wine. And I share mine and my best-friend kind of freezes and says sis…that was rape. And I’m like really? Was it? Finally all the denial I had been escaping slaps me in the face. I don’t presume to understand how the brain protects itself, but mine did until it was ready to deal with what had happened. That I had been violated, that I had been stupid, that I had put myself in this situation. This is the self-blame society has placed on victims/survivors — whatever. It’s not right. I was excusing a man who had taken away my autonomy, made me silent and gaslighted the fuck out of that situation that I was too busy apologising for my leaking body.

Anyway, it was only this year that my therapist finally got me to a place where I was safe to call it R.A.P.E. I have called it everything from the incident, to violation…I have called it everything except what it was — RAPE. Reading Roxane Gay’s Hunger and peoples stories online and in real life, I realise this is common. To say rape is to accept that it has happened. I now understand that I was never wrong, I was just doing me and someone else came and hurt me. I didn’t put myself in any position. After all, I would be lying if I said this was the last time I left home with a new stranger — but it was the last time I was violated in such a manner. I am not the problem here, I was never the problem. He was. I was told that I am still able to file a case of rape but here is the thing I cannot — do not — remember what this man even resembles. His name — nothing. I cannot even picture his face. Even if I could, I had no interest chasing that because somewhere inside me still whispers that it wasn’t rape. It wasn’t violent in some alley where I was held by the throat. It wasn’t violent. But it was one of the most violent things that has been done to me. Because of society, because of being raised to always blame women, blame myself — I didn’t feel it worth it. Because even if we did “catch” him, there is a huge chance I would never feel the justice that I deserve.

I’ve gotten my power back within me without having to confront him. I fight everyday for people who have been violated and I will never stop. But I hate Mars Bars because they are a reminder that the kindest, sweetest seeming people can be the most terrifying and slimiest. I’m over it now, it took 4 years. But I can never touch a Mars Bar. I don’t know if I ever will.

Mars Bars are ordinary chocolates. Just like Rapists are ordinary, they look ordinary, they seem ordinary. Until they aren’t. And just like they seem to be 1 in 5, in reality there are a lot more Mars Bars in every fucking Celebrations box. Ive read the statistics, 1 in 5 women have been raped or faced sexual assault of some kind. But the more I share my story and listen to others’, this number has dwindled to everyone either knowing someone or being a survivor themselves (both men and women); because men get raped too, and they have an even harder time getting their justice. It’s disgusting and apalling.

Don’t be like me, don’t assume everyone is as loving as you are. Now I send ALL the details of ALL my dates. Phone number, address, picture and I never drink like I would drink with friends. You have to protect yourself, you only have yourself. People can be both lovely to one person and predators to another. It be like that. Usually, (aside from that useless 5% who wrongfully accuse rape and deserve a special place in hellfire) if someone says they have been assaulted, believe them. Because to not do that is devastating. Just because you haven’t found too many Mars Bars in your box doesn’t mean they aren’t many. And just because this Mars Bar was sweet for you, does not mean they didn’t give someone else a cavity. It can be both, usually is both.

People can be amazing to you as a friend and still be a RAPIST to another. If you don’t know, then kindly, shut up. It is literally not your place to have an opinion on the matter. To do so, is to lack empathy and for that is to strip yourself of humanity. So just shhh and listen.

I still love people, I have just learned that not everyone is deserving of that love.

I don’t know what the purpose of this letter was, but I hope it is of some insight to you friend

Unapologetically,

Nichole