Monifa.
Tags: Rape Culture, Self Harm, Black Women, Trigger Warning, Sexual Assault

Drawing of a black woman’s face with an orange background and the word ‘Monifa.’ in bold text

‘O Monifa, my sweet baby Monifa’, I can still hear my mother’s sweet and raspy voice, singing my name over and over. She sang this to me while she soothed my tears, while she drove me to school, while she gave me a bath, she sang this continuously. Monifa, Nifa for short, means ‘I am lucky’ in my mother tongue.

She would always tell me how lucky she was to have a child like me, reminding me what it was like to have three miscarriages until she finally gave birth to this larger-than-life baby that held on to her left calf for years. I was her good luck charm, a gift from God, the wine cork that popped and came with an overflow of joy, for after me she had six other girls

I can already hear Sade exclaim, “six other girls!” finishing the sentence of what would have to be my one-hundredth egotistical rendition of my name’s origin.

This conversation happened to fall upon the ears of the poor souls stood along the pavement by this “retro new age” bar that she had dragged us to on a grey Tuesday night.

‘Retro and new age’ must be code for small and dingy with barely any space for barstools and tables.

What was meant to be an evening celebrating Sade’s engagement to her girlfriend of 5 years had ended up with our friend Molly knelt down over the gutter trying not to puke while Lola, Sade’s younger sister, held her hair back.

Weirdly, the sight of the two of them crouching below as we stood guard, distracting them with some random conversation, warmed my heart.

It had become a common occurrence on our nights out, several of which I had missed lately after making up bullshit excuses last minute as to why I could not make either Lola’s promotion dinner or our usual Friday night bar crawls.

Seeing this again made me feel like I had not missed out on anything.

These girls were what I described to my therapist as “my safe place” and for the past few weeks I had been holed up in my apartment, denying myself the opportunity to see them, almost as if I were punishing myself.

But of course, I had to make it this evening; my dearest friend was getting married.

Something that she had talked my ears off about since she could start piecing words together as a toddler.

Sade is my oldest friend. I always say that she popped out of the womb with me, and at this she rolls her eyes, but it holds some truth to it.

Our mothers were close even before either of us was born. I hung off her mother’s hip just as she hung off mine.

So, it was no surprise that we crawled side by side as babies, bled together as teenagers, and lived together when we had just graduated from the hell hole that was university.

Home for us was our two single mothers surrounded by all our sisters, an unusual dynamic but home, nevertheless. I can only define our friendship, sorry sisterhood, as something held together by hot glue, shared trauma and stories that we can’t bear repeating to a new set of ears.

The cold air is biting at my thighs and I’m struggling to pull down this short dress that I had shoved at the back of my closet, thinking it would never see the light of day. Yet here I am, hoping that putting it on would ignite a confidence within me that felt long gone, but I just felt exposed. All it did was hold onto my body rolls for dear life and its hem was an inch away from giving the whole bar audience a show.

“I’m gonna call a cab, Molly is too out of it to get on a train tonight” Lola shouts up, attempting to lift both herself and Molly off the ground but failing.

“I’ll come with” Sade says.

She slings Molly’s other arm over her neck and lifts her off the ground in mere seconds.

In a way this describes the dynamic between the two sisters — Sade, the one who was seemingly good at everything she did and Lola, always falling into her older sister’s shadow.

The bar scene behind us begins to wind down as people are stumbling out laughing at the top of their lungs, Ubers are piling up along the street and the music finally fades from an upbeat tempo to a more soulful swing.

A new and different crowd will soon be occupying that same space.

I could already feel myself hesitating; I was not ready to leave. This was my first night out in a while and I had spent half of it bent over, holding my knees for support as I laughed from my belly. I had not felt such a moment of joy in a long time, and I missed the feeling of love and support I felt whenever I was with these girls.

I realise I am still yet to announce my travel plans when I see three sets of eyes staring at me amidst the calm but almost chaotic scene of an unwinding night.

I am in no rush to return to my soulless apartment.

“I’ll probably just get the tube, need the fresh air”

Over the next few minutes, my friends do their best to convince me to come home with them.

Molly is able to lift her head for a split second to echo their pleading before she leans back into the seat, snoring ensues.

This is followed by reluctant goodnight kisses, more pleading, instructions to text when I get back to mine and ends with me stood alone at the curb, watching the cab pull away while Sade and Lola wave and tap at the back of the window.

As the car gets further and further out of view, so does my moment of joy. I can feel my smile slip away from me as I come to the realisation that I am back to being alone.

The loud music is barely a whisper, the previous bustling presence of the pavement has died down and it suddenly feels colder.

I wrap myself up in my coat and make my way down to the underground station.

I put my earphones in and tuck my phone away in my pocket without pressing play on whatever song I had been listening to last. It’s a new trick I had picked up in therapy as a way to be more present. A simple gesture to make it clear that I do not want to be disturbed whilst also allowing me the peace that comes with hearing the sounds of the night. I can hear people laugh as they walk past me, probably all returning home or maybe just starting their night. Cars speed off into the night, leaving smoke behind in their place and old streetlights buzz overhead as I walk under their warm yellow light.

I approach the glass archway that is the entrance to Canary Wharf, a station that is usually crowded and full of life during the day but is now dreary and empty, except for the few like myself that have wound up here tonight. The man stood to my right is dressed in a full suit, tie done up and a briefcase in hand.

The time on the boards announcing train arrivals showed that it was almost midnight and here I was decked down in what my mother would describe as a few strings sewn together and there was this man ready to take over the corporate world.

Same train. Same night. Clearly different lives.

This was the beauty of the tube, why I took it so often. It was the place where people from all different walks of life converged for a fleeting moment, where you could see someone who had just had the worst day of their life stood next to someone who had just won the lottery.

It was the best place to step out of yourself and detach from life by observing others and taking a moment to step into their shoes, creating endless stories about their evenings and what had led them there.

‘TO STANMORE’

The coach was busier than I expected, to my left was a group of rowdy, clearly drunk men, belting out lyrics to a song that I could not recognise. Any sane person would tell you that a fat, black woman stuck in a tight space with drunk white men was only a recipe for disaster. A hate crime waiting to happen.

I made my way to the opposite end of the coach and settled across from a mother and her son, a chubby little fellow that had fallen asleep on her shoulder.

I could see that she herself wasn’t too far off from sleep. The tired look in her eyes reminded me of my mother’s when she would catch countless late-night trains on her way back from working at the shops. Trudging into the house with her eyes struggling to stay open, only to see the beaming eyes of all her little children waiting to keep her up for another hour or so.

I share an endearing smile with the boy’s mum, which she returns lazily.

Ever since my mum passed, I’ve seen parts of her in everything. From every person walking past me, to the windows of the grocery shops that she would work at, to the songs she loved to sing around the house.

She was my safe place.

I let my eyes wander to the interracial couple that is sat a few seats down from me.

They are sharing a kiss and to a passer-byer they would have looked like the epitome of love. I am quick to notice the wedding band on the black man’s hand. Before I am able to check for a similar band on the hand of his partner, I become acutely aware of a pair of eyes on me, the feeling almost like the slow crawling of a small insect along my back. This feeling breaks my half trance of observing people throughout the coach. I turn to my left to meet the eyes of a middle-aged white man. He too is wearing a suit like the man I saw back at the station.

But unlike that stranger, he looks dishevelled. His tie is pulled to one side and the ends of his collared shirt have been tugged out from his wrinkled trousers.

From a hard day at work I presume, or maybe just an evening full of drinking.

His face is dark with shadows of what must have been a two-day-old shave. His elbows are balanced on his knees, propping his torso up as he turns very slightly to face my direction.

I instinctively pull my dress down and place my purse over my thighs. I feel his eyes following my every move.

I have begun to see you everywhere as well.

Except unlike my mother and friends, you beget a feeling of fear and panic.

The space seems smaller now. Like it is just this man and I, when in reality there are still several people flowing in and out with every stop, but he remains, eyes glued on me.

I focus my attention on the tube map overhead, pretending to search for a station even though I had taken this train for years on end. But I am simply trying to keep my thoughts from spiralling, this was not the first time that a man had made me feel uncomfortable in a public space, yet each time provoked the same shortness of breath and increase in heart rate.

The mother and her son get off at the stop before mine, giving me a little wave, and that is when the panic sets in.

I begin to pick at my inner thighs, a habit I had picked up over the past few months as a way to cope with what my therapist would describe as PTSD symptoms.

‘THE NEXT STOP IS FINCHLEY ROAD STATION’

I can see the train approaching the station from the corner of my eye, but I sit still. Purse still over my thighs, eyes looking forward, trying my best not to make any suggestions via my body language that this was indeed my stop.

I hear the doors open and remain seated. He does the same.

This is not his stop.

A beeping to alert the closing of the tube doors rings throughout the coach and without blinking I get up from my seat and fling myself through the doors.

I do not bother looking back as I break into a light jog; through the empty dark station, up the stairs, past the ticket barriers and out on to the street.

It feels like I have exhausted all the air in my lungs as I double over with a stitch in my side and lean on to a pole for support.

As I catch my breath. I think of how if Lola were here, she would have made a sly remark about my capacity for anything that required physical exertion.

“That’s what happens when you turn down my invitations to come running with me” she would mock, and I would have a go at her but all I needed right now was her protective presence.

I notice a lanky suited figure emerging from the ticket barriers that I had just left behind me.

My head shoots up to catch his eye and as he edges closer to me, I can’t help but notice the slight grin playing at the corner of his lips. It reminds me of the grin that you had that night. In this moment, I can’t help but to question why I denied my friends’ invitation to go home with them.

Any moment of peace that followed my brief escape was washed away and replaced with that common, ever present feeling of fear.

With high amounts of adrenaline now pumping through my veins, I take a deep breath in before straightening up and heading in the opposite direction of my home.

Was it my dress?

I wonder what you would think of this dress. It is not very different from the one I wore when we first met. Equally as revealing and provocative, maybe that is what made you, like him, feel so entitled to my body and space.

I weave through groups of people littered along the street as I make my way closer to a familiar bus stop, lengthening the gap between my new stalker and me.

The stop is stationed in front of the neighbourhood Waitrose and the harsh white light pouring out from the store illuminates the stop. There are three people sat waiting, an old black woman and two younger white girls.

The girls, dressed in clubbing outfits similar to mine, do not look far off from my age. I consider approaching them and pulling off an act where I pretend that they are my friends when my eyes meet that of the older lady. Her tight greying locs cascading down her slumped shoulders with a tightly wound scarf around her neck remind me of my mother. As I approach her, frantically looking behind me to determine the status of my current situation, I notice her looking me up and down with something close to a grimace on her face, clearly judging my choice of clothing. This feels familial as I remember the same shaming looks my Nigerian aunties would give me whenever I wore anything that exposed even the slightest bit of skin.

And although it made me cower before her, I somehow felt safe in the presence of this stranger whilst being chased by another.

The difference was in the way they looked at me you see.

One, very predatory and entitled, like the way you would look at me.

The other from a learned place of fear, almost caring and protective.

She follows my eye line and we both watch as my stalker steps into the light of the bus stop.

He is now openly smiling at me.

I slowly take a seat, keeping my eyes straight on him, determined not to show any sign of fear, when I suddenly feel something woolly against my skin.

The old woman has unwound the scarf that was hanging from her neck and is now laying it down across my lap.

“Fine young gyals like yuhself nuh fi dress like this” she says as she adjusts the piece of clothing to cover my thighs completely.

Her voice is deep and cracked, heavy with a Jamaican accent that I can only recognise after years of going on holiday with Molly and her family.

And although her accent is nothing like the thick Yoruba one my mother had, I feel the maternal and protective energy of her seeping out from this woman that I’ve only just met and will probably never see again.

And at that moment, I think of you both.

My mother, who spent years building up my sense of safety.

And you, who took minutes slowly tearing away at any form of self that I had.

The bus approaches and I help the woman on to her feet. She keeps hold of my arm till the bus comes to a complete stop.

He struts to make his way behind the two girls in the short line that has formed and brushes my arm as he walks by.

The hairs on my arm prickle as he leans in and I feel his hot breath against my ear.

“Sorry darling.”

I wish I could describe to you what true fear feels like, what you so easily inflicted upon me. I wonder if you think of how I felt in that moment.

Of how my heart sunk to my stomach and I could barely breathe.

Of how it felt to have my body no longer be mine, to have it torn apart, bit by bit, till it felt no longer like home but like a shallow grave.

I feel the old woman tog on my arm, pulling me out of my thoughts.

I help her onto the bus and catch a glimpse of the man switching his gaze between me and the two girls stood between us.

The bus driver, a plump older white lady, has dull and almost lifeless eyes as she leans against the wheel, not bothering to pay attention to any of the new boarding passengers.

“I need your help.”

The lady looks over to me, confused but now alert, as I slip my coins for a single ticket into the box between us.

“That man has been following me all night.”

I say this, with a panicked look, almost like a deer caught in headlights, as she slowly hands me my ticket.

She glances over my shoulder and returns her gaze back to me.

Her eyes shine with something that I cannot read as she gives me a simple nod, gesturing for me to go down into the bus.

I keep my eyes forward as I walk towards the back of the bus. I can feel his eyes searing against my skin through the windows, following my every move.

My palms are sweaty and what initially seemed like a good attempt of escape now seems futile.

What did I expect from this random bus lady?

Not only had I exposed everyone on the bus to the harm that this stranger could possibly cause, but I was now en route to my home.

My home, where you had taken away my safety.

Was I in some way subconsciously leading this man in the direction of doing the same?

I watch as the girls that were behind paid for their tickets, and within the blink of an eye, the doors shut behind them, slamming against my stalker’s face.

Whispering ensues.

He starts to bang against the glass, screaming at the driver first before turning to where I was sat and screaming at me instead.

I can feel all-new sets of eyes watching me now. Everyone on the bus is hearing this strange man screaming and calling me things I haven’t been called since you.

It was mortifying then, and it is mortifying now.

As the bus takes off, my eyes settle on the only familiar pair.

The look of judgement has left her face and been replaced with a knowing look.

This breaks my heart.

I don’t realise I am picking away at my thighs till I hear the stop before mine being called.

I make my way to the front of the bus fully aware of the eyes on me and stop at the driver’s seat.

“Thank you.”

Before I turn my back to her, she grabs my hand through the gap in the window that divides us and shares the same knowing look.

I struggle to hold back the tears that had been threatening to break loose all night as I realised that it was this random stranger’s leap to action that had got me home safely.

They finally do as I make my way towards my apartment building, frequently turning back to see through blurred vision whether there was any sign of this man who had decided to ruin what was supposed to be an amazing night.

I throw my heels to one side of my small attic studio as I slam the door shut and let myself sink onto the floor.

Opposite me is a full-length mirror, propped up by old sticky command tabs and a pile of books that I am yet to read.

I take myself in for a moment.

My dress has bunched up around my waist and as I sit legs wide apart, I can see dark patches and dried blood between my thighs, where I had been picking at all night.

What was a newly healed scar from my last relapse had already been ruined and there would be a new fresh wound right next to it by the time the sun came up.

And I will need to explain to my therapist what had made me cut.

She will ask why, and I will say it was because of you.

It was because I saw you in every man.

In those that walked by me harmlessly. In those that catcalled me. In those that showed even just the slightest bit of interest in me.

I will tell her that you had begun to overshadow every experience I have with men.

And she will ask me about this specific experience tonight and I will still say it was because of you.

That although this stranger scared me, he was only a reminder of the harm that you caused me.

You were the one that held me down and broke me.

You were the one that tore away at me, bit by bit.

You were the one that instilled this ever-present fear in my life.

You were the one that raped me.

And I will retell her the meaning of my name.

And I will ask her what it meant to be lucky?

Because you taught me that no such thing ever existed.