Rape, for many South Africans, is a horrific ordeal with perpetrators seldom caught. Mine was, but he got off Scott-free thanks to diplomatic immunity.
Awakening my Immortality
Between being stuck in a world of compliments and promiscuity and a certainty of morals and independence, I entered into an evening that awoke my immortality.
Clothed like a lady, I question what attracted the man to me. It was a black dress worn over my knees, covering my cleavage, with a pair of stilettos I reserved for New Year’s Eve.
Before the act kept me up all night, I admit to kissing over a dozen boys as the countdown began.
British Accent
In my vague remembrance the appeal and sound of the British accent brought me closer to a table of boys drinking champagne. My stomach had no food to begin with, which was substituted by many rounds of cocktails and tequila shots.
Free alcohol puts a smile on my face as do foreigners, so I eagerly invited myself onto the red velvet couch the boys occupied. As the intoxication loosened my mind and body, and as each second passed, my awareness was blinded at the peripherals.
Controlled by Alcohol
A dozen boys were obviously not enough for me, so I tried my charm with the boys with collared shirts, overflowing bottles of bubbly and new jargon. Instead of my attempt to be in control, the alcohol controlled me. I immersed myself onto the couch and closed my eyes to find my breath again.
These boys were not gentleman. They were far from it. As their hands reached my body, I sensed a slight incline to help me get up and out the environment I was unsettled by. I was wrong. Their hands all had fingers and nearly fifteen of them crept underneath my favourite pair of knickers and juiced me up with raw force and communal chances of entertaining themselves.
I had no power. My body was numb and refused to lift itself from the resting place I fell into earlier. After counting how many breaths I had taken, my voice came alive and I raised it so their active phalanges would stray from my private space.
Sliced Foot
The ambience of the evening was shattered again when my bare foot was swollen and the colour of the couch. A slice of my ankle was eaten into by a broken glass I was unaware of. Liquid was flowing everywhere from my flesh, and none of my friends were around to guide me to safety or provide some form of support.
I looked to the right and saw strangers. I glanced to the left and felt the presence of foreigners. I was alone in the wrong state of mind with blood oozing from my body, I felt more hopeless. My eyes floated from one side of the room to the other and finally caught the attention of a friend who had been searching for me.
The Need to Get Away
I needed to get sober. I needed my foot cleaned and patched up. I needed to get away from these boys who were taking advantage of me.
As two of my friends completed the rescue mission by obtaining a bucket of ice and a glass of water, I knew the night would come to a halt. But I was mistaken as a kind, charming gentleman offered his help and transport. He mentioned he had a limousine waiting outdoors that I could lie in, but my friends had no trust in the offer. His identity was unknown, but introduced as Ben. He seemed decent enough, but what could I decipher in my state.
My closest friend took control and warned the boy to stay away. She would rather have him come in a taxi with her and her boyfriend. The idea was to find food after the long evening of abusing alcohol. Ben left his gang of ‘Brits’ and joined us to search for an area that provided some treats.
Chaos in Every Corner
He kissed me in the taxi. I do not recall if I was enjoying myself or was simply too intoxicated to not care.
The four of us arrived in town and headed for Long Street where chaos went down in every corner. The restaurant we sought was not open, so we opted for a hotdog stand. Ben took me away from the crowds and my friends to a corner I was not familiar with. It was dark and noisy and I couldn’t reach my cell phone.
A Squeak of Noise
He held it away from me while I used my hands to pull it from his grip. He lifted my dress I had intentionally worn in an appropriate manner and pushed me against the cold hard wall. Shock settled in as he penetrated me without my permission.
My silence broke as I yelled ‘no’, but my yell was a squeak of noise compared to the abundance surrounding us on a New Year’s celebration. It hurt as he forced himself into me and I was not strong enough to push him away.
Cry Wolf
As he finished, blurred visions appeared all over my retina. I was scared and vulnerable and wanted to find safety. I found my friend and mouthed a desperate ‘help me’, but she paid no attention as she assumed it was a ‘cry wolf’ situation I had entered in my boozed-up behaviour.
She ignored me, deciding to make a mission to watch the sunrise on the beach. As I was going with the flow, I realised my phone had been misplaced. I had no way of finding other people I knew and followed them in order to get away from the situation that had just been placed on me without my consent.
The Decent Guy
Ben decided to join us while he charmed my friends into thinking he was the decent guy we assumed him to be at the beginning of the evening. I had no idea how to deal with what happened, so thought that as long as the beach idea was happening, I knew I would go home soon after the sun came up.
He did it again and this time I cried while yelling at him to stop. He held my hands to the sand and took complete control of me. The beach was full and not one person paid any attention to what was happening. The pain was intense and my insides were being scratched by the granules that didn’t belong in my sacred space.
Unwilling Participant
I used all my strength and pushed him off me and ran to another part up the beach. He followed, making sure he manipulated my thinking by blaming my tears on the loss of my mobile and not what had happened.
When my friend and I arrived back at the holiday home she went to sleep at her boyfriend. I was alone. I had been sexually assaulted. I was in physical pain.
After a few hours sleep I came to consciousness with a raw throbbing inside me, both physically and emotionally. I washed the evidence from me, not knowing it was the wrong thing to do after a rape.
Fragile and Lost
I sat with my fellow housemates and we began discussing the details of the previous evening. I wanted to join in the fun of sharing stories, but I was fragile and lost; sensitive and emotional. I knew I needed help. I informed the girls of what had occurred to me a few hours earlier and they gasped with shock.
As a unit we decided to find a taxi and visit a local hospital. There I searched for a lady nurse to confide in behind a blue curtain and she advised I visit a police station.
Exposed and Dirty
Feeling afraid of life, I waited for an officer to see me. I spent an entire day reliving the trauma by writing statement after statement. I felt exposed and dirty.
After hours passed, the next step was to take my body to a government hospital. I was greeted by dying patients lying in the hallways and a pungent smell of disease and illness.
I faded into the hallways wishing a fate on myself that these people had not wanted for themselves. I couldn’t deal with it and I wanted this nightmare to be washed away.
Support System
I was cautious of my surroundings. I had been presented a support system of a councillor. She was large, blonde and full of warmth. The curtain I hid behind was dull and scrappy. The doctor took his time in giving me the attention I needed. I waited patiently with tears that I had carried through the entire day. This process was not over yet.
As some tool entered my private parts, I squealed in pain while squeezing the blonde’s hand. There were three of them in front of me – the doctor, the nurse and the blond. I felt sick and wanted to escape, but I was stuck in that moment.
The trauma was inside me. I could feel it and the evidence was right in front of them. There was not much they could do but prescribe a set of pills. The first two were to prevent pregnancy. The next set was unknown – antivirals used to prevent HIV.
End of the Holiday
The following week was my last of the holiday in
I wanted to die each day I woke. My friends tried to distract me with eating out at restaurants and meeting new people, but I couldn’t focus on anything other than how I was going to die. I imagined living with Aids and I wanted to throw up. I had nobody to confide in and I couldn’t find the energy to put a smile on for the public, or even myself.
My father believed I brought this on myself. My mother worried from her home. My best friend felt guilty for not being present. I just wanted out.
Ben Again
A few days after the rape, my best friend and I were walking through town. She nudged me and told me to run off as she had seen Ben in a shop we passed. I immediately lost my breath and walked around in circles with nowhere to go and no idea of how to feel.
I had a document given by the police that if I saw the man that sexually assaulted me they could arrest him. I carried it everywhere I went hoping I would find him – and justice.
The Arrest
When my friend reappeared we hid behind a hotel lobby and watched him walk off in the other direction. Pacing up and down, a security officer and a taxi-man observed our dramatic actions and offered to help. They called the police and explained where we were and what was going down.
We told them what he looked like and what direction he was heading in. In less than a second we heard sirens. The police were off to make the arrest. The first emotion that came upon me was guilt.
How could I play God and put someone in jail? He hurt me, but why should I take away his life? Then I knew why. I was in pain and he had caused it; for which he deserved some form of punishment.
Diplomatic Immunity
I was called to the station a while after and was ushered into an office they reserve for trauma. They shared the news with me. His name was Benjamin Boateng – the British consul’s son.
This entailed a hole in the rape case and the reason for his release. He had diplomatic immunity and there was nothing I could do. He was immune to justice. He was immune to government law. He was immune to my instability.
I hurt more than I had hurt all week, but adjusted to the futility of it all, knowing woman would probably be treated this way forever. Their voices silenced.
Raped by the Press
For the next few weeks I was haunted and stalked by every local and British journalist wanting to know the exact details of what happened and who I was. They found people I had not spoken to in years. They queried them about my past, my present and my behaviour.
They found me and asked questions I could not answer. I just wanted to be left alone to start the healing process. But they wrote articles that suggested an identity, but could not name me as I was a minor, and gave opinions of what had happened.
Every piece had no truth. They made up stories and assumed different details in every report. It was from those days that I knew if I became a journalist I would use every moral fibre I had to report in the most accurate, honest and factual way.
