“Late Audu’s son Mustapha was a monster, him his friends n brothers raped me” - Sugarbelly

Late former Kogi’s state Governor Abubakar Audu’s who came back to contest as the governor of Kogi state before death snatched him away; his married son Mustapha Audu has been accused of gang rape by a Nigerian blogger known as Sugarbelly. 

Sugarbelly shared her story please read…………

Why on Earth would anyone who has been raped in Nigeria want to call attention to that fact when rape victims are pilloried as whores, gold diggers, prostitutes, and sluts? When all you can look forward to is constantly being the topic of hushed conversation, pitiful looks, social ostracism and being called “Rape Girl”?

Right now there are thousands of people running wild with their “opinions”, talking authoritatively about what Mustapha, Abdul, Tunji, and their band of friends and brothers did to me, as if they were there. As if they hovered around us unseen like evil spirits, listening to everything that was said, seeing everything that happened, as if they know.

Every time I see a white Nissan Altima, my palms go sweaty, and my knees get weak. It’s an involuntary reaction born of so many nights being driven around Asokoro pinned to the floor of Tunji’s white Nissan Altima, barely able to breathe, the stench of weed stinging my eyes while I choked on the penis of whomever it pleased Mustapha to force me to pleasure that day.

Mustapha was a monster like you cannot even begin to imagine.

His brother Bashir, was the same age as me, and Mustapha decided, that one way or the other, it was his duty as big brother to rid Bashir of his virginity. At what was supposed to be a casual get together for suya and drinks at Tunji’s house, he dragged Bashir and me into the bedroom, and pushed us inside, saying to Bashir “F*ck her!” before locking the door, and leaving me alone in the darkness with his brother.

All my pleas to Mustapha were in vain, and the only thing we heard from Mustapha from the other side of the door was “Don’t let me come back and find out you’re still a virgin.”

On a different date, his cousin, Jibril raped me in that same room. I screamed, and screamed, and fought, and struggled, eventually sticking my fingers into his nose, and biting his hands. In retaliation, he bit me hard on the nose, and later that night, I explained away the swelling on my nose I came home with as an unfortunate meeting with the edge of a swimming pool.

All the while I was screaming, Tunji and Mohammed were discussing business, and when my screams interrupted their conversation, Tunji came by to look at me, naked and pinned beneath Jibril, only to laugh and shut the door firmly behind him.

Every day is a struggle to not end my life, and I have had to spend a small fortune on therapy and mental health services, as well as anti-depressant medication to make my life livable. Even then, I have to constantly fight through waves of pain, anger, shame, self-loathing, and the urge to make it all just go away to get through each day, and I don’t always succeed. 

In 2011, I tried to jump off a bridge, and was hospitalized against my will on a 72 hour hold to save my life. Before that, I had attempted to kill myself by taking an overdose, and woke up in a pool of my own vomit.

I spent majority of my freshman year researching suicide methods, and for most of my first semester of college, besides attend class, I did nothing but cry until I passed out, then wake up ravenous because I’d been unconscious for several hours. The result was I gained over 100lbs in under three months, far more than the 15lbs you’re expected to gain when you first come to college known as the Freshman Fifteen.

For the longest time now, I have been dead inside. Dead people can laugh and talk, and come to work on time every day too. Dead people can get shit done, and write their college essays, and go to class, and be just like you if they want to too. The problem with dead people, is that sooner or later though, everyone starts to notice they’re dead. 

And so, my life slowly fell apart. 

I can’t go swimming at night anymore. I can’t go swimming anymore, period. If you think having a panic attack on land is bad, wait until you’ve had one underwater, and almost fucking drowned yourself even though your Mom taught you to swim when you were little. 

I almost drowned in a pool at the Marriott barely 8 feet deep because being in there reminded me of the night my bikini top got pulled off and I got passed around by Abdul in 6 feet of water, and a man spit in my face and beat me, and soldiers had to drag him off me to stop him drowning me by my hair because he was angry Mustapha decided at the last minute that I had been good, and so he wouldn’t get to rape me after all.    

Nights are impossibly hard for me. How other people just get tired and fall into bed asleep is beyond me. I’m plagued by multiple nightmares every time I close my eyes. I can still feel Ema Oloyo raping me on Abdul’s bed, his oversized head bobbing, his hot, stinking breath buffeting my face as he struggled to force my legs apart. It’s hard to share a bed with people because sometimes I wake up screaming. 

Then there’s the medicine before bed. I have to take that for the rest of my life too. My relationships with friends and family are in tatters because I can barely hide the constant undercurrent of sadness that envelopes me, and the fact that I am always angry. 

Sometimes I simply cannot cope, and I blackout and my autopilot takes over – a basic, high functioning version of me that appears normal for all intents and purposes while I’m really dying inside. 

I’m so tired of keeping this secret, because I shouldn’t have to. 26 is too young to be a member of the living dead, how much more 17? 

Following my post on Twitter in September last year, listing the names of the men who participated in my assault, I received an email from a young woman telling me that she too had had a similar experience with Mustapha, Abdul, and Ema, and that Mustapha had made a s*xtape of her without her consent, and she was now being threatened with the release of that video.

I too, for years have lived in fear of the videos Mustapha, Abdul, and Tunji made of themselves raping me becoming exposed to the public, and the lady who emailed me is just one of many young women who have survived abuse, sexual assault, blackmail, and rape at the hands of these men.

After my story leaked, my friend received death threats from the Audus, as well as a threatening letter from their lawyers demanding $2 million USD within 2 hours. Such an outrageous threat, but probably not absurd to people who have stolen $11 billion USD already. 

 

Mustapha Audu and Abdul Ogohi in 2007

Tunji Abdul

Abdul Ogohi

Sugarbelly
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