God Reality? A Testimony (7)
November 15th 2009 20:52
Of course, initially I thought all my Christmases had come at once, what kid wouldn’t with all this time to themselves. However, that would soon change as the Enemy marshalled for another attack. In hindsight, I would have been much better off at Chevalier dodging Brother Mamo—better the devil you know—for in the coming months, this teenager would find himself in a place very few return from, at least not without suffering irreparable damage.
The first realisation I had about George was he is a closet-alcoholic. Come nightfall and when in need of company the most, I would find my minder in a drunken stupor or passed out in his shack. Whether it was because of the shame I harboured about Mamo, George’s bad example, fear and loneliness, or a combination of all these that lead me to the bottle I will never know. But what began as a few tentative swigs, soon turned into outright guzzling, for as one can imagine in an hotelier’s home, choice of alcohol is more a problem than availability. I remember one particular time a party had been arranged at a friend’s house and I decided to guzzle on a bottle of Chivas Regal before leaving. Naturally, I never made it to the party, waking up that night in the gutter not far from home. I’d drank three-quarters of the bottle! It was a miracle I didn’t get alcohol poisoning.
It was during a similar state of inebriation that George made his move. I was drinking one afternoon while watching TV, and after many glasses felt quite ill, so I laid up on the lounge and soon fell fast asleep. I remember waking to find George sitting next to me with his pants down.
He had one hand on my genitals, the other on his. I kicked away from him and ran into my room, where after locking the door, curled up on my bed. Naturally, I was still quite woozy, and it wasn’t long before I fell asleep.
The next morning, I of course woke hung-over, the memory of George fondling me a vague blur. I remember thinking something along the lines of ‘did that happen or was it a dream about Mamo?’ Naturally, George didn’t say a word, acting as if everything was hunky dory. And I wasn’t about to say ‘hey, by the way, did you fondle me last night?’ It wasn’t until he tried the same thing on one of my friends a few weeks later, did I realise the memory was no distorted dream of Mamo—George was also a paedophile! Thank God, this was to prove his downfall, for who knows how far he would have went, or what he was capable of?
Armed with the knowledge of my friend’s encounter, and with backup from another friend that was privy to what happened, I confronted my mother one day at home. My mum, Irma, was a strong woman who made her mark in a man’s world. She was also renowned for her temper. Her reaction to hearing the news was swift and furious. Grabbing a tomahawk from the back shed and shouting choice expletives, she chased George from the property.
Surprisingly, no further action was taken, probably because yours truly, due to the shame of it all, neglected to tell mother that George had also molested me. Yet again, the Enemy had done his work well. Another molestation and now alcohol addiction was added to my ever-growing list of infirmaries.
The first realisation I had about George was he is a closet-alcoholic. Come nightfall and when in need of company the most, I would find my minder in a drunken stupor or passed out in his shack. Whether it was because of the shame I harboured about Mamo, George’s bad example, fear and loneliness, or a combination of all these that lead me to the bottle I will never know. But what began as a few tentative swigs, soon turned into outright guzzling, for as one can imagine in an hotelier’s home, choice of alcohol is more a problem than availability. I remember one particular time a party had been arranged at a friend’s house and I decided to guzzle on a bottle of Chivas Regal before leaving. Naturally, I never made it to the party, waking up that night in the gutter not far from home. I’d drank three-quarters of the bottle! It was a miracle I didn’t get alcohol poisoning.
He had one hand on my genitals, the other on his. I kicked away from him and ran into my room, where after locking the door, curled up on my bed. Naturally, I was still quite woozy, and it wasn’t long before I fell asleep.
Armed with the knowledge of my friend’s encounter, and with backup from another friend that was privy to what happened, I confronted my mother one day at home. My mum, Irma, was a strong woman who made her mark in a man’s world. She was also renowned for her temper. Her reaction to hearing the news was swift and furious. Grabbing a tomahawk from the back shed and shouting choice expletives, she chased George from the property.
Surprisingly, no further action was taken, probably because yours truly, due to the shame of it all, neglected to tell mother that George had also molested me. Yet again, the Enemy had done his work well. Another molestation and now alcohol addiction was added to my ever-growing list of infirmaries.
| 99 |
| Vote |
subscribe to this blog
