To break free from these walls(Ewa Gerald Onyebuchi) "I love Rahila, she's a beautiful and strong woman. She's my role model."

Everyone says. Always. Damn right, you've heard these words a gazillion times and you're fricking exhausted They think they know you? Oh, they think you're so strong like iron, or unbending like the wind? Nobody truly knows you, not even you. But there's one that knows you, there's this pain that lives in you all these years; it usurps your breath, sleeps, sits, walks with you, and holds your hand and wouldn't let go; sometimes it plays with your ego like a blacksmith does with iron: hammers, melts, squeezes, and forges you into something hard and impenetrable. Yet, you are barely one.

The cry of the blender pulls you out of sleep. Take a quick yawn. The whole room is bathed in warm sunlight pouring in from the curtains tossed open on the opposite end of the room.

The room is a disgusting jumble— the smell of whiskey, cigar, and late night sex still hang in the air like a threat. Of clothes jumping about as the fan blades spin around, whinnying as they move. Turning off the switch plastered to the wall from across, you begin to pick the clothes from the floor, examining each one with such reproachful thoroughness, and flipping them on the bed.

This is mine, you mouth your thoughts. The brazier and pant are mine. But this is not mine— a trouser, more male than female, less tight than the ones you wear. Judging from the size and length of both legs of trousers, you imagine the guy to be tall, maybe five feet tall, and ripped. Surely, this is not mine, you assure yourself. A male shirt.

A pair of black shoes, wide enough to swallow both your feet if tried on—the awful smell doesn't fail to crawl into your nostrils as you examine them. Tossing them on the floor, you cringe, and hold your waist.

Definitely, there's a man under your roof, you agree. But you can't remember all that happened last night. All you remember is that you were at the club last night, had a couple of beer, and smoked the hell out of yourself.

The humming of the blender stops, now something is frying at the kitchen. You wear a grimace as you will your body to the kitchen.
He's standing there, tall, and a glut of muscles adorning his body, just as you had imagined him. He doesn't have a shirt on except his red boxers. You only see his back, not his face. The hissing of the oil in the pan continues, as he pours in the squashed, slimy egss.
'For God's sake, who the hell are you? What are you doing here?
'Hey, baby! How are you doing this morning? I just thought of fixing us breakfast,' he says, turning around. A row of white teeth flashes from a gorgeous smile. Gush he's dark and handsome, your focus drifts. Look at those lips, those abs! Still you will your mind to be calm, as you try to dismantle the web of sily thoughts.
'I asked you a simple question. Who are you and what are you doing in my kitchen?'
'Ahn-ahn, Rahila! You don't remember me?' He tries to act informal, as though the two of you have been friends for a long time, longer than you can ever remember.
You are perplexed. How does he know your name? And he has your other pair of slippers on, the one you like to wear, the one that breathes comfort to the sole of your feet each time you walked around naked in your house, the one you can't part with, although old now.
'My name is Peter. We met at the club last night, had a couple of drinks, and we had, you know... But you were very feisty last night. Never mind, I love girls like yo...'
You hush him up, not interested in whatever he has to say. Turning off the gas, you push him out of the kitchen. Now you remember. He is the waiter at the night club here in Victoria Island. Nowadays, you hook up with any dude you get to meet at the club.
You force him out of the house, outside, into the angry sun. Hurl his personal effects at him.
'Ahmed, throw this pig out of the gate,' you order the gateman. Before you withdraw into the house, you listen over the hum of a neighbor's generator for Ahmed's usual derisive laughter.
'Kai, mumu o. Dem don throw you out too. Abeg, come comot from my gate. Nonsense!' Ahmed mocks.
Knowing who it's meant for, a copacetic smile runs from one corner of your mouth to another. That serves him right, all of them. Men don't deserve any pity. At least not from you. You glance at the big clock on the wall way above the huge plasma TV. It's 9 in the morning. You know you are late for the case at the court. Still you are not perturbed, not in the slightest way, over wining or losing. You know you would win. You always do.

Finally back from work. As usual, case closed, another murderer delivered behind bars, another win—not just a plus to your fame, but to your bank account. The beep has just arrived. You know it's a credit alert. Two hundred thousand Naira. A sigh slips from your lips, as you uncorked the bottle of champagne. But I told this woman not to bother, you say in a soft voice. Another message arrives shortly.
Please, manage this token from me, ma. I know you said the other time that you don't accept money from women like me, but I insist. Thank you for not letting my daughter's death be in vain. God bless you.

Slouching in the sofa, tears would stream down your eyes. The untouched glass-full of champagne sits on the shiny glass table in the middle, whizzing and staring at you, as if begging to be gulped. With all the winnings and numerous awards plastered to the walls of the living room like an art museum, your pain wouldn't just disappear. Everything should feel right already. You should be happy, celebrating, satisfied, knowing that that viper is rotting away in cell for raping and killing a defenseless girl, ten times younger than his fucking age. But you are not. You don't know how to be happy. Probably can't recall the last time you ever were.

Your throat burns with thirst. The kind of thirst that makes you fiercely sexy as you gulp down all of that sweet but intoxicating juicy content at once. The kind that demands another drink, and another, and another, until you smash the glass against the wall.

Laying there on the floor, hands on your head, your phone would start to ring. And if you check, you would find that it's Chris calling. Yet, you wouldn't pick the call. Your refusal to answer would only give him more room to keep calling, inevitably wearing you out.
Chris, your lenient colleague, has been on your neck since the other night you said yes to his persistent demand about having dinner with him. That night you told him not to get his hopes up already, that it was only a harmless dinner time not a date. 'No problem, Rahila, I wouldn't force you. Just a matter of time, I will prove to you that I am not like other guys, he assured that night. You know the problem isn't with Chris—he's such a sweet and charming young man. You know he's different, and means well. You have a problem being around men for too long. They seem to make your skin crawl.

After the incident with your father, this other you, which was watered by so much hate, anger and pain, grew. Every night he would come to you, wearing such smile which looked uncanny and ridiculous on him. Then, he would tickle your thighs, and squeeze out your pants. 'If you shout or tell your mother, I will make sure I make your life a living hell in this house, get it? he would threaten. Laying on your back, tears pouring from your eyes, you felt something huge and stiff thrusting in and out of your tiny vagina. The next morning, you rush to the bathroom with your bloodstained pant to wash up.
Even when you decided to open up to Mama one time about it, asking if your father was actually related to you by blood, she did not believe you. She thought it was the dementia speaking. So she invited the therapist over to the house to check you. Yeah, dementia came to you monthly. But this time, it wasn't it. You tried explaining to your therapist, but he was as deaf as your mother. He decided to place you on some sedatives. Your father's brutality continued every night. Until one night, as his feet scurried into your room and sneaked up your bed, you screamed and your mother rushed in to find him on top of you.
She hit him so hard on the head that he fell to his dead. Mama was arrested but later released since it was evident that he was a brute of a man. 'I'm so sorry my child, forgive me for doubting you,' she said in between tears. You were giving some drugs to kill the sperm from him and another therapist was put in your care.

The phone begins to ring. A surly angry growl sits on your face. You think it's Chris. Instead, it's Mama. Drying the tears from your face, you answer the call.
'Hello, Mama. Good afternoon, ma.'
'Good afternoon, my daughter. How are you?'
'I'm fine, ma.'
'Are you sure? Rahila, you have been crying, bah?' she inquires. You imagine her eyes all around you. There's no way you can hide it from her.
'Mama, I have not been crying o. Allah knows.'
'Don't lie to me, my child. I am your mother and I can feel it.'
'Ok, I think I cried just this once. I'm sorry. I got emotional, that's all.'
'Please don't cry again, you hear me?' You say ok. She asks if you're still going for therapy; but you lied, it's been a while since you saw Dr Emmanuel and you don't seem to remember the way to his hospital. Perhaps, you've misplaced his contacts again.
Although your dementia has disappeard, but this particular pain, the one that follows you around like an invisible friend, therapy is yet to make it go away.
Mama says she saw you on the news being interviewed outside a court house. 'I am so proud of you, my angel. Ya Allah continue to keep you,' she prays. Then she beseechs you to pick Chris's calls, to give him a chance. She explains things about him to you, things you already know. So, this dude actually called my mom? your face turns red.
Loveth, your childhood friend, calls almost immediately after Mama's call ends, to plead with you.
'Babe, I know you've been through a lot. But, please, you can't continue to hurt yourself by living in the past. Your father is dead and gone forever. Not all men are like him. There are still good ones in this world, good ones like Chris Madufor. Please, give that dude a chance,' Loveth says, her voice so firm, so sweet and audacious over the phone.
Mama and Loveth have been the two pillars of support in your life. You listen to them more than anyone else.

After a long shower, you slip on some nice red dress, and perfumed your body with lavender. Your mind is made up: straight to Chris's. It's time to bid this pain goodbye. You know it's time to let go of the old version of yourself, full of bitterness, pretense, so much anger, and pain; it's time to break free from these walls. You are happy, hopeful, and confident of this new you.

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