Traumatised: Confessions of a Scared Little Girl in a Woman’s Body
Chapter 3: Uncle Mango
“D-do you find m-me attractive?”
I can hear the schoolboy excitement in my uncle’s stammering voice as he seeks my approval. He sounds a bit too frenetic, and the fact that I had to take this call outside — away from my mother — ought to have signalled that this conversation was inappropriate.
“I don’t look at you like that,” I responded, hoping he’d change the topic.
“How about M-maurice?”
Maurice was his best friend. He looked like a Kingsley Cooper-wannabe, except on his deathbed.
“Why does it matter?” my tone grew hostile.
“He’s a good m-man and he knows you’re my niece so he’ll take good care of you,” he said. “If you’re gonna b-be with these older guys, m-might as well b-be with someone who’s gonna take care of you. Plus you know I wouldn’t give you to just anybody.”
He knew I had lost my virginity a year prior and he’d been overly invested in who I was giving my body to ever since.
Since Ryan, I had only been with Andre, an engineer in his late 20s who didn’t treat me like a one-night stand. He didn’t “wife” me either, but shit, I was 16. I understood so I went with his pace.
My uncle’s concerns were cute at first; I felt like I had an overprotective yet cool father figure who just wanted the best for me. But then it turned into him pushing me against a wall and trying to stick his tongue inside my mouth.
I don’t know what was more disturbing; the fact that this creep was my mother’s brother AND childhood best friend, or that he wanted a threesome with Maurice and I.
My mother had always had a strained relationship with her pops, but she decided to work on it after getting baptised. I was 14 when she began the ritual of taking us to his house every weekend. It was a big ‘family house’ divided into two sections. My grandfather, his wife and my younger uncle occupied one section, while my great grandmother and my older uncle lived on the other side.
My mother would tell me tales of her older brother, whom I’ll call Mango, and sometimes they’d share the flashback stories in my presence. They were both raised by my great grandmother (Gramz) in the heart of downtown, Kingston. I could visualise them running around from King Street to Orange Street, and felt their closeness when they reminisced on having each other’s back in the middle of an ass-whooping.
Towards the end of the story, there’d always be a memory of how they were split apart because of adult shit, but how Mango vowed to take care of his little sister no matter what. It was a cute story that I never got tired of hearing. Mango had upheld his promise, and gave my mom money on every visit. He helped her with the bills, groceries, and any other expense that had to do with us. He even gave my brother and I some cash too.
I liked it there — his side of the house at least. Oftentimes, my mom would leave us there and go to work, and I’d spend the day watching cartoons and the teen-centred TV shows my friends spoke about at school. Mango would sometimes buy us KFC and we’d chill and eat until mom came to get us. His room had air-conditioning too, and a dope cream leather sofa that reminded me of a luxurious theatre. To top it off, he drove a white convertible which elevated his cool. Mango had things we didn’t have at home, and for a few hours, I felt like a rich, uptown kid with no problems.
But then it changed. I was no longer being asked about school or if I was “giving my mother any trouble”. By 15, he was asking about my virginity status, if I had a boyfriend, and what my type was. I didn’t overreact. My mom trusted him with us, so I did too. Plus, he’d been giving me money every weekend, so I felt obligated to oblige him.
I told him if I had any crushes, who I was seeing, and he always said my secrets were safe with him. Sometimes he’d talk to me about my mom’s sacrifices and struggles, and how he wants to help us especially with my dad being absent. He even came as my guardian on report card day. I was happy that he was in our lives; we needed the help and occasional lavish escape. I was also happy to have a family member who I could confide in about my “secret life” if I needed to, and only wished we’d been close when Ryan left me itching.
Things were changing as the visits progressed. My usual routine of watching Disney and Nickelodeon was disrupted one day when he was adamant about watching ‘The Dancehall Channel’. I didn’t know such a thing existed, and he told me to wait a few minutes before I could have the remote. I felt uncomfortable seeing the private parts of women invaded by the video light, so I got on my phone and played the snake game. A few minutes turned into an hour, so, I went on the other side of the house to watch local TV.
As I started spending more time on my grandfather’s side of the house, Mango found ways to lure me back in. Of course, at the time I didn’t realise it, I just thought he was trying to spoil his sister’s daughter.
“I’m going to a p-party next weekend. Want to come?”
He didn’t have to ask twice. I loved music and dancing, but going to secular parties at 16 was a hard task with a Christian mother. Now, I’d have a legitimate party plug.
“M-maurice is coming,” he added. “Take a friend, m-make sure she looks as good as you.”
Yuck. Old man Maurice. I never took it as a date or setup, I just thought they were two elders wanting to look hip by being around young girls. I phoned my bestie at the time and she was game, but I also let her know about the weirdness that had been happening between my uncle and I.
I remember our skinny, young legs sitting on his veranda waiting for Maurice to pick us up. Mango was questioning her but we were just excited to be going to a party with adults. Maurice tried to talk to me at the event but I wasn’t giving him any play. He was too old, he was my uncle’s best friend, and the whole idea of it was fucking gross if you ask me.
“What d-do you think of M-maurice?” Mango asked when I got home. He’d called as soon as I stepped in, and I stepped back out in case he asked some wild shit.
“He’s okay,” I said drily.
“A m-mi friend from longtime m-man. We’ve d-done so m-many threesomes together.”
Is this nigga drunk?
“Would you ever d-do a threesome?”
I guess he fucking is. I told him I had to go and got off the phone. They were a perfect match in dog pound heaven. Perennial heat right thruuuuuuu!
Mango grew more persistent. He no longer pushed Maurice on me and started auditioning himself. He’d ask what turns me on, if I’d ever climaxed, if I knew where my G-spot was…it never seemed to end. I remember awkwardly laughing-off most questions. I always tried to play it cool. I didn’t want to upset him and “fuck up the bag” for my family, and I didn’t want to sully the image my mother had of her superhero brother. But I also didn’t want to give the impression that I condoned what he was doing.
By 17, my mother had stopped accompanying us to the house and he got bolder. As I sat watching music videos one Saturday afternoon, he entered the room with a bowl of mangoes and some newspapers. I was on the sofa and he placed the newspapers at my feet. I didn’t know what he was about to do, mangoes aren’t exactly a fruit I like. He started eating one after the other, and I soon realised the newspaper served as a bib of sorts. I was enraptured by a video when he called my name. I looked around and he was rapidly flicking his tongue on a mango seed.
“This is what I want to d-do to you,” he said.
It was so unexpected that I had no words. I pretended like my friend had called and left the room. I had stopped seeing Andre by then, and had a high school boyfriend named Mario. I told him what happened and he said he’d accompany me on my next visit. He did, and my uncle wasn’t pleased. My boyfriend wasn’t chummy with him either, he watched him like a hawk and we stayed on the veranda the whole time. Mango didn’t give me any money that day.
There was one weekend my boyfriend couldn’t make it, so I said I wouldn’t stay long. I honestly went for the pocket change, but was greeted by sexual questions instead. I realised he wasn’t going to give me any money unless I entertained his nastiness, so I told him I was leaving. The sun was going down and I was almost at the door when he rushed behind me, pushed me against a wall and tried to kiss me. He wasn’t easy to push off but I eventually did and ran out of there — actually ran. I didn’t look back to check if I’d locked any doors or the gate. I just ran until the house was out of sight. I vowed to never return there and almost kept my word until my mom kicked me out at 18. I had nowhere else to go and Mango said I could sleep in the extra bed in my cousin’s room. I was apprehensive, but I felt secure because his longtime girlfriend Gina had moved in.
He kept to himself and so did I. I rarely spoke and never lingered in his room. He’d have to pass through my room to get to his, and I’d always pretend to be sleeping whenever he walked through. There was one occasion when he asked about my plans, and I told him I wanted to go to the Edna Manley College of the Visual and Performing Arts to study dance. I asked if he could fund it and he said he didn’t have the money to. I never made a fuss over it, and things were going fine until Gina noticed whatever the fuck she noticed.
“Yuh uncle ever try nutten wid yuh yet?” she asked me one Sunday afternoon.
I was sitting at the dinner table eating the food she’d prepared. We hadn’t spoken much over the two weeks I’d been there, but today she woke up with some Nancy Drew spirit.
“You can tell me enuh, me nah guh seh nothing to him,” she smiled. I loved her smile, it had brought me so much comfort as a homeless teen with no clue on how to bounce back.
I asked her why she asked. She said she just noticed how I came to the house and stuck to myself which contrasted previous years.
“You can trust me,” she repeated.
The tears came out of nowhere. I told her of all the times Mango wanted to fuck me, what he said he wanted to do to me, how he’d call me to say freaky shit, and how he wanted a threesome with me and his best friend. She didn’t wait until I finished. She got up, went in the room and started cursing him out.
What thee actual bumboraasclaat. She said she wouldn’t turn on me. She said I could trust her.
“Yuh try fuck yuh niece?” I could hear her shouting.
Mango was silent, it’s like he was in shock.
“She just tell me yuh try fuck har,” she continued.
Gramz heard the fracas and came out of her room. Gina reiterated what I had said and Gramz shot me a look, but was also silent. Gramz and I were never close, but I respected her because we are taught to respect our elders.
I got up and stood at Mango’s door. He had gotten out of bed and finally realised he could speak. He said he didn’t try to have a sexual relationship with me, and said I was fabricating everything because he said he wouldn’t fund my tuition for Edna. I was stunned. He never looked me nor Gina in the eye. His eyes, instead, roved the floor and wall in his made-up rage. I thought that was bad enough until I heard Gramz behind me.
“Liad gyal,” she started, “pack up yuh tings and come out.”
I was deeply hurt by her accusation, but my uncle was taking care of her and covering her medical expenses, so I understood her allegiance.
I called my mom and told her everything. It was the first we’d spoken since she kicked me out. I expected her to call me a liar too, but she told me to come home. She also said I should have told her about my uncle from it started.
I went home the same day. Mom never asked me anything. To this day, she hasn’t. I don’t know if she believes me or not, after all, they were childhood besties.
I felt hurt being called a liar. I felt hurt having him deny being sexual towards me. I went to the Centre for Investigation of Sexual Offences and Child Abuse (CISOCA), initially enquiring about having a lie detector test done to prove to my family that I wasn’t lying. They said the test made no sense as my uncle could “fake it”. They added that I waited too long and should have come when I was 15. The representative said the process would be drawn out in court and by the time a verdict was reached, I’d be broke and my reputation would be ruined. The family also didn’t support my decision to go to CISOCA. It was a lonely and discouraging time. The system told me I had no power and my family wasn’t behind me, so I dropped it.
Gramz died in 2017. My mother called to tell me while I was living with my then-boyfriend. I said “okay” and came off the phone. I never went to the funeral. I didn’t care that she died. She called me a liar. She didn’t believe me. Next.
I haven’t seen my uncle since that day. My mom still talks to him and visits on some weekends. I wish she didn’t speak to him, but Christian shit I guess.
Sometimes I wonder how it would be if I saw him in public: Would I feel sorry for him? Would I despise him? Would I hear Gramz calling me a liar?
Then other times I don’t care. The closest he should ever get to me again is by seeing my byline in the media.
Gina never left him despite her commotion, and I pray I was the last teenager he preyed on.
