Every week, Zikoko spotlights the unfiltered stories of women navigating life, love, identity and everything in between.
What She Said will give women the mic to speak freely, honestly and openly, without shame about sex, politics, family, survival, and everything else life throws our way.
When Rachel* was 17, she followed her father one Sunday morning and saw something she was never meant to see. That moment didn’t just shatter her understanding of the man who raised her; it reframed her mother’s death, her siblings’ constant illnesses, and the fear that had quietly ruled their home for years.
Now 29, Rachel speaks about growing up with a father whose violence went beyond physical abuse and the spiritual terror that surrounded her family.
Before everything happened, what was your relationship with your father like?
It was complicated long before I found out the truth. When I was younger, I was very close to my father. I remember that whenever I fell ill, I would lie on his chest and listen to his heartbeat. He would rub my back until I slept. Those moments made him feel safe, like someone who would always protect me.
But as I grew older, that version of him slowly disappeared. He became distant and very confusing. He would react violently to the smallest things. Noise irritated him. Mistakes irritated him. Even joy irritated him. He would scream at and sometimes whip you for not doing something, then turn around and do it again because you did that thing. He would viciously and seriously, almost like he believed what he was saying, accuse you of his mistakes, like glasses or drinks he broke. Maybe money he misplaced. There were always very bad consequences. He started pulling away from the family and became increasingly secretive.
By my teenage years, he was barely around. He was always “working,” always travelling, always stepping out at odd hours. And when he was home, you felt his presence immediately. The house became tense. You had to measure your movements, like the typical strict Nigerian father energy, where the entire atmosphere shifts the moment he walks in.
Looking back now, I realise I was already afraid of him before I knew I had a true reason to be.
When did things start to feel truly wrong in your home?
After my mother started falling ill.
My mum was the calm centre of our family. She prayed a lot, sang around the house, and somehow managed to soften my father atimes. Then she started getting sick in ways doctors couldn’t explain. She was always tired. Always in pain. Always ‘fading’.
One day, my grandmother (mumsie’s mum) brought a prophetess to the house. We didn’t invite her. She just arrived. The prophetess wasted no time. She said there was someone in the house who was “eating the light.” She said someone close to my mother was responsible for her sickness. She didn’t mention names, but the message was clear enough to terrify all of us.
My father stood there quietly while she spoke. He didn’t argue. He didn’t react. He just watched her.
My mother died a few months later.
At the time, we didn’t know how deeply connected everything was. We only knew that after her death, the sickness moved to us.
I am so sorry for your loss. What do you mean, the sickness moved to you?
I mean, we started falling sick one after the other.
It began with my younger brother. He was always complaining of headaches and weakness. Then it was me. Then my sister. The illnesses would come and go, but they never fully left us. We were constantly in and out of churches, prayer grounds, herbal homes, and even mosques.
My father took us everywhere. Sometimes he prayed loudly. Other times, he stood quietly behind us, watching. It was like he was searching for something specific, not healing.
People in his village whispered about him. There were rumours that he was protected by an old woman there, someone so feared that as long as she was alive, no one could touch him. I didn’t understand what that meant then.
What She Said: I Almost Lost Myself Trying To Keep My Sister Alive
Can you describe the moment you found out what your father was really doing?
I was seventeen, almost eighteen. At that point, I was not okay. I had been thinking and thinking about how we would leave, but where would I go? Who would look after us? His siblings were deep in his pockets, and my mother’s side of the family were too scared of him to really do anything. What could I do? I felt hopeless, like I was stuck in this life I could not leave and never chose.
One morning, he said he was stepping out before church. He used to do this often, like every other week. This time, I followed him without fully understanding why. Something in my body just moved.
He walked to an uncompleted building behind our compound. I stayed back at first, then moved closer when I heard him murmuring. He was repeating my name. Quietly. Over and over.
When I saw him, he was crouched on the ground, digging. There was a Bible placed beside him, open, and next to it was a wrapped animal head. I didn’t need to open it to know what it was, but he confirmed it when he opened it to put it in the ground. It was a goat’s head severed so brutally and recently, it was covered in blood.
I did not know I was frozen in fear. Not while he lowered the open bible in after or while he covered it with the ground that he had dug up. Not until I realised he was looking right at me.
When he noticed me, he didn’t panic. He didn’t look ashamed. He just stared at me like he had been waiting for this moment.
I ran.
That night, he didn’t confront me. He didn’t shout. He just watched me silently throughout dinner. That silence felt heavier than any beating.
What happened next?
I started tiptoeing around him.
I barely slept. I packed small bags under my bed in case I needed to leave quickly. I stopped being alone with him. I memorised his movements and his moods.
Then my younger brother died.
He went to bed complaining of another headache and never woke up. My father didn’t cry. He just sat outside until morning. After the burial, one of his relatives warned me not to be “stubborn” like my mother.
I didn’t even understand what that meant. That was when I knew I wouldn’t survive if I stayed.
Was there ever an attempt to stop your father? Did you try to tell anyone?
Yes. I told my grandmother.
She told me to act like nothing had happened. That I should be very quiet and smart so that I would not die like my mother. She said I should leave it to her. She will try and find help. So all I really know about that is that someone outside our immediate family tried to intervene. People believed that if anyone could stop him, it would be that person.
It didn’t work.
Instead, the person who tried began falling sick afterwards. Slowly deteriorating. That was when it became clear that whatever protected my father was stronger than anyone imagined.
That was also when I stopped believing that justice would come.
How did you eventually escape?
I actually left quietly. I had waited long enough that I knew he wouldn’t suspect it.
I waited for him to go on one of his many trips, packed only what I could hide, and left very early the next day with my sister. We moved from place to place until we were safe. My grandmother and her side of the family quietly sent money to us when they could, but they couldn’t house us. They said he would know, and we were better like this.
In truth, I cannot tell you what those years did to us. Living in constant fear with no real home or family to claim. To be responsible for myself and her. To have countless nightmares about that scene with my father. To have nothing.
About four years later, we relocated to a neighbouring country.
My father never called. Not once. He never looked for us. Sometimes I wonder if he knows where I am. It has honestly been scarier living this way, not really knowing if or when he will come. But at least, we get to do some living.
Where are you now, emotionally and spiritually?
I go to church. Sometimes I go to the mosque. I don’t know what I believe anymore, but I know I’m looking for light. I’m looking for peace. I’m looking for something that feels clean.
My father is still alive. That knowledge sits with me every day. I don’t want revenge. I don’t want answers anymore. I just want distance. I just want to live.
Sometimes, surviving is the only victory you get. It is the only one I want.
Also Read: The Guide to Protecting Your Wig from Snatchers This December
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