While the people of Kogi State and indeed Nigerians mourned the demise of Prince Abubakar Audu, the former state governor who was contesting for the 2015 gubernatorial elections on Saturday, November 21, one lady who goes by the name Empress Sugarbelly on her Twitter account, was jumping up in joy.
Lady claims late Prince Abubakar Audu's son raped her
After the death of Kogi APC guber candidate, Abubakar Audu, a lady has come out on how his son sued to rape her daily.
Innocent looking Empress Sugarbelly
Her joy, according to her, came because the late Audu's sons, Mustapha, Kabir, Bashir and their cousin, Jibrin, and his friends, regularly raped her repeatedly.
This is how she started her series of tweets:
"The Prince Audu I knew was a monster, and I am glad he is dead, and I spit and I dance on his grave."
She followed up with this:
"The only thing better than Prince Abubakar Audu dying today would be if all his sons could hurry up and die too."
"I'm so happy he's dead, God please hurry up and take Mustapha, Kabir, and Bashir too, and that their animal of a c ousin called Jibrin."
Recalling how Mustapha and his friends raped her repeatedly, she wrote:
"He will choke me while f***ing me. I cried and begged him but he will get angry and say I was ruining his flow.
Whenever I did not do what he or his friends wanted, he would hit me and drag me by my hair. So I learnt to be obedient.
He used to bring new friends every time. He did other unpleasant things like burn me and hold my head under water while his friends f***ed me, but that was only once or twice. I was in love with him and inside, I kept hoping he didn’t mean it and if I was obedient enough, he would go back to being the sweet guy i met."
Since her first tweet, she has been heating up with more revelations and when many people tweeted insults at her for what she has been putting up, she took her time to give an extensive narration of what she went through in the hands of the man.
Read what she wrote:
"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.
I can’t have music playing while driving around in a car either. Or just sitting around at home. I can’t have music playing period. Especially not Maroon5. If I get into your car, please drive in fucking silence or you will make it hard for me to breathe.
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.
Mustapha Audu and Abdul Ogohi in 2007
In the beginning, Mustapha and I would go out for lunch, and I’d put gas in his car, and we’d buy our own shawarmas, and eat out of each others. I had a massive crush on him, and he told me he loved me, and called me “his woman” which made me feel special. I was getting paid 20K a month, which is nothing now, but it was my first real salary back then, and it was nice to have more money of my own to spend, and spent on him I did.
I actually wish this was true. At least it would be compensation for all the money I've had to spend on psychotherapy over the last few years.
I’m no stranger to money. I’ve had a lot of it, and I’ve had very little, and I’ve never been the type of person to be impressed by anyone’s wealth, so it wasn’t cars, hotels, or fancy shit I cared about, I was cool.
I attended the best boarding school in the country, and Mustapha didn’t impress me, and I never asked him for anything or took anything from him besides the comic books and novels we traded with each other.
Empress Sugarbelly and friend at work in Abuja
What I needed was a friend, and when I plunked down at my desk that first day of work at Alteq, and bonded immediately over a shared love of books and superhero comics, I thought I’d made one in the guy sitting next to me.
Every day, I came to work, and he was right there. And at the end of each work day, it had become normal to everyone for him to drop me off at home, so when 6pm came, and he grabbed hold of my arm and said “Let’s go,” I had no idea how to justify refusing and making a scene.
Even after he was fired in April of 2007, at the end of each work day, he would show up outside our office on Amazon Street to whisk me away. I would step outside the gate, and he would be there in his red Mercedes, waiting, demanding I get in.
I was terrified that my refusal would mean the exposure of the pictures he had taken of me early in our relationship, photos I told him not to take, but he did anyway, photos in which I was naked and vulnerable.
I wanted to quit my job, but what reason could I possibly give my family for quitting a job I obviously loved, especially when I needed the internship to get into the honours program at the university I was to attend that year?
I had so much to be fearful of. The thought of the videos Abdul recorded of Mustapha and Tunji raping me seeing the light of day filled me with sheer terror. The alternative was keeping it all secret, and so I did.
Masking your emotions is not hard to do, just exhausting, and so for eleven hours a day, from 7am to 6pm, putting on my clothes, going to work, and sitting at my desk next to Mustapha every day was easier than you think.
At 17, I knew already that the Nigerian police is most definitely NOT your friend, and that people who have police and army escorts in their homes are generally the sort that can make you disappear (in many little pieces preferably), and pay off the police to look the other way, or failing all else, buy judges to make sure any court cases brought against them never see the light of day.
Abdul Ogohi and Mustapha at Javabean
I had disclosed already to my priest at confession, and to a doctor in Maitama General Hospital where I got tested for HIV and other STDS, the horrific things that were happening to me, and nothing had come of it.
At the time, I didn’t know whether a rape crisis centre like the Mirabel Rape Centre even existed in Nigeria, or that there were any resources to help someone in my situation, or even what to do after I had been raped to help me get justice.
I was scared, and I felt very alone. Their parents were very powerful people, and I didn’t have any faith in the police, especially faced with attackers that seemed to have both the police and the army in their pockets.
It was even more difficult to come to terms with the enormous betrayal of the man who told me he loved me, whom I loved as well, doing unspeakable things to me, and forcing me to do them with others.
Even after I escaped from him by moving to the United States for college, I remained torn, and the part of me that loved him could not reconcile with the horror that he had put me through, and we stayed in contact because the mental hold he had over me was still so strong.
It took me an additional three years to fully break free of him, and though I don’t live in daily terror of Mustapha Audu as I once did, anything that bears even so much as the memory of him is enough to break me down.
In December of 2008, I ran into Bashir in a mall in Maryland, and suffered a complete panic attack. I broke away from the people I had come shopping with, and ran and ran to the other end of the mall.
In 2012 and 2013, while out with Nyimbi, I ran into Ema and Tunji at Vanilla in Maitama. Tunji was sitting in low seats opposite the bar in the company of my classmate, Kachi, whom I’d attended Loyola with.
They didn’t recognize me, but it was all I could do not to break a bottle of whiskey on Ema’s revoltingly globular head, and the night ended with Nyimbi dragging me out of Vanilla in tears of anger and frustration at my lost opportunity to kill them both.
Looking back, I can see how so much fear and shame prevented me from exposing what these animals were doing to me, and I question why I let them rob me of so many years of my life.
Still, the child I was at 17 was very different from the adult I am today at 26, and my 26 year old self would have damned the consequences, told, and raised hell.
As terrifying as it was to come to work every day and have to sit next to Mustapha, I’m saddened by the realisation that in the same place that held such terror and anxiety for me, I had people who loved me, cared about me, and would have done their best to protect me if I could have overcome my fear and shame and cried out for help.
My adult self sees what my child self could not back then – that had I told my mentor, boss, and friend, Nyimbi what was happening to me right under his nose, he would have stopped at nothing to rescue me from my private hell.
What baffles me, is how so many people who know absolutely nothing about what did happen, can speak with such confidence, the most absurd speculations, about the facts of my life.
If this all were not so incredibly sad, it would be quite amusing to me, that there are thousands of people who think I am (by my count so far) – an agent of PDP, a gold digger, a woman scorned, or politically motivated because they personally have never heard of my rape before now.
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 “Fuck 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 Abduland 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.
Tunji Abdul on his wedding day
So, when I see ignorant comments from members of the public in reaction to my trauma, I really feel the urge to ask these shameless people, how the fuck do you know?
Were you there? Because I was there, and you most certainly were not.
I SURVIVED it, not you, so it is I who will tell you what happened to me, not the other way around."
This is becoming quite messy and be sure this will not be the end of it.
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