My heart almost stopped, my head was spinning, tears filled my eyes instantly, and the fact that my grandmother was now crying hysterically didn’t help. I was puzzled, how? why? I wanted to request an abortion there and then, but my grandmother made the most dreaded statement.

“It’s okay we will support you and help you raise the child, there is no other way.”

No! I don’t want it, it was a mistake! I screamed in my mind but no one could hear me, so I sat there opposite my gran and the nurse, weeping silently.

And as per tradition, we had to report the pregnancy at the boy’s home. Which is the most degrading thing I ever went through. We were up before the crack of dawn, for some unknown reason it’s done that way.

I was scared; how was I going to tell the boy I almost had sex with that I was expecting his offspring. I quickly gathered my thoughts; my feelings didn’t matter anymore, I had no choice, culture and religion had stolen it from me. I couldn’t even begin to place my own opinion on the matter, I was treated like a vessel, whose only task was to bring a child into the world.

As I had anticipated, he was fuming, I remember him asking, “So what?! Did that pregnancy test have my name on it?”

I wished the ground could’ve opened up and swallow me alive. I knew that I couldn’t really blame him for his reaction, we didn’t go all the way so being impregnated by him was taboo.

So I kept the baby, as ordered. Deep down I wished it could disappear into thin air, but it didn’t, my tummy kept on growing. As the months rushed by I would fantasise about cutting my stomach with a knife and removing the shame and embarrassment that filled it.

I felt powerless, stupid, irresponsible and lonely. I harboured deep resentment for my grandmother and my whole family. I hated the support and care they gave to this utterly embarrassing situation.

Having a child did far more harm than good, it broke me, further than what I already was. The father of my child insulted me on a weekly basis, calling me a dirty little liar and a slut. I think he found pleasure in reminding me that I refused to sleep with him, so I couldn’t be pregnant with his child. I didn’t care anymore.

I gave up on trying to explain that I only had sexual contact with him and no one else, I didn’t care anymore. I flew through the motions like a bird in the sky, smiling and content in the afternoons then crying and depressed at night.

Only my pillow knew the sorrows I kept hidden in the midst of my joyful afternoons. After eight months of following that pattern, it was time to deliver my son into the world, my grandmother was in charge of the arrangements to take me to hospital.

Tell us: What advice do you have for this girl?