Things just get worse in the morning when I switch my phone back on.
Girl, check out Twitter.
That’s Shiluva.
Plus, there are 15, 20 other messages. Some mock me, some condemn, and then there are seven – I count them – from boys I sort of know from school. They’re … well, ‘suggesting things’, is one way to say it.
I feel sick.
“You’re not eating?” Ma’s forehead gets its usual worry wrinkle as she picks up her bag, ready to leave the house.
“Nerves,” I excuse myself. “We’re writing a previous science paper for practice.”
“You’ll kill it.”
Nerves? More like terror. How can I go to school and face everyone who’s seen that photo?
I take Shiluva’s advice and check out Twitter on my way out of the house. Notifications? I’ve never had so many. I’m scared to see what they are – but I know, don’t I?
How many times has it been retweeted? With my handle, so I won’t miss it? The freakin’ photo? The selfie. I’ve done this to myself.
Tears dazzle me, so I can’t read the tweets properly. I just see stray words; ugly hashtagged words that make my heart burn even hotter than my face.
This didn’t start with Unandi and that WhatsApp group. I mean, I know who I sent the photo to, only one person. Still I have to check it out, see what Dambisa said, because obviously he started it, put it out there in the first place:
my ex
Then a whole lot of vile comments from his followers. There’s one that goes:
PHAT why you dump her?
Dambisa’s answer:
too eezi, mi like a challenge
Liar. Liar twice over. I wasn’t easy, and he didn’t dump me. I dumped him.
I’m still fighting tears when I get to school. There’s the usual scrum of learners at the gate, and for a second I think I can get in unnoticed, slip through them and duck into my classroom.
“He-e-ey, Laah-muh-lile.” It starts, a long-drawn-out call, then laughter, like cackling and braying.
“Come over here, babes, I’ve got something for you.”
“Hey hot-bod, let me show you want I’ve got.”
And worse. Words, and other people turning away in silent disgust; girls cutting their eyes at me, or turning to each other and sniggering. People I thought were friends.
They’re too close, the ones with the words, surrounding me. A blur of faces – familiar faces. There’s a hand grabbing my breast and squeezing, another on my butt. I can’t see who’s doing it. There are too many of them.
“Leave me alone!” I shout, and fear gives me the strength to break free and run to the school toilets, I place I usually avoid.
I’m still shaking when Shiluva finds me.
“Someone said … hey girl, you’re a mess. Calm down, take a deep breath. Jeez, Lamulile, what the actual? I still can’t believe this shit. Where did that photo come from?”
“From me.” Suddenly I’m sobbing so hard it hurts.
“What?” Shiluva is patting and rubbing my back.
“Dambisa …” I gulp and try to speak clearly. “When we were going out. We used to message every night. He kept asking me; he said if I loved him I’d do it, send him a nude … I was so in love with him, so scared of doing the wrong thing. It was like I lost my mind, I couldn’t think, only feel.”
“I hear you. Your first serious-serious boyfriend.”
“So I did it, took the selfie. And then … only a few days later, I started really listening to him, hearing the way he talked about women and girls, even his own mother and sisters, like we’re all just – things. So I broke up with him. I didn’t think he minded that much.”
“Obs you thought wrong. This is his revenge.”
***
Tell us: How should girls respond when boyfriends pressure them for nude photos? Can you sympathize with Lamulile giving in to Dambisa?