Online Reporter
NEW JERSEY. — I’ve lost count of the times my daughter and I have been told we look like sisters.
For anyone else, this comment might be taken as a compliment — but for me, it triggers a maelstrom of emotions, because Arrishtk, 32, is both my daughter and my sister.
She was conceived when my father Aswad Ayinde raped me when I was 15.
Also known as Eric McGill, my father was a celebrated musical director who had directed the 1996 MTV-award-winning video for The Fugees’ Killing Me Softly. Behind closed doors, however, he was a monster. Growing up in New Jersey, in the US, my home was not a normal, happy one.
My eight siblings and I were all home-schooled, rarely seeing anyone beyond extended family, and Dad would regularly beat my mother Beverley, 67, and us.
I was just eight years old when, one day, Dad told me he had to teach me how to be a woman — and then sexually abused me.
Confused and scared, I questioned if it was right, but he forbade me from telling anyone.
For the next two years, he abused me almost daily, in my bedroom at night or in his room when Mum was out. I became reclusive, terrified of drawing any attention.
I was 10 when he raped me for the first time, and afterwards I was petrified I could become pregnant.
I’d look in the mirror and obsess over how a baby would fit inside my child-size body.
Soon after that, Mum revealed that Dad had told her what was happening, but that he was doing it “to help with a skin condition I had”.
I’d been raised to obey my parents without question, so despite my horror, I said nothing. From then on, Dad didn’t have to hide his abuse. My siblings soon knew, too, with Dad telling them he was “keeping me” when I was around 13.
They were also conditioned to keep quiet.When I was 15, I realised I’d missed two periods.
I remember feeling scared that if I had a girl, he’d abuse her, too.
Mum and Dad didn’t believe in abortion, so I had no choice but to carry his baby.
Seeing my bump grow, I felt conflicted.
I hated my father, but I was also desperate for love, and this baby would love me unconditionally. I had no idea whether he or she could be born disabled as a result of being conceived through incest.
As my pregnancy progressed, I was kept hidden away and I didn’t have any medical appointments — Dad didn’t believe in Western medicine. In March 1994, aged 16, I gave birth at home to my daughter Arrishtk.
Holding her in my arms, I felt such deep love for her — and also intense fear knowing how powerless I was.
Arrishtk was two when I became pregnant again. In April 1997, I gave birth to my second daughter, Montsho.
Dad told me I was going to work in a clothes shop and all my wages would go to him.
He’d come into the shop regularly to keep an eye on me, purporting to be my husband and charming my co-workers.
Two years after Montsho was born, in November 1999, I had my son Aloba.
When Aloba was five months old, he began having seizures. I’d been raised to believe everyone in the outside world, including teachers, police and doctors, were evil, so I was forbidden from getting him medical help.
But I knew he needed it, so I secretly took him to hospital.
He was diagnosed with rickets, and I was told he wasn’t getting enough calcium or vitamin D, a result of poor diet and being kept indoors.
Social services became involved and, although I couldn’t find the words to tell them directly, I wrote Dad’s name down on paperwork under the section for “Father”, hoping they would realise.
Nobody did.
However, they did take my three children into care, because of my son’s health issues and the fact my second daughter was also suffering from developmental delays.
I didn’t realise until years later that it was likely due to incest.
I was so devastated when they were taken away, I wanted to die.
My only comfort was knowing they were now safe and away from Dad.
It was seven months before I was allowed to see them again, and then only fortnightly at a social services office. During that time, my father continued raping me, and I became pregnant at 23.
In March 2001, my daughter Uwakokunre, or “Koko”, was born and allowed to remain in my care.
But at two months old, she was diagnosed with an incurable neuromuscular disease — another consequence of incest.
Finally, in 2001 came the moment that would free me from the years of horror.
I suddenly flipped and all my pent-up fury poured out.
I started screaming at Dad and Mum, telling her she’d failed to protect us.
Dad left and Mum finally went to the police, seeking a restraining order due to domestic violence.
My focus was on getting my children back, before I contemplated bringing charges of my own against him.
In late 2003, we were reunited.
By then, they were nine, six and four, and we moved into our own home as I set about building a life for us.
Meanwhile, Dad was still evading the police, using different names and staying with girlfriends.
Wanting to protect other girls, in 2006 I made a statement to the police.
Three years later, Dad, now 68, was found guilty of sexually assaulting me.
The court heard he’d been trying to create a “pure” family bloodline, and he was sentenced to 50 years in prison.
The relief was indescribable.
Sadly, Koko died when she was nine, as a result of her condition.
Losing her was heartbreaking.
As for my other children, I gradually broke the truth about their parentage to them when they were old enough to understand, helping them deal with the inevitable anger and confusion that I was both their mother and their sister. — Sun Club
