Innocence Lost

She was in the third grade and for the first time she found herself alone, doing the daily trip to and from school. A thirteen mile trip each way, with poor transportation system and no money most of the time, she relied on the kindness of strangers who will stop to give her a ride to cover part of her journey the other parts done on foot. She knew this day would come when her older brother will complete primary school and move on; she had worried about it in silence since the first grade. She quickly learned to fill the silence with stories she made up about the people she passed on her way, the houses along her route come alive as she made up stories in her head about the life’s of those that live in them. She always pictured a kid just like her living in those houses the better the kids life the better she felt as if for that moment she was living a parallel life, in her stories those kids are her.

One Friday afternoon half way through third grade, she was making the final part of her long way home on foot with about two and a half miles to go when an off white two door Datsun come to a stop about five hundred meters ahead of her. The story in her head drifted she wondered if the poor vehicle was out of gas or maybe water except, the car started reversing towards her coming to a stop again next to her. The driver she gathered by looking at him was an old, soft-spoken man. He leaned across the passenger seat rolling down the window, a gush of cool air from the air-conditioning escaped through the window gently brushing against her skin temporarily soothing her from the hot African sun. After learning that they were both headed in the same direction the driver offered her a ride she sat in the passenger seat with her book bag on her lap grateful for the extra time the ride has just afforded her. Time she needed to complete her math homework and to study for the spelling quiz she had the next morning, she wished she could start studying in the car but as customary the driver had a million questions for her. Her school uniform always gave her away her good “Samaritans” always curious as to why she was so far away from her school and intrigued by the fact that she was sent to attend school so far from home.

The driver slowed down with the road narrowing in the semi rural area in the outskirts of Accra heading eastward, he extended one hand towards her and in a swift movement moved her book bag to the back seat. You should be more comfortable he said, no need still carrying your load while sitting in a car. His hand returned onto her lap, his fingers making their way underneath her uniform, she cried trying to understand what was happening, he screamed at her “don’t be a baby” His fingers fighting to get past her panties while keeping his eyes on the road slowing to a crawl. She pleads to get out of the car praying for help, cars coming the opposite direction zipping past without a clue cars from behind overtake them. She twists her legs together as tightly as she can, he fights back with his fingernails, and She can feel the blood, fingernails cutting into her flesh. He swerved as the road curved scaring them both and coming to a stop. The little girl managers to get the door open and jump out of the car, the rural road lined only with forest she runs along it as fast as her legs can move crying. She hears a loud thump her book bag thrown out the window and the driver speeds off. The little girl gatheres her books and makes her way home rinsing off the blood stained uniform and panties never breathing a word about it to anyone.

I still accepted rides from strangers always saying a pray before hand, I convinced myself I could sense the bad strangers from the good ones. On Saturday morning during our run, I thought about this incidence curiously asking my younger sister if she was ever told not to talk to or go anywhere with strangers. How could we have been told that since we often depended on the “kindness” of strangers?