Fate in its mysterious design cannot be averted neither is it inevitable. I was cast into a world devoid of parental love and affection having lost my parents to the miserable hands of death. If only I knew my coming into this world would be to witness the agony behind the absence of a father and mother. I would have stayed back glued to the hands of the creator.At the age of two, I was abandoned at the doorstep of a dilapidated orphanage. The worn out building with its chipped paint and creaking floors became my sanctuary and prison all at once. Amongst the rows of bunks, I forged my first connection with other lost souls, the echoes of their shared longing for belonging resonating within the walls. My uncle, Babatunde, a weathered man came to my rescue when the rest of the world turned its back and took me in. Little did I know that my refuge will become a place of horror.Uncle Babatunde, a man in his mid-fifties, sturdy and fair in complexion. His pot belly protrudes prominently, testament to his indulgent lifestyle and the consequences of his excessive habits. It hangs over his waistband, a round bulge that speaks of overindulgence and neglect of personal well-being. His midsection seems to precede him, defining his silhouette and lending him an almost caricature-like presence.His skin tone contrasts sharply with the darkness of the tribal marks etched across his face.His fat and chubby cheeks sag slightly coupled with a stubble-speckled chin, lends him an air of unkemptness.Rumors flew around about my uncle's promiscuous lifestyle. His infidelity and promiscuity had cost him his marriage, leaving him alone and bitter. And tragically, it was me who would bear the brunt of his torment. 
One night, my uncle got back from work late, tired and grouchy, he requested that I go into the kitchen to make poundo for him and dish it before he gets out of the bathroom. I had to stay up after I was done making him what he requested . Waiting for him to go to bed as usual before I retire for the night, I lay on the couch, watching a soap opera and munching the cookies I got from the kitchen cabinet. Soon, I fell asleep on the couch only to feel the weight of a body coming down heavily on me, my mouth cupped with a hand filled with a stench. My eyes fluttered open and I beheld those strong arms slipping down my pants, reaching for my G-spot as he thrusted his penis and forced his way into me, devouring me bits by bits, consuming the dignity left of me. My world became blank as I stared into the eyes of the beast. The moans from his spaced out lips subjected my world into disarray as aches plundered through my body. My mind, a debased vessel, ripped out of its sanity. There was nothing to hang on to anymore. Pieces of myself I could behold scattered in her mind. I was empty.
Innocent and trusting, I could never have anticipated the betrayal that lay in my uncle's heart. He molested me repeatedly, his actions leaving me scarred both physically and emotionally. The weight of my circumstances crushed my spirit, and the fear of being abandoned and forced back into the streets caused me to suffer in silence. 
Night after night, I endured the unthinkable. The couch, once a place of comfort, became a battlefield where I fought against my uncle's advances. I longed for freedom but had nowhere to escape to. Sleeping on the streets or under bridges in Lagos' unforgiving mainland seemed like a fate worse than my current misery. I blamed herself for coming to the world as an orphan and wished I had died during delivery alongside my mother. My father, who was supposed to be by my side, also met with a tragic death while he was out in the streets of Lagos, struggling to get emergency medications for his wife, my mother as prescribed by the doctor to prevent complications in her delivery. My life couldn't get more miserable than it was. I wanted to end it all. I was tired of the misfortunes that was befalling me. I wanted the world to come to an end. I couldn't bear wasting away like a smoke. I craved a life free of pain and suffering. I vowed that I would make sure my uncle had a taste of his medicine even if it was the last thing I did.
One fateful evening, my uncle stumbled home in a drunken stupor. His actions became even more repulsive, as he tried to force himself on me once again. This time, something snapped within me. Summoning every ounce of strength I had left, I pushed him away, causing him to hit his head against the wall with a sickening thud. Fear gripped my heart as I realized the severity of the situation, and fled the scene, leaving my uncle to his fate.
I ran without looking back, as fast as my legs could take me, crying profusely as flashbacks of the horrible night rushed through my head. I would not stop running until I am out of this mess. I ran into the night, panting heavily and crouching down on my knees, hungry and tired. I was ready to be swept away by the evils of the night. Nothing mattered to me anymore. I laid down under the table of a wooden shed waiting for doom at my service.
Many Years had passed, and I managed to rise above my tragic past. With the help of a kind-hearted woman named Mrs. Ignatius, who had come to my aid that night when I ran away from home, I found refuge and hope. Mrs. Ignatius took me in and nurtured me like a daughter, ensuring I received a proper education up to getting a masters degree in mass communication in the University of Lagos. 
When I completed my studies, Mrs. Ignatius used her connections to secure a well-paying job for me at a prestigious media firm in Abuja where I relocated to, seeking solace in a new city and a fresh start. 
As I made her way home one evening after a long day at work, stuck in traffic, I spotted a disheveled man sprawled across the road, begging for alms. Compassion stirred within me, and I pulled over to offer assistance. Opening my purse to retrieve some money, I looked into the man's face and froze.
It was my uncle, Babatunde.
Shock coursed through my veins as memories of the past flooded my mind. I stared at him, hoping that he would recognize me, but he remained oblivious to my presence. 
How is this possible?
Time stands still. My mind struggles to comprehend the sight before me. He doesn't recognize me. How could he not? The years have passed, but the scars he left on my soul are etched deep within me. The memories flood back, engulfing me in a wave of pain and anger.
I was torn between conflicting emotions. The shock and disbelief mix with a surge of repressed anger. It's him, the very person who violated me, reduced me to fragments. The wounds he inflicted have shaped the person I was today. 
Part of me feels a sense of satisfaction, seeing him in such a state. He deserves to suffer for what he did to me, for the pain he inflicted upon me. But there's also a twinge of sadness, a flicker of empathy that flickers deep within.
How did he fall so far? 
What happened to the man who was once my guardian, however flawed? 
What led him down this path of despair and destitution?
 Did he ever feel remorse for what he did to me? 
Can he ever understand the magnitude of his actions?
A swell of regret engulfs me. Regret that he cannot see the strength I had found within me. Regret that he will never comprehend the extent of the damage he caused. 
Yet, I was also grateful for the opportunity fate has presented.
My voice trembles as I whisper words into his ears. Words laden with the weight of my pain,sorrow, and resilience. 
"You deserve every pain and suffering you are going through right now, Uncle."
A mixture of triumph and sadness washes over me. Triumph that I can stand here before him, a survivor, while he has been reduced to this state. Sadness that our lives have taken such divergent paths. 
The irony is not lost on me.
I offered him a bundle of cash, a final gesture that carries the weight of her forgiveness and her liberation.
 It is a farewell, a final act of closure. 
I turned and walk away, tears welling in my eyes.
As I retreat to the safety of my car, I buried my head against the wheel. Waves of conflicting emotions crashed over me once again. The pain of the past resurfaces, mingling with relief, regret, and a glimmer of compassion. It is a bittersweet moment, one that marks the closure of a painful chapter.