Gran Secreto Family Incest Stories

Gran Secreto Family Incest Stories
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In the wake of the Elizabeth Ochanya saga (the late 14 year old secondary school girl who was consistently abused for over five years by her uncle and his son), many emotions stirred amongst the populace.
Almost everyone had a thing or two to say about the Ogbuja family and indeed, the perpetrators of the hideous crime they ganged up to commit.
I was one of those who wept and cursed the day Mr. Victor Ogbuja  was born. Not because the thrust of the story was new but the twist to it was most bizarre.
A father and son team of sexual abusers was something many of us had not heard about until then. Don’t get me wrong, I have heard about a son sleeping with his father’s wife and I have also heard about a father having a sexual relationship with his son’s wife.
What I had not heard about was a man and his son, engaged in a threesome. And with a child. Like a badly written scene from a horror movie.
Discussing the development with a group of women then, it threw up some other angles to abuse and incest which we do not appear concerned about nor looking into for possible creation of awareness and solution.
Many were of the opinion that while all we read about incestuous relationships in Newspapers  today is that between fathers and daughters, a whole lot more is happening between siblings, cousins and other relatives.
Enough is not being said about these other incestuous relationships thus allowing more victims fall prey. Many either go unreported by the victims or undetected by elders in the family. Those that are eventually discovered are hushed into silence for the protection of the family name.
In one of the many stories narrated at the meeting, One woman told of how many years back, grapevine had it that one of her neighbour’s children had allegedly had an incestuous relationship which resulted in a pregnancy.
According to her, the family led a rather excluded and detached life style. It was in the early days of the Pentecostal movement. Most of those who turned born again in then often perceived themselves different and better than others, so they tend to turn up their noses at the ‘sinners’, segregating themselves.
This family was one of them. They kept to themselves most of the time. The children were kept under lock , just going to school and church and never allowed to interact with other children or rather, ‘sinners’.
Perhaps, so that the children would not be corrupted. A family driver would pick them after school to drop them at home, then leave for madam’s office and then, oga’s before they all reunite with the family late at night.
Between 5pm and 7pm a lesson teacher comes to engage the siblings and is usually long gone before their parents’ arrival. She was sure the guy came highly recommended simply because he was a brethren.
One day, the couple were shocked to discover that their young daughter was pregnant.  Further enquires revealed that her brother was the culprit. They found out that the children had been at it for a long time while they never suspected such could be happening under their holy roof. Stories always have a way of leaking into wrong or right hands and then make the rounds.
The ‘sinners’ that had been successfully shut out got a glimpse of what was going on behind the doors of the righteous. Of course the pregnancy was swiftly terminated and the boy sent to a boarding school to as a breather of sort. But the damage had already been done.
It reminded me of a conversation I once listened at Abule Egba market where I’d gone to buy some food stuff.  I am a friend at the vegetable stalls of most markets I visit. If you have a penchant for Amala, Ewedu and Gbegiri such as I do, you’ll soon become a friend of the ‘house’, and be able to join in the conversation or asked to give an opinion on issues of discourse on your visits.
If you want to save yourself time and energy of picking the leaves too, you can have it done for a token, meaning you will either wait while its being done or you come back after completing your shopping.  So, I discovered that they were discussing incest and its prevalence in the society.
And so one of the young ladies blurted out that she had a family secret to share on the topic. It involved her elder brother and sister and the first grandchild of the family. My eyes almost popped out of their sockets, thinking it was a bit farfetched. But she went on to reveal how it happened.
According to her, the family of seven lived in one room. While their parents shared the bed, the children slept on the floor after clearing what passed for the sitting room during the day. One day, it was discovered that the eldest girl was pregnant and on interrogation named her brother as being responsible. He denied vehemently and was believed by their parents. The young girl had to stop schooling. She was in Primary six.
The child looks very much like them and bears the family name since no one ever stepped forward to claim it despite her parents refusal to accept it was her brother’s child. The lady however revealed that she saw her brother and sister engaged in the act one night when she woke. She said she did not know what they were up to at the time as she was still very little.
But when the issue of pregnancy came up, thing became clearer to her. A few years after the incident, the lady said she summoned up courage and revealed what she thought she saw that night to their mother.
She was swiftly rebuked for making up stories and warned never to say such a thing to anyone ever again. No one, especially her mother, believed her.
If these two stories happened many years ago, Austin’s is not too long gone. The young banker who now volunteers at the Teenagers department of his church recently shared an unnerving story of his sexual relationship with a cousin which almost ruined his life.
“I had an affair with my cousin. It sexual experience began when I was in Primary school. One of our landlord’s daughters lured me into a relationship with her. I was almost 10 years old then.
The affair stopped when we moved out of their house. We were never caught, so I cannot say if anyone knew about it. She was older than me anyways and was the one that imitated almost all our meetings.
By the time I finished Secondary school, I had learnt more about sex through one pornography book I came across by chance. And though I did not have any girlfriend at the time because I was rather shy, I already knew what to do if the opportunity came to handle a beautiful girl.
As luck would have it, I have this very beautiful cousin who lived abroad but always came home for the holidays. The whole thing started while we were watching a programme on the Television one night.
She was wearing a transparent dress and the two of us were laying down on the rug behind the sofa which provided coverage from anyone that might look our way. I don’t know where I managed to get the boldness from, but something told me to try. So I started fondling her breasts.
To my surprise, she did not say anything, so I continued. Then she got up and went to her room which I took as a sign that she was interested. I followed her to her room and we started all the dirty game. Unfortunately, her holiday was over and she was returning to England the next day. She made me promise to stay with them when I come over for my holiday.
I could not believe my luck and so I convinced my parents to send me over even before my younger siblings were ready. I had just finished my WAEC and was awaiting admission for the University, so they had no problems sending me ahead. When I got to England, we quickly took off where we stopped. We became so close that people who did not know we were cousins always mistook us for a couple.
I fell in love with her and was blindfolded by my desires to propose marriage to her, believing that she was the best for me and it was possible to marry my cousin. And since we shared the same room and bed and my aunt, her mother thought nothing was wrong about, I guess we were convinced that nothing could happen.
We would have fun throughout the night sometimes. But things came to an end when I received a call from my brother in Nigeria that I had been offered admission to a university in Nigeria.
The day I was to leave was a sad day. After my return, we would contact each other on the phone every day.  It affected me so much that I could not stay on the campus. I rented a room so I could have all the privacy I needed and to prepare for when she would visit Nigeria.
She would call me every day, speaking lovely, sexy words into my ears and how she missed me and wanted to be with me. She had also resumed college too and the affair continued as we both shuttled between Nigeria and England at every opportunity.
It was as if indeed, we would end up marrying each other. But one day, a friend managed to persuade me to accompany him to a special church event.
There, it was as if the message was specially written for me. I got arrested by the holy spirit and gave my life to Christ. I became born again and realised that I was deeply engaged in an evil act and I eventually had to tell her it was over.
It was not easy from then on between us. She began threatening me that she would tell the family what we had been doing. She even threatened to tell them that I had raped her while she was on holiday in our house and subsequently forced her into an affair with me.
Later, she told me that she had gotten pregnant for me at some point and had to abort the baby because she did not want to put me into trouble.
She said she would not allow me to dump her after messing her up. But you know that when you have God on your side, nothing can shake you. I informed her that I cannot deny doing all that we did together, but that at the time, I did not realise that it was a sin in the eyes of God and an abomination in the eyes of man.
And even wickedness on the part of the boy as Joseph said in Genesis Ch 39: 9. Eventually, I had to confide in an older cousin who is also a Christian. I was convinced in my spirit that he would understand. With his help, I confessed to my parents who then called her mother and the matter was resolved as best as they could.
Unfortunately, it has damaged the relationship between my father and her mother who are first cousins but were so close many always thought they were siblings. We both do not talk despite the fact that I have tried to make peace with her many times. She also does not visit Nigeria again”.

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In a raw and revealing essay, Rexan Jones embodies the power to overcome.
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There are very few people who know the full story of my childhood. Friends know bits and pieces—that I was adopted, maybe, or that my parents have passed away, or that I am uncomfortable in crowds—but the details are often too much for me to share or for people to hear. I'm speaking out now in the hopes of urging anyone having a hard time to seek help, and in an attempt to find other survivors like myself.
I am a product of incest. My grandfather sexually abused my mother—his daughter—for years, eventually getting her pregnant, and I am the result. He's my grandfather and my father; his other seven children are my aunts and uncles, and my brothers and sisters.
For years, my mother, the oldest, put up with the abuse through a twisted agreement with her dad: Do what you need to with me, as long as you leave the other daughters alone. She was 18 and a mother to me before she learned that he never actually kept this promise, which is when she fled.
She also decided to finally report the abuse to the Department of Human Services. My family had escaped attention by staying on the move and isolating themselves from any kind of community. They lived in various hotel rooms and never sent the kids to school. In a strange coincidence, my mother went to authorities at the same time that two of her brothers were found by police after running away. Their stories were so similar that social workers connected the dots.
My mother, the oldest, put up with the abuse through a twisted agreement with her dad: Do what you need to with me, as long as you leave the other daughters alone.
It took another six months, though, before one pulled my mother aside and asked her gently about my parentage. The whole family maintained that she was knocked up by some maintenance worker in one of their hotels, but the social worker pressed her until she broke down and admitted I was my grandfather's child. No one caught on earlier—it wasn't exactly as if she was going to pre-natal appointments and putting sonograms on the fridge. A blood test was more than enough to seal my grandfather's fate, and he was sentenced to 20 years for sexual abuse and incest. (He was released two years ago, but is on the sex offender registry—I track his whereabouts to this day to make sure he's nowhere nearby.)
Unfortunately, we weren't suddenly safe just because my dad was behind bars. My mother started doing drugs, and continued the cycle of abuse. She got a new boyfriend and would use me, a toddler at the time, as a part of their sexual activity—she filmed and photographed me in these situations and sold them as kiddie porn. One of my earliest, haziest memories is being sent to my room for the night because I resisted, and in another I refuse to give her boyfriend oral sex. My mother hanged herself on August 7, 1996, when I was almost 5.
I was sent to live with my grandmother, who had been a silent witness to the horrors her husband performed. She wasn't mentally stable herself, and she saw me as the love child of her husband's infidelity—to her, my mother was the other woman. So she regularly beat me, and peppered me with constant psychological abuse. When I did something that displeased her, she reminded me that my bad behavior was because I was a "child of Satan."
Many teenagers are angry, and many experiment with drugs and alcohol and sex. My fury was huge, and I sought refuge in prescription painkillers and pot. I got pregnant with my high-school boyfriend when I was 16—and my child finally changed my life for the better.
I stopped drinking and smoking the second I found out, and all my focus was on giving this kid a better life than I had. When I gave birth, the doctors took one look at a pregnant teen covered in bruises and reported me to social services. My son and I were sent to a foster home, but the social worker assigned to my case was the same one who had helped my mother and brothers all those years ago. She decided to adopt me when I was 17.
She reminded me that my bad behavior was because I was a "child of Satan.
After that, I had some semblance of a normal life. I graduated valedictorian of my high school class. I married my high-school sweetheart, the father of my child. We had another son, and my husband entered the Marine Corps.
Throughout these years, as a stone-sober working mother in her late teens, I struggled with intense anxiety and the fog of depression. I was even institutionalized for a time after a suicide attempt. When you're in a mental hospital, you can either talk about your problems or color with crayons in the recreation room. Coloring gets a little dull. So I started talking, and I started journaling. I wrote nonstop, in my room, around others, in the cafeteria during meals. It all flooded out. I still read those journals when I'm having a tough day, to remind myself of how much I've overcome.
There are other sources of comfort. I have several really supportive friends. My husband and I divorced, but oddly enough I wound up bonding with his new wife. She visited me in the hospital and brought me drawings from our sons. Then there's my roommate, who is aware of my anxiety triggers. Instead of glossing them over, he pushes me to deal with them—if we decide to go shopping and then all of a sudden I can't get out of the car, he just sits next to me and waits for the panic to pass. We will chat for 45 minutes while I calm down, and then I'm like, "All right, let's walk into the store."
I also have a psychiatric-therapy dog. He's a big, fluffy Saint Bernard who is trained to know my triggers, and will sit on my feet to literally block them from me and calm me down. If I have a panic attack, he will locate pressure points and push his giant head into them until my breathing returns to normal. I've always loved animals, and I volunteer as a vet tech in my spare time.
You may wonder about my health, considering the complicated web of a gene pool I came from. Any diseases that were in my dad's side of the family I have a high risk for, because I have so much of his DNA. I've battled cervical cancer twice, and because my joints didn't develop correctly, I already have arthritis. One doctor told me, "You're a 23-year-old with a 53-year-old's body."
Dating is terrible for most people, and I'm no different. But I try. Intimacy is really tough—both emotional and sexual—so I set limits. The dos and don'ts of getting close to me.
My sons are my incentive. They teach me how to be capable of joy.
And there are my sons. At the moment, they are 6 and 4, and all they know of my past is that mommy is an orphan who was adopted. When I'm with them, a switch gets flipped and I am in happy mode. They motivate me to get out of bed, to go to work, to keep going, to smile. The cycle of abuse has stopped with me. They are my incentive. They teach me how to be capable of joy.
I've spent enough of my life being angry. And enraged about my past, and resentful of my family, and pessimistic about humanity's enormous capacity for evil. I am done being angry.
I founded a support group (opens in new tab) for people like me, and hope to form a network of survivors. I am okay with the past. It's the present and the future—my career, my animals, my hope for love, my bright, beautiful boys—that I want to talk about now.

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