Hello everyone, thanks for your comments on last week’s My Survivor story. Today’s survival story goes way back, 35 years ago to the teenage years of the victim. Esohe had to suffer for years due to a false rumour spread by a student who was a member of the press club in her secondary school. The school threatened to suspend/expel her on the strength of the rumour and even after the rumour was proven not to be true, the school took no action against the perpetrator nor to dispel the rumour leaving her to suffer for several years. Please read my take and my comments at


Have the old scars in your life completely healed? Still healing, or far from healing? Do you see yourself getting worked up when the thought of a particular incident rears its obnoxious head?

The truth is, unless you take action, there will always be a negative or positive reaction. Many times, it is therapeutic to delve into the archives of your life and excavate one or more torturous experiences for the purpose of re-examination and permanent closure. This is why, after more than 34 years, I am riding back to my high school days to open an incredible can of stinky worms.

In Form 4 (high school), I was the treasurer of my school’s Literary and Debating Society.  Our annual party was held on a Saturday, and it was a huge success. I was scheduled to meet with the president, vice president, and secretary of the Literary and Debating Society the following Sunday to go over finances and other matters. It was supposed to be a brief meeting. A popular student, G. E., was the president. A.A. was most likely the vice president, or the third guy, whose name and face I cannot recall.  They were all senior male students.

With friends in high school

With friends in high school 35 years ago

The following Sunday at about 8pm, I climbed the staircase to their Upper Six classroom. I didn’t know I was climbing up to a life-changing event. There were students reading in the classroom, and one particular guy sat behind the teacher’s table with his eyes and ears supposedly buried in his books.

In the corner of the classroom, a few feet from the teacher’s desk, was a small storage room called a cubicle.  It existed in certain classrooms in the school. This particular one was transformed into a reading oasis with two desks and chairs. It was here that one of the officials ushered me into our meeting so we wouldn’t distract those who were reading. I sat on a chair by the door. The guys sat behind the desks.

Our meeting was over in less than 20 minutes. I showed them the financial log, we discussed a thing or two, and it was time for me to go back to my hostel before lights out. I walked out of the cubicle into the classroom and caught the sneaky eyes of that same student behind the teacher’s desk. I dismissed his gaze and went my way.

Five days later, on a beautiful Friday morning, I was greeted by warnings from some students about my name gracing a very damaging headline on the Press Club notice board. (Back then, Press Club was a group of faceless students who wrote about disorderly students. They backed their tales with despicable caricatures and stories of their subject. Sometimes, they used their cowardly pens to fabricate and settle personal vendettas against other students. They didn’t report to a higher authority, hence the occasional abuse of their freedom of written expression.)

I was wondering what they were talking about until I stood face to face with the notice board and saw in bold letters: “Did Esohe Oyairo [my maiden name] taste the Forbidden Fruit? Check for full details on Monday morning.” I was frozen in shock. What? How? Who? Why? Is this a bad dream? What is going on? “Forbidden Fruit?” These questions kept echoing in my mind. I was dizzy with confusion. Unrestrained tears began flowing. I knew my life in school would never be the same again.

Throughout that weekend, I begged the ground to open and swallow me. It declined. At the same time, I kept looking for anyone who knew at least one of the faceless members of the Press Club. My efforts proved futile.

Please read: My survivor story 1, Amaka: Part One, damaged

May Olusola

With my mother some months before I returned to school that year

On Monday morning, the article came out as promised. It was dripping with gory details accompanied by vulgar cartoons that still provoke shivers today. My good name was dipped and stained with cruel lies written by a faceless monster. I wondered why. Who did this to me? Who?

The article detailed how G.E., A.A., the other guy, and I were engaged in consensual intercourse in the cubicle. All of them were taking turns with me, and the writer could hear me saying, “I am tired, I am tired,” but G.E. kept saying, “Just one more round, just one more round.” The writer talked of how, when they were done with me, I dressed up like nothing had happened and walked out of the classroom like a peacock.

I couldn’t believe my eyes. I kept pinching myself to make sure I wasn’t dreaming. Can you imagine what I was going through, considering how painfully shy I was back then? The principal, Mr. Udofia, called me to his office and told me I was going to be expelled from school if the article was true.

I remember the terror in my eyes as I told him with tears rushing from my eye sockets: “Sir, I have never been with a boy before, and I am ready to go to any hospital to take a virginity test.” I was fighting for my life. He said he had already talked to the boys in question, and they disputed the article. He promised to ask the Press Club to investigate and take it down.  The sad thing is, though he never called me back to his office, he did not order them to take the story down.

In fact, it remained on the notice board for more than a week. I wondered then and still wonder what was fueling this shenanigan. Out of pity, two members of the Press Club broke their code of silence and revealed some of their confidential discussions as well as the brain behind the article.

My survivor story 1, Amaka: Part Two, The Rape

May Olusola

Months after the article was written

Remember the guy seated behind the teacher’s desk in the Upper Six classroom pretending to be buried in his books? Yes, it was him–Justice Jonusa.  A tall, skinny, dark guy with a funny haircut, disturbing cough, and a very weird aura. I still cannot fathom why Justice slapped me with such injustice by inventing something out of nothing.


My reputation was shredded to pieces. Some junior students and classmates whispered “Forbidden Fruit” to me. Life in school became unbearable. I withdrew into a very traumatic shell, and at the same time became a shell of my old self. My academic performance was marred as well. It seemed like no one cared. The principal failed me! Press Club members failed me! The system failed me! I couldn’t even tell my parents what was going on. Where would I start? Second, I was 261 miles away in boarding school.

This stigma followed me till I left for university a year later. I was too happy to start a new life free from false accusations. In my second year, I went back to my high school for an event. Guess what? Someone in the boys’ hostel shouted at the top of his voice: “Forbidden fruit.” I walked on like I didn’t hear him, but my heart skipped several beats, and showers of shame drenched me.

My survivor story 1, Amaka: Part Three, The Repair

I think it was during second semester in my second year in the university that I began taking a shortcut after classes through the teaching hospital. From the window facing the narrow path, I could see patients on admission in a particular ward in the hospital. I always looked at the patients any time I walked by. Most of them seemed lost in space.

One day, my eye caught the eye of a new patient whose bed was directly beside the window. I stopped in disbelief. My heart started racing. Our eyes locked briefly, and then I ran as fast as I could. Guess who it was? Justice Jonusa! I didn’t know it then, but that ward was called B1. It was for psychiatric patients. Jonusa was mentally ill.

The next day I looked at him properly. He was lying down on the bed staring into space. His eyes were blank. He was in another realm. Frankly speaking, I had zero compassion for him. How could I not? I was angry, very angry!  The arrows his malicious act lodged in my heart resurrected and started pricking me ruthlessly. If I had the courage, I would have flung open the door of my mouth and rained many “forbidden” words on him. Luckily, I settled for a stare that I hoped spoke volumes.


Entrance into the hospital

I kept seeing Jonusa most times I took the shortcut. Our eyes locked on some occasions followed by prickly silence till I walked past. One day, I noticed his bed was empty. The next three times, it was still empty. I wondered if he had recovered or been transferred. It was later I learned the sad truth:  Jonusa was dead.

As strange as this sounds, my heart was heavy with sympathy this time. The disdain melted almost immediately. I realized Jonusa was a victim like me. All the while his pen declared Armageddon on me, he was wrestling a mental monster in his personal life. No one recognized it. Like me, the principal failed him. The Press Club failed him. The system failed him big-time.

It is only recently that I began to marvel at this story. Who would have thought I’d end up in the same university with Jonusa? Why is it that when I decided to take a shortcut, I noticed him in the psychiatric ward? What of the silent encounters? Did he want to say something to me? Should I have at least extended an olive branch with a smile? How come I saw his last days? How and why? Only God knows. May his soul rest in perfect peace.

I am grateful to God that I am healed of this bad experience. Who knows, maybe Jonusa was hearing voices and simply hallucinating back then in high school.  Whatever the case, I thank God it is over and life continues. May all those suffering from mental illness get the help and healing needed, in Jesus’ name.

May Olusola

May Olusola – My most recent picture

I urge those nursing one hurt or the other to look at their pain from another angle. What if the perpetrator has unimaginable issues going on? After all, hurt people hurt others. Right? As painful as it sounds, forgiveness is the best option. It frees one from the cell of bitterness, anger and hatred. It is not easy. Once a decision is taken and implemented, the relief is golden.  I pray by God’s grace we find it in our hearts to truly forgive those that caused us pain.

May Olusola is the Publisher/Founder of MannaEXPRESS.

My thoughts and comments…

The teenage years are fraught with insecurities and all kinds of personality issues. These are as a result of the transition of the individual from childhood into a young adult. The wounds of the teenage years live into adulthood. So many unbalanced adults started their journey in their teenage years.

Bullying and shaming as seen in this story usually leave a lifetime impact on the victim. Victims don’t get an opportunity to tell their story. It is assumed that they were actual perpetrators of the act. Imagine how it must feel for her to walk into a room and feel everyone is saying this thing about her? Imagine how this would hunt her all her life and affect her choices.

What if she had been expelled as threatened by the school on the basis of an untrue rumour? Several people have been victims of this and their stories didn’t turn out as victorious.

Please, next time you want to spread a rumour about someone take time out to check if you really have your facts. For all you know, you might just be perpetuating a lie that is messing up someone’s future. Even if it is true, what do you gain by tearing down someone else #stoptherumours #keepyourmouthshut.

I would like a conversation here. Have you ever been the victim if a bad rumour or have you unknowingly shared one? Please contribute to the discussion here in the comments section below.

Thank you folks


  1. This is a beautiful story even though very touching and also so much wished our teens would get to read this.
    Yes, I have been victim of gossip several times but I thank God I always derive strength and joy in pushing it behind, forgiving the offenders after I have confronted them to spur my mind and my life always moves on.

  2. For all I know this girl could have dropped out of school or ended up with low grade and won’t have gone further in life. Teenage experience and bullying is bad no matter how truthful the story is. If you have nothing to gain from the story or rumours of someone else why say it? If you’re not sure of it don’t say it. If you didn’t see it happen don’t say it. If it’s going to PULL someone down don’t say it. And if you’re going to regret damaging someone don’t say it no matter how truthful the story or rumour is. This is just one out of hundreds of stories, that ended well. Others NEVER did! Thanks 🙏

  3. Atleast you were a child when it happened to you. I had a similar experience as a full grown adult, married with kids. I was undergoing a course which was residential and living with 2 other married women and a guy.
    Woke up one morning to them asking if I had fun the previous night. I thought they were joking because I hadn’t stepped out of my room that night. No such luck, they insisted I had been dropped by a man at about 2am that night. They insisted on this story and went ahead to spread the story. The guy who shared the living area with us insisted he was awake at the supposed time and his room was closer to where I was to have alighted from the car insisted no car came by.
    Do note that this was in a town that I had no friends nor family and I was only spending 4 days a week for 3 months. At a point I started wondering if I did go out in my sleep. It would be interesting to note both women were also married but having affairs very openly which I never judged them as I believe to everyone his own. People told me to ignore them because it was probably because they felt since the course was almost over and I knew their secrets they decided to smear me too. I would never know why. I wish I could say I have forgiven it and moved on but that would not be true.


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