How Diddy’s Documentary Changed my Entire Novel Plot (and could change yours too)

By now, most people would have binge-watched the Diddy documentary over the holidays. As horrifying as it was, I could not turn my eyes away from the screen. I have so many questions.

First off, what did your mama do to you to make you hate women so much? How were you manipulating systems, people and sexual abuse before you hit 20?

What really happened to you Diddy?

But the second shocker for me (asides from his heinous acts of course), was how sympathetic the jury seemed to be to his plight. The lady — African-American, likely in her 20s or 30s — had a more active enthusiasm.

“Did you see, He looked back at me and shrugged in agreement. We were thinking the exact same thing”. The sort of fanaticism that makes you wonder if celebrities can truly have their fair day in trial.

The second juror was the real game-changer — middle-aged, of Asian descent. He seemed nonchalant, more bored with the drama of it all. Diddy and Cassie have a normal relationship, he said. If she was that bothered by her wellbeing (or lack thereof), she could have left a long time ago. But she came back after each severe beating, after days of continuous drug use and unhinged sex parties. Black eye after black eye.

She still came back.

With showers of love and affection like nothing ever happened. The ‘I love you’ texts on overflow. The award shows and MET gala nights. On his arm, like the luckiest damsel we all lusted to be like.

She still came back.

Except she didn’t.

And when I heard the male juror speak, I saw a reflection of the stoic, traditional man. That places the burden and the blame on women and women alone.

I saw home.

In Nigeria, women bending over a steaming pot of stew with a baby wrapped around her back and a toddler tugging on her hemline. She’s rushing to prepare dinner after a full day of selling wares at the market. Blamed for being late, slapped for having a frustrated tone, beaten if she dared talk back ..but having no where else to go. No one who understands her plight and is willing to share just a bit of the burden with her. To have her back when people start calling her an ungrateful ashawo.

Everywhere she turns, it’s either blame or shame.

So what else can she do really except to keep pushing?

I saw a lack of empathy and awareness of what it is to be groomed from the age of 19, when you’re enthusiastic and naive and given the one-in-a-million chance of working with a superstar. If Beyonce gave me the opportunity to work with her RIGHT NOW, I would drop everything. And if I was 19 (not so much now because I’ve become a staunch advocate for boundaries), it would take a while before I started saying “no” to any of her requests.

Could you just imagine what it was like to be in the studio with Diddy back then? Before he changed his name a dozen times and his outdated moves became memes. Any of us would be starstruck.

I saw the ugly side of patriarchy.

And it made me realize, there’s a lot we still don’t understand about each other — men and women. It often surprises men to know that most women in their lives have experienced some form of sexual abuse. Groping, indecent exposure, coerced fellatio… Often multiple times by people they previously felt safe with. Someone they consider close family or a friend, who has sweetened the deal with treats or trips to their favorite store.

Someone older of course, so there is a power dynamic where the child is compelled to obey even if their intuition is screaming that this isn’t right.

I tell these men go and speak to all their female friends. Ask them if they have ever experienced this and let me know what you find.

They always come back shocked. Humbled even. “I had no idea. If only I knew…”

But what would you do if you knew? Would you believe women the first time they voice their abuse? Would you show a bit more concern or empathy.

Is it even fair for me to ask you to empathize with a stranger’s pain, when you barely know anything about your sister’s or mother’s pain. Of course this young, beautiful woman will seem like the gold digging exception if you didn’t know just how often people (men and women) leverage distorted power dynamics to perpetuate sexual abuse.

It made me interrogate myself also, question how curious I am of men and their struggles and how do we bridge the gap so we understand each other better.

So I did something risky in my novel…. Very risk actually.

My psychological fiction was meant to follow a family who have been through horrible events together and are navigating life afterwards — the beautiful and the ugly. But I realized I had been shying away from a crucial point — one of the main characters had been groomed. And that singular experience turned the fortunes of the entire family forever.

But I didn’t want it to be another ‘trauma’ book. I wanted more joy in African stories. That showed our unity, perseverance and playfulness as well as our hurt and triggers. A rounded perspective.

Diddy’s Documentary gave me a gift.

Instead of shying away from the devastating impact of grooming, I’ve decided to take my reader on a journey. From the first time she was spotted and given that little bit of extra attention, to when she’s a fully grown woman and still grappling with what has happened.

The feeling of thinking you’re in love for the first time at 15 — the tender words, gifts that show he listens, actions that tell you he wants to fight all your battles. A situation we’ve all probably been in. Just this one is masked with manipulation and lies. And a young mind that is unable to perceive the difference.

The truth is, in Nigeria, a 15-year old girl getting married to a man quadruple her age is not uncommon. Even in present times.

And just like in my novel, if the man is powerful and rich enough, your family members will be the ones pressuring you to comply. To have sex and build a life with a man that makes your skin crawl.

I wonder what happens to all those girls. Trapped with no escape so their defiant soul eventually capitulates. What does the rest of their life look like for them and their children.

How do they find joy in the normalcy of abuse?