Lo. Lee. Ta.

Vladimir Nabokov coined the term Lolita, which is defined in the English language as "a young girl who is precociously seductive." It was no wonder that when I decided to pick up this horrifying masterpiece a few years ago, I saw myself mirrored in its pages.

Lolita is not a love story. It is a tragic, cautionary tale of how an unreliable narrator uses obsession, manipulation, and power dynamics to distort the truth. Dolores Haze—nicknamed Lolita—is not the protagonist of this unfortunate tale. The story belongs to a charming, intelligent, handsome man who later becomes her stepfather. The entire story unfolds through his eyes, and along with Nabokov's beautiful, lyrical prose, it is easy to forget the horror of what is being described. Humbert Humbert frames himself as this tragic romantic, misunderstood, and tormented. But if you read between the lines, it is clear: he is manipulating the narrative. Whether it is to justify himself or to ensure we—the readers—don't think less of him is up for debate.

As I mentioned before, Humbert is an unreliable narrator who tries to make us complicit in his delusions. He wants us to forget that his precious Lolita is a victim, not a willing participant in his twisted fantasy. After all, she is just a child. Dolores barely has a voice of her own; Humbert controls how we see her—his nymphet—but beneath his manipulation, glimpses of her true self emerge. Dolores Haze, a real girl, trapped in a nightmare.

This book explores many themes:

-       Obsession and possession: Humbert does not love Lolita; he wants to own her. His "love" is nothing more than the delusion of control.

-       The power of language: Nabokov gives a masterclass on how words can manipulate, deceive, and justify the unjustifiable.

-       American culture and corruption: A sharp critique of consumerism, sexualization, and the illusion of innocence, embedded within Humbert's road trip with Dolores—a twisted version of the American dream.

-       Memory and guilt: The novel is written as Humbert Humbert's confession. Though he tries to downplay his crimes and justify himself, his guilt still seeps through. By the final page, his self-image crumbles, and we see him realizing what he's done—not as a "tragic lover", but as a man who destroyed a child's life.

It took me a full year to read this book. Despite its heavy content, it is a relatively easy read, but what kept me from devouring it—as I often do with books I enjoy—was that it kept triggering me. At times, it stopped being literature and became personal.

I related to Lolita in many ways: from being desired without truly being known, to enduring violations I never consented to, to barely having a voice in my own narrative.

I'll be honest, I'm having a hard time deciding what direction I want to take this in. On the one hand, I don't want to be dismissive of the very real crimes in this book. Although Nabokov does not turn the reading experience into a pornographic spectacle, it is quite obvious that Humbert's depravity is unfolding throughout the novel—and that speaks, painfully, to my own life experiences. On the other hand, the other themes resonate just as deeply with me, as I often find myself reflecting on how they have shaped my young adult years as I near my mid-twenties.

Perhaps this is why Lolita lingers with me—not just as literature, but as something disturbingly personal. I won't sit here and say that I relate to Dolores Haze's suffering in its entirety but something about her story echoed in my life.

So maybe I shouldn't pick just one direction to explore. It wouldn't be fair as they are all interconnected. Together, they paint a picture of how I see myself in Dolores and of how this type of abuse fractures one's soul. I have written an essay on objectification and desirability through the lens of intersectionality. But today, I want to strip away those layers and speak to my experience as a human being—nothing more and nothing less.

The nickname Lolita came from Humbert. No one in Dolores' life had called her that until he arrived. It was born from his fantasy of a version of her that only existed in his mind. And once that fantasy took hold, the real Dolores ceased to matter. That's one of the things about this story that unsettled me the most—because I, too, have felt myself disappear into someone else's vision of me.

How many times does that happen in real life? Being craved, being wanted—not for who you are, but for a version of you that exists only in someone else's mind. A projection of their desires, detached from the reality of who you are.

Since I began dating, I have noticed how sexually desirable I was—how men would go out of their way to be with me, talk to me, and interact with me in any form if that meant that there would be an element of sexual gratification for them.

But the moment I set a boundary, the moment I say Hey, maybe let's go on a few dates and see if we have any chemistry, the moment I put this speedbump on the road to climax—the dynamic shifts. Either they disregard what I'm saying, and try to force me into situations that would make me uncomfortable or I never hear from them again—the moment I cease to exist for their pleasure, I cease to exist at all.

As I mentioned in my other essay, I am not a sexual person. Never have been, never will be—and I'll touch on this point in detail later. But that doesn't matter. Because that's all I'm treated as. A sex toy, a body, a means to an end.

I told myself that maybe it's because of all those layers of intersectionality I have now stripped away before you. But it makes me wonder—if I were the complete opposite of who I am, would I still be seen the same way? Would my interactions with men be different? Or am I doomed to live the same nightmare over and over, regardless of who I am? If I strip away all the labels—if I am just Lwiny, just a human being—do I still hold value to them? Or is my desirability tied only to what they want me to be?

I like giving you examples from my life to help paint a clearer picture. But as I sit here, trying to think of a moment that best encapsulates this feeling—a moment when I first realized I was more fantasy than person, more idea than reality—nothing stands out.

Not because it hasn't happened. But because it happens all the time.

It is the standard.

It's the standard as soon as I assert my emotional needs. It's the standard when I watch someone pretend to be interested in conversation, but their eyes betray what they're truly thinking. It's the standard when men act like they want to get to know me—until it becomes clear that getting to know me doesn't mean immediate access to my body.

It doesn't sit right with me. I find it unfair, revolting even. But these days, I try not to think of it too much. Mostly because I have completely changed the way I date nowadays—if I even date at all.

I currently am in a very absurdist phase of my life. This is just how things are, not much I can do about it.

Lolita's story was never hers—it was Humbert's. She existed only in the way he wanted to remember her and in the way he wanted us to see her. That too, struck something within me. I know what it's like to feel unheard, to be present but erased, to feel as though my story was never really mine.

I've already explored how it feels to be desired but not known—to be wanted for a version of myself that doesn't exist. But another issue that arises with it, one that haunts me just as much: the complete lack of agency in my life. Just like Dolores, I've experienced what it's like to have no control over my own life. And I don't just mean regarding my romantic endeavors—this has been a theme throughout my existence.

It's a strange thing—to be present but erased. To live a life where your story is told for you, and you are only what others decide you should be.

The most obvious example I can give is my father. He wanted me to be a lawyer. When I was close to graduating, he picked the city he wanted me to live in and he picked the university he wanted me to attend. He was so happy, sending me pictures of the campus, of the city, of the life he envisioned for me. It felt wrong to break his heart. But it wasn't just the city, it wasn't just the university—he wanted my younger siblings to move with me too. Financially, it made sense. Emotionally? I didn't agree with it all.

My parents were still freshly separated at the time, and the responsibilities of being an older sister were beginning to blur with the responsibilities of being a mother—which I was not. And I was not prepared for it. I tried to push back, to assert myself, to explain that this wasn't what I wanted. But it was always going to be a losing battle. I was powerless and no one else was fighting for me in my corner.

I was 17.

Today I'm almost 25. And only recently have I realized that I needed to take back my life. I no longer wanted to be in that city. I no longer wanted to be in a university I despised. I no longer wanted to be my sibling's primary caretaker. I wanted to do shit for me—even if it was the smallest thing ever.

I was rotting away, miserably depressed, a college dropout, and had already contemplated ending my life innumerous times, with a handful of attempts. All because I never got a say in what I wanted. Because not only was I forced to move to a completely different continent without any real parental figures, but I, myself, had to become a parent of children who were not mine.

The tiny little voice inside me—the one that knew what I wanted, that tried to fight back—faded ever so quietly, so slowly, that I almost didn't notice when it was gone.

And then, beyond my family, beyond my father—who I love dearly by the way—there is society.

Putting my intersectionality jacket back on, as an immigrant, a Black African, plus-sized woman, I have often also felt dismissed and silenced. Assumptions weigh on me from every direction. People expect me to sound a certain way, and talk a certain way. I have been grouped into a category of immigrants—the ones that immigrate for a better life, as if that were the only acceptable reason for leaving as if I were incapable of coming from a place of privilege. They assume I lack certain experiences, and certain knowledge, simply because I come from Africa.

It's all so painfully reducing. Sometimes even embarrassing.

And then, of course, there are men.

I know I've already spoken about romance, but this is different. This ties to the biggest theme in Lolita—not just objectification, not just erasure. But consent. Or rather, the inability to give it.

I thought I was solely reading a novel, and that I'd come away with a few cool quotes and a deeper appreciation of Nabokov's beautiful prose. But some passages didn't feel like fiction at all. I would have to pause, and close the book—for months at a time. Something in my chest would tighten, my breath would draw short, and my mind would race with flashes of imagery I would never be able to forget. Because suddenly, I wasn't just reading about Dolores Haze.

I was her.

I want to be as honest as I have always been. But I also know that the content of this next section may be triggering to some. I will not be overly graphic, but the truth of it remains heavy.

When I was 21, my brain just started un-repressing memories I had long buried. Memories that resurfaced like a flood, drowning me in agony. I couldn't eat, I couldn't sleep—it took a toll on everything, including a relationship I was in at the time. These weren't just fragments of the past. They were reminders of what had been done to me, of the innocence that had been disregarded for years.

They were memories of my driver back home molesting me. Several times, throughout several years, a complete and utter disregard for my innocence as a child—somewhere around Dolores' age, 12 or something. I don't remember when it started or when it stopped. I only know I never agreed to it. Heck, I hardly knew what was going on. I do remember some things feeling physically tolerable, which only made the emotional revulsion worse. The shame that followed was unbearable.

But I do remember how it ended. At some point, my driver became repulsive to me. The simple thought of his hands on me made me want to vomit. The next time he approached me, I simply said no. And that was it. It never happened again.

For a while, I convinced myself that I was free. That moment of affliction—when my brain unlocked memories I had buried—was short-lived. But by the age of 21, aside from being molested, I had already been raped once before.

I was 16 when it happened. It occurred only a couple of hours after I had lost my virginity—consensually—to someone I trusted. I lived in a gated community, and it was a habit of our friend group to hang out at each other's houses, no matter the time of day. I had an early flight the next morning, so I was pulling an all-nighter. After my hookup ended, I went home. Then, only an hour later, that same boy texted me. The gang is hanging out at someone's place, come.

So I did.

When I got there, almost no one was around. I was the only girl, which already felt wrong. There was something off in the air, a tension I couldn't name, but I tried to shrug it off. We were in one of the rooms, and slowly, one by one, people started leaving to go do this or that. Until it was just me. And a young man I did not know.

It didn't take long for him to tower over me, for his hands to move, for him to start undressing me.

My brain was screaming at me to do something. Punch him. Yell. Run. But my body didn't listen. I was completely frozen. I could hardly breathe, and I couldn't make a sound—not even the faintest whimper. Not only that, I was scared out of my mind.

I will spare you the details because the story gets scarier after this. But I will tell you this—it wasn't the last time something like this happened. This time I was 22. And this time, I made sure to be clear. I stood my ground. I don't even remember how many times I protested, how many times I said no. But when it came down to it, I froze once more.

It never gets easier. And I don't know if it ever will.

But I am still here. That has to count for something.

I think about Dolores Haze often—not the Lolita that Humbert crafted, but the real girl trapped beneath his delusions. The girl who tried to take back her agency in the only ways she could, who fought for scraps of control in a life where she had none. The girl who never got the chance to tell her own story was reduced to a fantasy.

I think about her because I know what it's like to have your reality rewritten by those who wish to control it. To be silenced, erased, and shaped into something more convenient for others to digest.

But I also think about her because—although I can relate to parts of her struggle—I am not her. I still have a voice, and I can still use it.

For years, I let my story be told for me—by men who only saw what they wanted, by a father who thought he was doing what he thought was best, and by a world that decided who I should be before I even had a chance to figure it out for myself. But no more.

I can reclaim my story. I can rewrite what was taken from me.

And that? That is something. That is everything.