After posting on Facebook, I boarded the plane, full of excitement. I arrived safely in Oman, where I was picked up by what they called a “host family.” Back home, we referred to them as “clients,” but the terminology didn’t matter much to me at the time. I observed the weather and environment, and it felt similar to Africa, only hotter. I thought adjusting wouldn’t be an issue. Little did I know that my stay in Oman would turn into a nightmare, one I would regret for the rest of my life. To say it was terrible would be an understatement—it felt like hell on earth.

The weather was unbearable. The intense heat left me with severe sunburns almost immediately. On my first night, the host family confiscated my passport and phone, claiming it was their “insurance” to ensure I wouldn’t run away until I had paid off the so-called debt I owed them. They said they had spent a lot on consultation fees and airfare, which I was to repay. Without my passport, the thought of escaping was futile—being in a foreign country without proper documentation was a dead end. Taking my phone further isolated me, cutting me off from the outside world.

The treatment I endured was degrading. My work in Oman was overwhelming: I was a house helper, nanny, pet minder, cook, and anything else they required. I worked nearly 17 hours a day with only one meal to sustain me. The house was enormous and housed three generations of the same family, from uncles and aunts to toddlers. My responsibilities included doing everyone’s laundry and ensuring their stomachs were always full.

If I made even the smallest mistake, I was insulted and called degrading names like “monkey.” The job drained me emotionally and physically, but I had nowhere to run. I was essentially a prisoner, confined to the courtyard and forbidden from leaving.

The lady of the house was unhygienic and seemed to go out of her way to make my life harder. After bathing, she would leave her clothes scattered for me to pick up, including used menstrual pads and tampons. I had to clean up after her without any protective gloves.

Despite all the hard labor, I received no payment because they claimed I was still paying off my debt. This weighed heavily on me, knowing I couldn’t send any money home to support my family. I was underfed and losing weight rapidly.

A month into this torment, the patriarch of the family began making frequent visits to my sleeping quarters. I resisted his advances, but one night remains etched in my memory. It was a cold, stormy night with thunder and lightning. In a desert-like area with no trees or structures to block the storm, the atmosphere was terrifying.

That night, the man entered my sleeping quarters again for the second time. He came in as if I were one of his wives. This time, he was barely dressed, wearing only a bathing towel loosely wrapped around his waist. I tried to resist his advances, but he punched me hard, knocking the fight out of me.

Through gritted teeth, he declared that I was nothing but a slave to him. My cries for mercy seemed to excite him further—my screams only fueled his perverse pleasure. The more I begged.

When you watch videos of women engaging in certain acts, like using alternative ways to have intercourse (Sim2), you might think they are enjoying it. But many of them are only doing it for the money. If you’re ever forced to endure such a thing, that’s when you realize how painful and degrading it truly is.

That man—the patriarch—on the first night, used some lubricant, spreading it over the Sim2 area, claiming it would reduce the pain. But the pain was still there, intense and unbearable. The following night, he didn’t bother with anything to ease it. Instead, he seemed to take pleasure in my suffering. He wanted me to scream out of pain, and he ensured I did.

He forced himself on me when I was completely dry, causing agonizing pain and severe injuries. I suffered from what they call anal tears, and before I could even begin to heal, he would do it again, over and over. The pain was excruciating, but my pleas only seemed to fuel his sadistic enjoyment. I was his prisoner, and he treated me like nothing more than an object for his pleasure.

At one point, the patriarch brought a doctor to the house. The doctor injected me with a drug, and I suspect it was to prevent me from ever getting pregnant. Perhaps in their country, having a child with a black woman was forbidden—maybe even considered disgraceful. After the injection, my periods stopped entirely.

However, one day, my menstruation returned unexpectedly. That night, as usual, the patriarch came to force himself on me. I tried to resist, but he overpowered me. During the act, I started bleeding, and that infuriated him. He shouted at the top of his lungs, “You are a horrible person! You’ve defiled me! You’ve defiled me!” I didn’t know that, in their religion, it’s forbidden to be intimate with a menstruating woman.

He kept shouting, calling me a “dirty, dirty woman” and a “monkey.” His anger turned violent. He struck me repeatedly with the back of his hand and hit me with anything he could find within his reach. I remember lying in a pool of blood, too weak to defend myself, as his wife screamed hysterically. But no one dared intervene. In their household, women were taught to be submissive. The madam herself had told me that I had to be submissive, even more so because I was a slave. She said that if I were ordered to walk around with a chain tied to my neck, I should do it without complaining.

The following morning, I woke up barely alive. In all the months I lived with them, I was never granted a day off—not even a day to recover from the abuse. They called their doctor again, and when he arrived, he gave me a concerned look and shook his head. But he didn’t say anything. Perhaps they thought I wouldn’t survive, but dying wasn’t an option for them. I was their investment. All they cared about was the money they claimed I owed them.