She left to live

Staring At Death

Hello Everyone. 

So I woke up this morning from the terribly sunken part of the bed. I hope y'all woke up better. 

This story is about Domestic Violence. Do enjoy and don't forget to drop your comments. 

Cheers. 

 

3rd February, 2018. 9a.m. 

Abebe knew she had to leave. The Bible says love is forgiving. But for how long would she endure his abuse. If she didn’t leave, one day, he might just kill her. She stared at herself in the mirror, she looked like she had been made-up by one of those horrible make-up artists in Nollywood - black eyes, swollen lips dotted with clumps of clotted blood, blood slowly trickling down her nostrils and if she smiled, there was a tooth missing.  She loved him, so much so that each time he came pleading after hitting her, she readily forgave him, but love won’t replace the two babies she had lost in miscarriages, love wouldn’t erase the psychological trauma her children went through each time they saw their father beating her. She had to leave, if she didn’t he would kill her, then marry another wife, and her children…she couldn’t imagine what would happen to them. She had to leave for herself, for her children.

                                                    ***********

3rd February, 2018. 4.45p.m

The house was ghostly silent when he walked in; no running feet or Abebe rushing out to meet him or cartoon sounds – the television wasn’t even on, which was strange seeing as the children were on a mid-term break. As he walked across the sitting room into the corridor that led to his room, a piece of paper stuck to the plasma television caught his eye and he walked towards it. The note said:

                ‘I’ve had enough. You will be hearing from my lawyer. I won’t wait for you to kill me. I took the kids.’

He felt as though the ground beneath his feet had taken a sudden dip-and-swirl and was attempting to throw him off. He staggered, shaking his head as images began to batter and assault his senses.

 

  11th September, 1993.

                      The child is the father of the man… the son becomes his father.

   He was a child again, 11, being taunted by his friends. 

‘How man go stay make woman dey control am like that? Na wa oh!’ 

‘Make I hear say my mama talk to my papa anyhow! My papa go jus reset her brain.’

‘You sure say no be your mama be the man of the house?’

‘My wife no even fit try do anyhow. If she do anyhow, I go teach am say okpolo eye no be open eye. Nonsense.’

His father was a quiet, soft spoken man and his mother had taken advantage of that. She would yell, hurling insults at him and when he didn’t reply, she dragged him by his shirt or trousers. His father wasn’t perfect, no one on this circus called earth is but he often went out of his way to please his wife, he made sure he provided for his family but he never seemed to be able to satisfy his wife. Growing up, he watched his mother endlessly abuse his father, she would launch herself at him, hitting him with clenched fists, she would slap him and when he tried to walk away, she dragged him by his clothes. Everyone knew that. Even his neighbors wouldn’t quit snickering about it.

The son becomes his father. You lie! This son is never going to be like his father.

 

16th August, 2011.

“Don’t you dare walk out on me when we are still talking.”

Abebe turned to regard him, flinging her long fake hair to the side, she hissed. “You still have more crap from where that came from?”

Too late, she realized her words and before she could retract them, she saw him, his whole body shaking with rage, moving towards her in quick strides. As she opened her mouth to apologize, he dealt her a slap that had her reeling. A second slap followed closely. She found herself plopped on the couch. He stood over her, a seething, raging mass. No woman would ever disrespect him. Never.

 

3rd February, 2018. 5.30p.m 

He read the note again. It felt like his world had been plunged into darkness. His mind was a whirlpool of memories as snippets of past conversations filled his mind.

‘If you don’t handle your woman with a firm hand, she will never respect you.’

‘Y‘You don’t hit a woman no matter what. Damie, there is really no justification for what you did. If you have an altercation with your wife, you shouldn’t hit her. Just try to reason things out calmly like adults. Violence isn’t the answer.’

‘No mind them. They know say them no strong but they go just dey run their mouth...dey flex muscles wey dem no get. What rubbish! My guy! E good as you teach am lesson wey she no go ever forget in a hurry.’

‘If na your sister you go like am?’

‘Which kain smell smell talk be that? If my sister stupid enough to dey go talk smack at her husband she deserve anything wey she get. Rubbish.’

There was a sound in his head, like a manic monkey with cymbals going clang clang clang in his head. 

They were at it again. Not they, mummy was at it again. He could hear her voice rising and falling. Daddy didn’t make a sound, he just ignored her, hoping she would wear herself out. Never worked. He knew that very soon, mummy would launch herself at daddy, hitting him with anything she could find. He tried to block the sounds with his pillow, but somehow, her shrill voice managed to pass through… They were at it again, they and that monkey with the clanging cymbals in his head. He felt like different parts of a whole, struggling to fit together. He heard screams that seemed to come from far away and a calm voice shaking him from inside, trying to get the different pieces that was him to fit.

Get it together Damie. Get it together.

 

Written by

Total Of 0 Comments

Register / Login
To Comment On This Post

Advertisement

Categories / Number Of Posts

Recent Posts