He hit him. A stream of blood trickled down his nose. He hit him again and again. My heart bled a little. One strike. A gash across his bare back. Another strike. My heart bled some more. I closed my eyes, but I couldn’t shut out the crackling sound of the belt against his bare back. I closed my eyes, but I couldn’t shut out the sound of his pitiful cries for mercy. I closed my eyes, but I could not shut out the compassionless sound of my husband’s grunts as he lashed out ruthlessly. Unforgivingly. Unfeelingly. Insanely.
This story was posted by Fatima on Ilunga.
Website: www.fatimaderby.com
He was drunk again. Hopelessly drunk. As he had been every single night since he got laid off at work. For the past two years he hadn’t given me as much as one cedi to even buy a bag of water talk less of money to manage the house. School was about to reopen, and Junior was starting a new school year. I didn’t know how to ask him for the money for Junior’s school fees, books and other items he would need for school. I wasn’t making much money from my charcoal business. These days, everybody is buying gas stoves and halogen burners. Even you Araba, you don’t use a coal pot to cook at home anymore. The Americans talk of The Great Depression that hit the world in the 1930s. They said economies collapsed and there was starvation and acute poverty. But Araba, they didn’t go through hell like I am.
In this country of ours where having a university degree is a mark of intellect and civilization, being illiterate marginalizes you. In this country where the people whose finely-tailored pockets lined with silk are up there, and those whose patched pockets characterized by loose threads hanging on dear life are down here, being poor marginalizes you. And in this same country where having fleshy breasts, well-rounded hips and a voluptuous bottom is somehow an ostentatious indicator of weakness, being a woman marginalizes you.
This story was posted by Fatima on Ilunga.
Website: www.fatimaderby.com
So tell me Araba, in which category will you classify me? I am an illiterate poor woman. That is why they will come for me. I know they will. They will lock me up and never let me out. They will say I am a threat to myself, my family and my society. They will call me a misfit, a criminal, a sinner. They will say that they are doing it to protect other people in the society. But it is people like me who need protection, Araba. People like me and Junior. We have nothing. We have no one to protect us so we learn to fight back, and they call us rebels. We try to protect ourselves and they say we are dangerous.
Junior cried as the belt fell against his back repeatedly. He tried to avoid looking me in the eye. I know he felt ashamed of squealing like a helpless puppy. He has grown faster than his age, that boy. Young as he is, he has somehow realized that I did not have a husband anymore, at least in the practical sense of it and he tries to be one – helping me around in the house, offering to carry bundles of charcoal on his head after school to bring his own share of the household income. And I will always love my little boy for that.
It was Junior’s quest to be my protective husband that has landed me in this trouble. Badu had come home very late that night like he always does. He staggered into the house and called out for his evening meal., his words slurred and his breath reeking of alcohol. I rushed into the kitchen, dished out his food and served it to him. He took one disdainful look at the food and announced that a man of his calibre could not eat a meal containing just one piece of meat. I explained that it was no fault of mine that things were hard. I politely pointed out that he hadn’t given me any house-keeping allowance for months. I said it without the slightest hint of disrespect, but I struck a raw nerve and Badu struck my face. Now, I had been hit severally in the past and Junior had always tried to come to my rescue. On this day, it seems we were all overcome by powers beyond us. It all happened so fast.
This story was posted by Fatima on Ilunga.
Website: www.fatimaderby.com
Araba, I hear them coming for me. The police will be here any moment from now. They will bind my hands behind my back in handcuffs like some street urchin. But I really don’t care. What dignity do I have left to maintain?. I do not regret that my last act as a free woman was to protect my child. I would a thousand times over give up my life for his.
Junior rushed forward from the corner he was hiding and grabbed Badu’s legs. Badu flung him aside and hit him. A stream of blood trickled down his nose. He hit him again and again. My heart bled a little. One strike. A gash across his bare back. Another strike. My heart bled some more. I closed my eyes, but I couldn’t shut out the crackling sound of the belt against his bare back. I closed my eyes, but I couldn’t shut out the sound of his pitiful cries for mercy. I closed my eyes, but I could not shut out the compassionless sound of my husband’s grunts as he lashed out ruthlessly. Unforgivingly. Unfeelingly. Insanely.
A red film of rage descended over my eyes. I looked around, seeing everything yet seeing nothing. My arms flung about wildly, I grabbed a flower pot and hurled it at him. He fell to the ground, unconscious. I rushed to the kitchen, picked a knife and jabbed at his chest. I plunged the knife into his chest repeatedly in a mad and desperate attempt to kill the poison that had consumed his heart. The film lifted from my eyes and I realized what I had done and I did not regret it.
The police are here, Araba.
I saw this Fatima's writing and I just had to share it.
Domestic violence must stop.
