The voices came from upstairs. It was one of those fights
again and Papa always had the upper hand, the only hand. He would put her down;
sit on her belly and rain blows on her soft frame. Sometimes, he would pull her
hair along with her whole body down the stairs, his eyes red with fury the
whole time as though two of the most deadly demons from the realm of the dead were
dancing atilogwu within and mama would stagger along like one possessed by the
spirits. She tried wearily to block the heavy handed slaps to no avail. They
hit her in quick succession so that she could do nothing but whimper and moan.
After the hits were over, she would lie down there for what
seemed like eternity, the whole house silent and hollow. Then Mama would pick
herself up with all the strength she could muster, occasionally, she would lean
on the wall for support till she got to the kitchen, lock the door, then the
loud throaty sobs would release themselves into the kitchen bowls, pots,
spoons, knives and what have you. When she came out of the kitchen, she came
out with face disfigured and her heart broken, carrying a tray of delicious
food that mocked the smell of death lurking around the house and the sizzling
aroma from the food would send Papa scurrying downstairs like a cat who could
sense the smell of fish around the corner.
We would all seat and eat in silence. Mama said little. She
was a strong woman, an expert at bottling up her emotions. She never told
anyone about her pain or sufferings. To her, one should never tell strangers
about family secrets. After we had finished eating, she would kneel down beside
his chair at the head of the table and say, “Dim oma, I am only a child,
forgive me”. He would nod at her, pleased.
The bastard. I hated him. Words cannot express the rage that
surged within me whenever my eyes met his. I pitied Mama on the other hand. I
tried to be there for her all the time, running errands and doing anything to
make her smile. Whenever I saw her black eye or a deep wound on her neck or
hands, I swore NEVER to raise a finger against my wife in the future. I would
NOT hurt her.
I was really close to Mama, but we never talked about it. I
guess it was too painful a topic to discuss and we could not find the words to
express our thoughts. I wanted to comfort her, shield her from the monster that
was my father and the opportunity presented itself one day.
That fateful day, mama was helping me with my homework and I
guess doing that gave her so much joy she had forgotten the pot of bitter leaf
soup cooking in the kitchen.
“Woman”, Papa yelled from behind us, “You have planned with
your association of witches to burn down my house, but you will not succeed.”
Mama shuddered. She tried to run into the kitchen in order
to turn off the cooking stove, but Papa dragged her from behind, so that she
fell on the chair that we had been sitting on and he started to hit her, sowing
fist after fist of pain all over the molded soil that was Mama’s fragile frame.
I stood there with muscles twitching in
anger, mind roving like a madman, chest heaving like the ebb and tide of the
ocean, eyes burning with tears.
Mama, the only sane person in the house, called out to me,
asking me to put off the stove. I ran into the kitchen, my heart beating at its
highest pace and by now clouds of smoke had filled the kitchen. The whole
atmosphere was charged by the terrible smell of burning food, my loud coughing
and Mama’s high pitched screaming as Papa continued to do abominable things to
her.
I wanted to put off the stove, but the smoke had slowly
seeped into my mind making it a haze. I
couldn’t think. I just grabbed the kitchen knife and the next thing I knew, I
was standing in front of my father with a blood-stained knife.
Many years later, when I met Stella and fell in love with
her, I treated her like a queen, gave her anything she wanted, practically
worshipping the sand she walked on. I was too afraid to become like Papa, so I
loved her fiercely, she loved me back and we got married.
Five years down the lane, she begins to spend more time in
front of the mirror. She applies so much
make-up; tones and tones of foundation and concealer, a hundred layers of red
on her lips, heavy dosages of mascara to hide the emptiness in her eyes,
several shades of eye shadow to shadow the pain within and lines upon lines of
eye liner in a poor attempt to line out the sorrow that flowed forcefully in
her soul.
Every day, Stella wears a mask all in the name of make-up
and I know it. She doesn’t feel beautiful or worthy anymore. My beautiful wife
is now reduced to a shadow of her old self and every time I see her, I see the
reflection of Papa that I have become. I hate the monster that I am now and
although I want to protect her like I did Mama, I am too afraid to be left
alone with the demons inside of me. I fear that they would destroy me, so
instead of protecting her, I put her in a prison of rules. No calls from men,
no friends are allowed to see her, family members are barred from visiting, I
make sure she never dresses seductively or go to parties and I rant and rave at
the slightest offence just to keep her in prison with me, bound together with
the chains of low self esteem, guilt and fears of what people will say.
Did I mention that I
hate myself? I can’t say it enough times. I hate me and I think I deserve the same
judgment I passed out on Papa several years ago, but Stella had a better idea; A
drive to the psychologist’s. Of course she did not tell me about it, she
tricked me with the help of Mama. Apparently, hurting people know how to
connect in amazing ways and Mama was the best accomplice, an expert in these
matters.
Well, I got help, I’m willing to take responsibility for my
weaknesses and I’m determined to break this cycle of wife battering. I do not
wish to bring a generation of women beaters into the world and this change
starts with me.
