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.
