I remember the first slap like it was just yesterday and the look of shock I had on my face afterwards. I didn’t expect it. My offence wasn’t worth such violence – or so I thought. My husband has a sensitive tongue so he detests spicy food, not to mention, his stomach can’t handle it either; it erupts into an acid fest, no thanks to the ulcer that has trailed him since childhood. But, it was an unplanned mistake caused by a rough, frustrating day at work and my hormonal imbalance.
I was four months pregnant with our first child and for some reason, I had been sick the entire day. I was also missing deadlines at work, causing my goal-obsessive impatient boss to burst into a fit of rage. It was one of those bad days (I’m sure you can relate). The stress of work coupled with my physical distress caused me to absent-mindedly douse the food with more pepper than was needed. The slap was accompanied by incessant apologies and begging, acknowledging his mistake. But, the seed had been sown.
It was the first, but it wasn’t the last.
Like World War Z, once the violent virus was let loose, it spread like wildfire. My husband turned into a dictatorial monster who found pleasure in using me to practise his boxing prowess. Every other week I was reeling in pain or nursing a black eye. I thought it was fine as long as the blows weren’t landing on my protruding stomach. Like a mother hen, I’d wrap my bruised arms around my stomach and take the beating for both of us. I thought I was protecting my child.
But I wasn’t. Her life was connected to mine; she needed me to survive.
So, I confided in our pastor. At least, he’ll be the voice of reason to nudge my husband back to his lost senses. To my husband, our pastor’s word was law and it should never be broken. But, I was sorely disappointed. After narrating my ordeal, he found a way to imply I was to blame. “Have you been doing the things a good wife should do?” “Are you satisfying him enough?” “You know being pregnant doesn’t mean you should let yourself go and ignore your husband’s needs.”
I stared at him in disbelief as the words rolled from his tongue. The only time he expressed concern for my wellbeing was when he voiced a measly “my sister, I’m sorry to hear this”.
My hope for help was dashed.
After his patriarchal lecture, he sent me home with the words “God bless you”.
God bless me?! God bless me?!! No. God had abandoned me. At that moment, I made the decision to leave my husband. I had heard stories of women losing their lives from domestic violence and I didn’t want to be on that list. I wasn’t going to let a man snuff the life out of me.
That night changed my life. Apparently, our pastor called my husband to inform him of my visit. This didn’t go down well with him, and he made this crystal clear when he returned home from work.
My greeting was welcomed with a blow to my stomach, sending shock waves through my body. Like a devil-possessed man, the rage in his eyes showed his intent was to kill my baby and me. This time I knew I had to save myself and not just my child if not I’d be one of those women who I swore never to be.
With shards of pain coursing through my body nearly paralysing me, I dragged myself towards the room trying to put a safe distance between myself and my murderous husband. I couldn’t run from the house – it would have been over his dead body.
With the last bolt of strength, I dashed into the bedroom and locked myself in.
It wasn’t until the adrenaline dissipated and I reclined to the floor that I noticed the blood. My Baby! Ignoring the piercing pain I felt, I grabbed my phone to call my friend who had an inkling of my struggles.
“Ada please help me; I don’t want to die. My husband is going to kill me and my baby.” With my last cry for help, I fainted.
I lost my child and the ability to be a mother. Yet, the man I used to call my husband; the man who stole my life is married again and the father of a two-year-old girl who should have been my mine.