They say the ‘words of an elder is the voice of wisdom’, in retrospect, I wish I was insightful enough to adhere to this.
It all started during my undergraduate days at the prestigious University of Lagos, Akoka. On receiving my admission letter, with so much excitement and hope, I vowed to be dedicated to my studies so I could graduate with a First Class honour.
As fate would have it, upon my arrival at the campus, I met a tall and handsome young man. It was impossible to look away. He could pass for a model.
I turned away as he approached.
“Hi!” He said, introducing himself with a deep and husky voice that made him sound confident “My name is John Cole.”
We exchanged numbers and kept the communication thriving, although I constantly had to remind myself of my promise to stay focused on campus.
Our friendship grew into a relationship and weekends were never dull moments with John; we cruised around from one resort centre to another; we were always in each other’s company. Our relationship waxed stronger and in our final year in school John proposed to me while we were on a dinner date, I accepted since I could hardly wait to become ‘Mrs John Cole’.
Towards the end of the Semester, I decided to visit my folks to share the exciting news and as expected, they enquired about my fiancé: “Who is he?” “Where is he from?” “Who are his people?” I answered all their probing questions, but it didn’t go as I envisioned.
My father was so unhappy with my choice of partner: “He is a Muslim?!” He retorted angrily. ‘’You are from a devoted Christian home.’’ He reminded me while requesting that I cut all ties with John. I couldn’t do it.
After months of trying to persuade my father to no avail, John and I decided to elope to the United State of America. This seemed like the best solution.
Barely after a few months of eloping and getting married, things changed drastically. John stopped being the loving and caring husband and turned into a night crawler and an egocentric wife beater.
“This is not my John,” I said to myself.
The beatings were getting more frequent, even my colleagues at work could not help but notice the scars. ’’I fell ‘’ was my usual response, but I seemed to be falling too often.
“Whom do I talk to about this?” I asked myself.
I decided to defend myself; to fight back! John had turned me into an angry and vengeful wife and I wasn’t going to let him hurt me again.
On this day, everything changed. As usual, John returned home from his regular hangout drunk and tried to rape me. I grabbed a gun from the drawer by the bedside just to threaten him and scare him off. But there was a struggle and I shot him. All I could remember was seeing his body lying on the floor in a pool of his own blood.
“Oh my God, what have I done?” I asked myself hysterically.
‘‘I’ve killed my own husband’’
With shaky hands, I dialled 911… Calling the police was all I could think of. In no time the house was filled with policemen and forensics. I was taken to the station and bombarded with questions.
“Why did you shoot him?”
“You have to tell us what happened if not we’ll rule it as murder” I was silent and in shock.
‘An immigrant who kills her husband’ isn’t a favourable picture. So after a haphazard trail, I was sentenced to 25 years in prison for manslaughter. I cried bitterly as the words of my father flashed through my mind.
This memo was written from the Millennium Prison with pains in my heart.
Afolabi Blessing is a young talented writer, who is a lover of Literature. She is a graduate of English. She hails from Lagos. Nigeria.