DEAR READER

To women who are survivors, to women who are victims and to women who help them find strength.

An excerpt from an ongoing collection : HER PERSPECTIVE

This story contains themes of domestic violence, abuse, and trauma that may be distressing or triggering for some readers. The content is intended for awareness and educational purposes and may not be suitable for all audiences. Viewer discretion is advised.

If you or someone you know is experiencing domestic violence, please seek help. Support is available through local organizations and hotlines. 

DEAR READER

My face was swollen.

A Nigerian would probably call it gbam, the aftermath of a dirty slap. But this wasn't just a slap. It was a barrage of blows that reminded me of the UFC matches I used to watch on my father's black-and-white television as a child. Back then, we'd adjust the antenna frantically, hunting for a signal so Papa could watch men beat each other senselessly. I never understood his fascination with it.

I never expected to become a boxing pad in my own home. Only this time, Papa wasn't in the audience. My children were.

"Tufiakwa!" you'd exclaim if you saw me. Your disgust would spill out as you asked, "How can a woman stay in this kind of marriage?"

I'd smile weakly and give you the answer I always gave: "My children. I want them to grow up in a functional home."

Later that night, I'd tell Obinna about our encounter—how you berated me and questioned my marriage. I'd sprinkle in what Nigerians call salt and Maggi, adding extra flair to the story. He'd laugh, a bitter sound, and call you names: "Ugly, wicked feminist witches. Forty-five-year-old women desperate for husbands but refusing to submit to a man."

I'd hiss and agree. "Don't mind them," I'd say, the lie heavy on my tongue. I had begun to hide money in small amounts, tucked into the seams of an old wrapper, because I hoped I would need it someday.

That same night, Obinna's fists would find me again. My face would swell, my eyes shutting under bruises, purple and angry. This time, it was because I had denied him sex, sex he still took because, as he always said, "A man cannot rape his wife. It's unheard of."

The next day, you'd find me at the market. You'd stop by my stall and smile as you handed my little Adaku a ten-naira biscuit. Her eyes would light up as she thanked you, "Aunty, Daalu !"

I'd smile, too, sending her off to play with the chickens. When she was out of earshot, you'd sigh and ask quietly and firmly, "Why?"

"Because he loves me," I'd reply, forcing the words out. "And a man who loves you will correct you."

Your eyes would well up with tears as you hissed through clenched teeth. "Correct you? He's abusing you! He's turning you into a boxing ground!"

I'd shrug and look away. It wasn't as if I didn't know. But man and woman matter no dey easy.

You'd shove a pamphlet into my hands. "Please, Nne, call them. I've already told them about your case."

I'd dismiss you with a curt "Daalu," my voice betraying the faintest amusement. Not because I thought you were wrong but because I couldn't understand why you cared. Why this empathy?

"I'll be here for you always ," you'd promise. "Like a sister." 

You'd bid me farewell, and I'd smile faintly.

"See you tomorrow," I'd reply.

But, dear reader, there is no tomorrow.

I left the market late that day. By the time I got home, Obinna was waiting. He accused me of cheating, of being a useless wife, and of being his greatest mistake.

I tried to defend myself. I raised my voice a little louder than I should have.

That was all it took.

He pounced on me, his blows raining harder than ever before. He slammed me and tossed me like a rag doll. And then he wrapped his hands around my neck and squeezed.

I floated. And floated. And then I stopped.

Dear reader, Adaku saw everything. Her small hands clutched the pamphlet, the edges crumpled from her grip. In the coming days, she would hold onto it tightly as if it contained answers to questions she could not yet form. I pray she finds strength in the pages I couldn't open. Teach her to be strong. Teach her to be free.

And if I meet Obinna in the next life, I'll put a sign on his chest:

"Danger. Stay away."