STING OF DOMESTIC VIOLENCE – By Illah Michael Ojodomo

Arome certainly recalled how his father had unleashed his macho fist on his mother’s face, not for the first time, but this time, it was the last straw that broke the Camels back- the last thunder-blow that transited his mother to non-existence.

Like an ants sting on a bare buttocks, chills were sent down Arome’s spine when he watched the staggering lips of Dr. Isa as they struggled to spit out the sad words, “we tried all we could, but the haemorrhage was excessive… and… we lost her.”

Home was never Arome’s, his heart was never there, his pulse beat faster these past years. In his early teen age, he’d been exposed to violence, not from the movies, but from the set-stage of his father.
Does he have a family? Is this a family? A people disintegrated by hate? A family devoid of love and care? Where affection existed, but only in the metaphysical?

Arome is still wallowing in shock, conversely, his father is recuperating from his solitude, thinking of bringing another woman home, to satisfy his libido, maybe an antidote for his ailing promiscuity, and another weak punching bag.

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Facebook- Bismark Ekenedilichukwu Benson

One of these nights, a very unusual one, the rains had watered the earth and lightening rumbled the skies. Papa closes his eyes in cozy, and delves into a deep-snoring-slumber… but wait… he hears footsteps in his sleep, his eyes stagger for clearer sight, he stretches his arm to reach the bedside lamp… lights ON!… Arome is standing beside his murderous father, with thirst for revenge and possibly justice, he thinks… staring at papa with burning desires, desires of hate, with tears cascading down his teenage eyeballs… and the kitchen knife, yes! a knife, in his right hand.

Papa attempts to dislodge Arome, but he was too slow to act, and lo! Here lies he, the one who killed his wife, gasping for air, prudent with his breath, soaked in pool of blood- with a knife, the kitchen knife, stucked to his stomach, slicing his intestines, battering his muscles, shattering his abdomen… this is his pound of flesh, his share of death’s spoils, killed by his blood, his eyes and mouth wide open, opened in shock, but closed to the realities of this world.

Arome heads for the door, runs like he never did before, but the law catches up to him and he is rounded up. Today, 18 years seem like 18 days, Arome is in chains, confined to a room, hindered from touching the world by iron bars, he has a new family– inmates! Prisoners with almost similar stories, stories of domestic violence…

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