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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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…

Daddy’s Type of Ministry: Written by Anna Fina

Father’s sermon against adultery and fornication vibrated through the mega phone as the congregation flipped through the pages of their Bible. Shouts of “Hallelujah”, followed suit when father proclaimed, ” Praise the living Lord”.

Dressed in the same attire, mother and I together with Junior, my little brother sat at the front pew. It was like our permanent position at church because father liked it that way. My gaze was on father; his white shirt was already soaked with sweat and at intervals, he dabs his face with a handkerchief. Everyone thought he was good looking, especially the choir ladies who would always giggle like school girls whenever he says something funny or teases them. All that just to get his attention but if only they knew the monster that lurks within the man. In public, mother was his priceless jewel and darling. But behind closed doors, she was his punching bag.

My gaze shifted to mother. Her arms were folded under her bosom as she stared at father as though she was so engrossed in the sermon. The make up she applied didn’t conceal the bags under her eyes neither did it hide the deep scars on her face. She always suffered from persistent migraines and heart aches. She was often in tears and gets rather nervous and scared whenever father showed up at home. The humiliation and abuse she receives from him was traumatic enough to get her admitted for rehab.

Those nights father gets irritated because she added much salt to the soup, he would pour the soup on her head before smashing the ceramic plate on her face. Mother had learnt not to let the tears fall immediately. Doing that would only serve to fuel father’s anger the more.
“Mum, can we just get away? We….”
“Marriage is till death do us part”, mother would always cut me off leaving me completely dazed.
Lately, she barely says a word to us but walks around the house speaking in whispers and gesticulating with her hands.
” Mummy is now mad” Junior would always say……..

“Let the choir help us with worship songs”, father’s words shook me out of my reverie. I looked up and caught him with a lopsided smile as the choir mistress climbed the stage. The short gown she wore hug tightly to her body leaving nothing to the imagination. I sighed inwardly.
* * ** * ** * ** * ** * ** * *
” Tell your father we have been waiting “, mother asked almost in a whisper. I couldn’t remember the last time her voice was audible. Briskly, I walked into the church wondering why father had kept us waiting. It was almost an hour since the service came to an end.
I increased my steps as I made my way to his office. Pushing the door open, I felt a rush of blood through my body; my mind too moulded to comprehend what was going on.

Father’s moans choked the room as the choir mistress kept stroking and shovelling his member into her mouth. They were so lost in their little world and totally oblivious of my presence.
My fingers quivered in shock as hot tears came perching at the edge of my eyes. There was terror in father’s eyes when his gaze met mine. All I felt was an urge to rip off his head.

” Don’t you dare tell your mother about this Ella”. His warning got me laughing loudly in the midst of my tears.

Anna Fina studied Law at the prestigious Ebonyi State University, Abakiliki. She loves to Write.

The Other Side of Being Married: Domestic Violence

Domestic violence is becoming a trending topic because of the different cases of domestic abuse springing up lately.
Men battering the fragile, weak woman at home at the slightest provocation, is the kind of news that’s graces the headlines these days.

We can only read stories like these and get emotional, yet none of us can do much to help these victims. We can only preach to them to leave, we can only make their stories hot topics on blogs and recommend NGOs.

Do these women really want to leave?
It’s always about, What will my pastor say? Where will I go from here? If I leave my husband, Which man will consider me attractive enough to marry me since age is not on my side?

Personally, I’ve witnessed few cases of domestic violence, it could be very dirty and shameful. Ugly words are used to describe each other’s personality during the heated argument, sometimes lewd words are hurled at each other and descriptive exposure of the other’s past, which could be dark. Not minding who is watching or listening. This is not a good look.

Then the beast of a man rains blows on his spouse like Mike Tyson. Hard blows that an average man can’t withstand. Most times, all these take place in full glare of the public. No one has to live with such mess.
It’s actually unhealthy to hang on to an abusive partner, no matter the vow taken at the altar or societal restrictions.
It is because of these restrictions that many women are not open about the abuses that takes place indoors.

That’s why today’s marriages are like window dressing. All they display in public is just to keep up appearance. Indoors, there is a battered spouse enduring all forms of abuses and torture.

Although most women don’t seem to mind the fact that their man has turned them to a punching bag. They’ve accepted that “It’s a normal thing ‘daddy’ does when he’s angry.”

These ones need to be rescued!