I never thought I’d be one of those girls that get hit on. By ‘hit on’ I don’t mean asked out, I mean literally hit on.
I had a relatively normal childhood; playing with the neighborhood kids after finishing my homework on school days, going window shopping with my mum on the weekends, eating two pieces of chicken with Jollof rice on my Birthday and the occasional new clothes during Christmas.
Growing up, my dad was, well, my Dad. One thing I’m irrevocably sure of, though, is that he wasn’t a ‘hitter’. Maybe he hit my mum, I’ll never know but he never hit her in front of us and he definitely didn’t hit her enough for my brother and I to notice (we lived in a small, thin walled flat). I guess that’s why in my wildest dreams, getting beaten, especially by someone who claimed to love me, was never a possibility.
Meeting Demola was like a dream, he was perfect; the golden boy. He was very handsome and rich. I thought he could buy me the whole world with the amount of money he had. He appeared unflawed, always impeccably dressed and well mannered, ever the gentleman.
The most dreamlike thing about my meeting with Demola was the fact that he was interested in me. Out of all the girls flocking around him, he chose me. We got married 6 months after we met. I thought it was ample enough time to get to know each other, maybe I was wrong.
When I think back, I can’t help but wonder if there were signs I missed, tell-tales I couldn’t or didn’t want to pay attention to; like the one time I missed my flight. I was supposed to attend a training program in London for a few days but I was unavoidably held up at the work. I eventually got to the airport late. Demola called to ask if I had boarded when I told him I missed my flight. The funniest thing was that my workplace was taking care of the fees for my rescheduled flight and I was still going to make it in time for the training. I told Demola all these things but he was still so upset. He said he knew I would miss the flight because I was slow and uncoordinated. I had never missed a flight before nor have missed another since that trip. He didn’t call or answer my calls throughout my stay in London. Even though he apologized when I got back, he still maintained I ‘deserved’ his punishment of not calling.
There were other subtle signs apart from that; like the fact that I was never enough for him. I know he loved me, he couldn’t hide it even if he tried, but there was always a better way to act, to talk, to walk, to eat, to dress, to think. There was always something I could’ve done better.
The first blow is always the worst; it shatters the delicate façade that you’ve been trying to preserve in your mind. The first time Demola hit me was on my 26th birthday. He had been planning a surprise party for me for months. I knew he was up to something but I didn’t know what. That day, we planned to go out for dinner. I was supposed to meet him at the venue after work. I called him a few hours before our date to tell him I was running late and to ask if we could make dinner an hour later than we planned. He sounded irritated, but he agreed. I got to the venue 30 minutes later than I’d promised. I was greeted by a uniform chorus of ‘surprise!’ Almost everyone I held dear was present, I was so happy! I hugged Demola and thanked him. I tried to explain why I was late but he brushed it off and told me to forget it. We had a wonderful time eating, drinking and dancing. We ended up being one of the last people to leave the bar.
When we got home, Demola started acting moody. I knew it was because I had kept everyone waiting. I tried to explain to him and even tried to kiss his frown away, but he wasn’t having it. All my attempts to cheer him up were met with aggressive opposition. I decided to take a shower and prepare for work the next day. With my back still turned to him, Demola hit my head. At first, I thought it was a mistake. I turned to look at him only for him to slap my face. I was shocked! I tried to ask why, but he was so angry. His words all jumbled together as he spoke, all I could make out was ‘no respect.’ He slapped me two more times and drew my ears. I don’t know which hurt the most, my cheeks, my hot ears, my ego or my heart. Demola, my golden boy walked out on me. I stood in shock as the tears finally started to gather and sting my eyes. I’m not sure when exactly I fell asleep while crying, but I woke to find Demola staring at me. He was kneeling beside me, his hands stroking my swollen face. I blinked several times to be sure I wasn’t dreaming. I remember that night so vividly, I remember the silent tears we both shed. I remember watching my husband watch me suffer and suffering in his own way. I remember mourning what was once pure, now forever tainted.
After the unfortunate incident, I wrestled with telling my family and close friends but I ultimately decided to keep it to myself. I knew they would never understand. It took a few days but things got back to normal. Demola apologized and swore to never hurt me again. I apologized and swore to never provoke him. But provoke him I did; each time my job took longer than he expected, Demola would welcome me home with a slap. With time, he learnt to target places that my clothes hid.
I eventually quit my job. That day was the happiest day of my married life. I knew my problems with my husband were over; until I got home after he did on one random Friday. I had gone to visit my former work colleague turned friend who just birthed a baby. I had even sent D a text letting him know where I was. I had no idea he would return home before his usual 5 pm that day. I got home to my fuming husband and started to beg once I saw his face. The first slap didn’t hurt, even the second and third in their slow motioned glory were still unfelt. By the time he started kicking me, something he had never done, I knew I could never escape his love. No matter what I did, he would always find a way to punish me for loving him back.
By the time Demola finished his beating, I lay curled in a fetal position on our cold marble floor. I don’t know how long I remained there after the beating. My sore battered body unable to move, my mouth filled with the metallic taste of blood, my fractured mind constantly replaying the hurtful things D had said and the way he charged at me like a caged animal fighting for freedom.
I thought then about leaving him and never turning back, but how could I? I loved him and love stayed no matter what. I knew he loved me too, I knew it because he always came around. I was already asleep on the floor, still in that fetal position when I felt his arms around me. He carried me to our bedroom so delicately, like the wounded animal I was and he cleaned me with a bowl of warm water and wet cloth. Every part of me hurt but I remained mute and watched as the clear water in the bowl turned pink. When I was clean, he held me in his arms and whispered soft words to me, it was an apparition, a lie, it wasn’t him and he swore! He swore it would never happen again.
‘Baby you know what you did to deserve it’, he repeated. Except this time, I believed I did nothing to deserve such punishment. This was the first time I felt hopeless, if I didn’t know what I had done, then I had no way of preventing it from happening again. Eventually, Demola’s punishments became so frequent and unwarranted that I stopped trying to avoid them. Like a zombie, I lived for the next time he would hit me just so that he could make it up to me.
The last time Demola beat me, nothing till this point had seemed so dreamlike. I lay there and took it all; his sadness, his frustration and his love. When he was tired and exhausted from the beating, he went to bed. I lay there for the longest time, memories of nights so similar to this one replaying in my mind. I lay there until time became a function of the past beating and the endless possibilities of the next one and the one after that. Still, I lay there, until I became numb and devoid of emotion; until I was sure my broken heart couldn’t be fixed, until I could move. I limped painfully to the kitchen. Finally, I had gotten my solution and Demola’s answer.
It was easy to overpower him after he passed out. After a terrible beating similar to the one Demola gave me, he would usually take something to calm his nerves, but that something grew a little more as the beatings became more frequent and severe. Eventually my Demola started drinking himself to stupor every other night. I dragged myself to our room and climbed on top of him, he shifted, surprised and no doubt assuming I was there to atone for my sins.
The stabbings were swift, I made sure of it. The first blow is always the worst; it shatters the delicate façade you’ve been trying to preserve in your mind. The look of surprise on Demola’s face slowly turned to awareness and finally panic as he recognized the silver glint of the butcher knife – the one we hardly used. That look is something I’ll never forget. I gave him several clean cuts at strategic points on his body, not minding the location, but being very careful to make it as quick and clean as possible. They say he was dead by the time I had gotten to the fiftieth stab, but that didn’t stop me.
Sometimes, I still hear his screams, a distant echo on cold lonely nights. Some people say I had run mad, some say I had had enough, but they don’t understand. They never did. I released him; my golden boy. I finally released him from his chains, I set him free like the phoenix that has to die to be reborn.
I cried that night as I watched him suffer, but I had to do it; It was my final act of love. I released Demola from his prison, something he was too weak to do himself. Our love, our bond, our connection – it was drowning us. In the end, he loved me for releasing him. I’m sure of it. My golden boy.
[hupso]
