Wednesday, 10 September 2014
I
was in primary school. Maybe primary three or so. My parents were arguing
really loudly, which wasn’t out of the ordinary. They argued a lot, it was the
way their marriage was. My mom was having her breakfast. We had had ours, and
was waiting for her to be done so she could take us to school. Then she
screamed. It was a terrible sound. Things happened very quickly afterwards. I think
we the children were screaming too. I can vaguely recall neighbours running
into our house. I know my dad left, either before the neighbours came in or thereafter
I can’t say for sure now, but I know he hadn’t gone with them to the hospital. When
mom cried that he had reached out to strike her and in her attempt to block the
blow, her chair had skidded and she fell fracturing her ankle, neither dad nor
us could collaborate or refute that account. You see, dad had locked us out of
the sitting room when he stormed in to shout at her. At any rate, between the
time mom went to the emergency room and when she returned home, that story
changed. It became the same old, ‘I slipped’. I didn’t get the memo on time.
While mom was at the hospital, some other neighbour had asked me why I wasn’t
in school. I answered that my father had beat my mother, so she couldn’t take
me. That neighbour had said nothing. No comfort words. She just quickly
terminated her inquiry and was gone quicker than you could bat an eye.
That’s
the only incident of domestic abuse I recall in our home, although years later
mom insisted there were several others. I didn’t see it. I’d always thought, as
bad as daddy was, at least he didn’t hit her except for that one time. I did
recognise the other types of abuses. The way he didn’t want her working. The
way he accused her of sleeping with every Tom, Dick and Harry. The way he
wanted to handpick her friends and rejected almost every one she made for
herself. The way he accused her of competitiveness – I remember when she
registered for her masters programme and he went on and on about how she did it
because he had a masters degree. The way he stopped eating the food she cooked
whenever they had an disagreement. There was so many other things. So many
things that made the younger me think, “if this is what marriage is, I’d
happily stay single.” Dad believed nobody would want to marry me, at any rate. He said I was
too opinionated. Too stubborn. I didn’t know how to give in to authority (i.e.
men). He saw the interest I had in sex and in boys, and he told me I would be an ashawo just like my
mother – that I would be thrown out of my marriage soon enough, should I
hoodwink some poor sod into marrying me that is. I cannot say for certain how
physically abusive he was to my mother, but he was emotionally so – and he was
emotionally abusive to me.
But
I love him. He is my father. I could even say my mother loves him too, although the predominate
emotion she feels at present is intense hate. She has remarried, but I swear
she’s impatiently waiting for God to punish him for all the wrong he did her. But
she did stay married to him for over 30 years. She said she stayed because of
us the children. My younger self used to think it was bullshit. Leave oh jare, I
would say to her. Why put up with this?
To
be honest, I’m happy she didn’t. We barely ate with her around as it was.
Waiting for the little money she made from selling any merchandise she would
get her hands on while the Imo State Government owed her several months salary.
And all that while, we supposedly had a rich father. A father who lived more in
Europe than he did in Nigeria. He drove around in his many high-end cars, while
we only had my mom to pick up or drop us off at school in the tokunbo car her
brothers bought for her because my father didn’t care if she trekked to work or
not. Or when the car was on its frequent spa treatment at the mechanics, or
daddy had locked the gate and wouldn’t let her drive out, then we walked. A father
who charters nearly everything he ate when he is in Nigeria from each overseas trip.
He would keep them all locked up in his bedroom, till they went bad and he would have us
eat them rather than throw them away. Mom would buy the meat with her own money and
she couldn’t even eat it, because she only had enough for him. The only way we
ate meat was if daddy was kind enough to leave bits of it in his plate, which
we eagerly waited for him to call us to take away when he was done eating.
If
mom had gone, we would have starved to death. He might have withdrawn us from the
private school we went. The school it was always such a war to get him to keep paying
for, about one fight mom was willing to take him on no matter what bad it
got for her. Without mom breathing down his neck, what would have compelled him to continue? He certainly would have
cut us off from our mother. I mean even as grown up as we are now, he still
wants us to have nothing with do with her. He says, how could we continue to
relate with her when he’s shown us how bad she is (he certainly cannot
understand why today it’s him we avoid but not her. Oh, my mother is a piece of
work, but at least we know she truly cares for us). Imagine if we were kids and
totally dependent on him. Of course, he would have remarried. He did, in fact.
He has had two wives since my mom. I probably would have had to marry really
early like my elder sister, just to get away from the toxic home environment.
Would
I have stayed if I was my mother? If I had six children – six living,
one dead one and at least three miscarriages – like she did I don’t doubt I
would. If I had no money, and couldn’t raise all six children by myself, I
could. If there is no functional alimony system, and my spouse can’t be forced
to pay child support, I wouldn’t even think twice about it. If I would have to
face the indignity of living in a society that shames me for having the
courage to leave and deem my daughters defective and ‘unmarriageble’ because
‘their mother couldn’t stay in marriage’, I would most definitely consider staying.
Hence, I try not to shame women who stay with abusive husbands. Perhaps for
them, it genuinely is a seasonal thing. This isn’t how their spouse is on a
normal day. It’s just that it’s January and he doesn’t have money again after all the Christmas spending. Or, he only gets like this when he drinks. Or he has been putting in so much at work but not getting the recognition he deserves, that’s
why he is lashing out at the only person he can. He is really a very loving
husband and father, otherwise. I could understand all those. After all, I do firmly believe
my siblings and I are better for it because my mom stayed. But maybe I can say
so because my dad didn’t kill mom the way his cousin killed his wife. Because by
the time he finally threw her out and locked all her things in, we were a
little older. We could stand up for her, albeit with consequences – I spent a
day in a police cell, my little brothers were beaten up by professionals, and
for two years he wouldn’t have anything to do with youngest ones who my mother
muscled out from him.
But
I couldn’t live that life. Not the person I became as a result of being my mother’s
daughter, of seeing the way she had to live. A person who associates pregnancy
with control. A way men keep women tied down, subdued, imprisoned. I wouldn’t
stay for anything in the world. It is one of the reasons I only have one child.
So I can put him in my pocket and be gone.
P.S: I would greatly appreciate if nobody preached to me about forgiving my father. I have no animosity towards him. I'm just documenting the events as they took place in my life.
Ciao
Oh my darling. Your story reads almost like my life story. Tweaks here and there but my reality. Same as you, I'm grateful for the experience cos the woman I am today is a wise and confident one. Maybe if I was raised a princess I might have spent my life with toads. Lol. Anyway, that's that. And yes, I love you! I shared with a friend who needed to read this. Xoxo
ReplyDeleteYour story made me very sad. I'm sorry oh, but your father was a monster. Thank God that you still have some self esteem left after living in that kind of environment. However, I imagine myself as your husband reading your last comment: "It is one of the reasons I only have one child. So I can put him in my pocket and be gone." And it gives me a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. Ugo, from your story, your scars have not completely healed and my heart really goes out to you. For someone who's story will make yours look like the introduction to the book, take it from me, until you completely let go, love will be difficult to enjoy. There will always be that part of you that anticipates and prepares for disappointment. As pragmatic as that is, what kind of life is that?
ReplyDelete