Overview

“I met mommy’s friend today. He bought us ice cream and we walked around the mall.” Words so innocent had sealed her fate with an insignia she knew oh so well. Fear. She stood frozen, looking at her bowl of fruits.

The headlights of her husband’s car almost blinded her as she washed fruits in the kitchen sink. The boy, a spitting image of his father, ran out to him, very eager to embrace his hero. Like a ritual, he always brought the boy a toy after his long business trips. The hinges of the metal gate creaked open and the front door went thud in agreeance that they were in the house. She could hear muttered words and soft chuckles coming from the living room. “Maybe he is not drunk, maybe he found Christ on the road,” she thought to herself. As naive as the thoughts were, they gave her hope. Hope and strength. Lord knows she needed strength tonight.

She approached them with the bowl full of fruits, firmly clutched in her hands like a peace offering. “I met mommy’s friend today. He bought us ice cream and we walked around the mall.” Words so innocent had sealed her fate with an insignia she knew oh so well. Fear. She stood frozen, looking at her bowl of fruits. His heavy footsteps grew louder towards her and the door flung open. The ground was yet to gape and gobble her up. Guess her prayer went unheard.

He stormed into the kitchen donning a rabid look on his face. The air around him reeked of vodka, cigarettes and mints. She could almost see blood flowing exquisitely from the green determined vein on his temple. Her eyes, now, fixed solely on the eyes of her attacker. Sorry, her husband, her ‘bound to protect and love’. She knew the routine and was ready to dance the part. "We do not get involved in private family matters," they said sternly the last time she broke her hip. 

She could already feel the excruciating pain that awaited her. A hissing sound filled her ear, a sudden wave of heat embraced her face. Ringing followed, then flashes of white and black images. She could taste iron, a taste too familiar. That is when she realized he had broken her nose. This was the least of her concerns because her locs were being yanked from her golden scalp. She could feel her skin stretch and her laugh folds fade. 

His strikes were hard but precise. She bounced back so easily, so elegantly. He had taught her the dance quite well and they practiced many nights. She never ran out of tears or scared looks. She never ran out of pleas or prayers. She would count to 28 minutes. He always stopped at the 28th minute. Exhausted but seemingly proud of his artistry. It ends with his hand tightly gripped on her thin neck. He would wait till she turned blue, then pale and when she thought it was her last breath, he would drop her like a pen. He always finished off his performance with a hard kick to her belly. This time wasn’t any different.

In that fetal position, in that 28th minute, she would hug her numb body. She would think, plan, resent, and try to gather strength to fight him off the next time. The strength to maybe kill him. She never did. She will probably dance tonight.

WRITER: WAIGUMO

PHOTO CREDITS: @nichollekobi on Instagram