If you’re reading this, then adjust your screens, computers, or your glasses, whichever you’re reading this from and sit tight, because i’m about to take you on a journey into the secret lives of women, single, married and divorced. I thought it about time to share the documentary I began two years ago, even while still adding to it. You might call this a feminist approach, considering it’s an Africa-based documentary. You might even call it satanic because it might not sit very well with your belief or faith. But the truth remains that these things happen every day. Everyday, there is a young girl out there who cannot speak up about the pains eating her up, or a woman who is at the brink of losing it. And so, here is a voice for these women, an opportunity to call for help, to find solace and comfort in the words and stories of others.
Today, I’ll share the story of a woman who after losing her first child, took in only to lose it to the anger of a demented, yet, respectable husband. Who would believe her anyway?
Today makes it a year since I lost my second child. A boy. He was a happy one, always smiling, giggling, oh, he was a beautiful one. I knew he was made to be a fighter…just like his mother. His eyes reminded me so much of my late father. Those ever glowing urbs of shiny waters. The last time I held him, I never knew it would be the last. I would have held him longer, drowned in his innocence and perhaps, I may have never returned home that night. I would have kissed him longer, held him tighter, embraced him while I slept. Or I would have stayed put at the hospital, asked that they never release me. Now that I think about it, I had blamed myself. I had been so stupid. I knew returning home would not end well. I knew it would happen again. It always happened, no matter how far I ran. I always came home to him. My parents wouldn’t accept me back. They said people would ridicule them; having their wedded daughter return home, chased away from her husband’s home. But they didn’t understand.They didn’t know. He had killed our first child. That miscarriage was all him. But it doesn’t matter now, does it?
. . .
I had awoken to find my baby…our baby wailing so loudly. I had jumped out of bed, my eyes scanning the room for my baby. But he wasn’t there. Why was he crying? Where was he? Where was my baby?
Like a frenzied lunatic, I darted out of the room and into the living room. Sighting him on the dinning table, I hurried to steady him, but Kunle pushed me off. My gaze flew up to meet his. My heart was pounding hard against my chest now. I couldn’t…I couldn’t imagine what was to come…What did he want? How did he intend to punish me this time?
Once again, I reached out for my baby, and once again he shoved me off. He was looking at me sternly, daring me to make another attempt. I knew what he was capable of, but my child’s safety was way more important, so I reached to carry him off the table again. This time, he pushed me so hard, the force sent me flying across the room, my back against the center table.
Soon, he pounced on me. And then he hit me so hard I began to bleed in more places than I can count. I couldn’t see properly. It was all blurry. I only knew he came for me again and again. I screamed and yelled but he didn’t stop. He was mad I hadn’t returned from the hospital earlier to fix his dinner. He was even more upset I hadn’t taken permission to take our baby to the hospital before doing so. But what could I have done? He would have said no!
While serving me punches, I heard my baby crying once again. He was sitting up now, weeping as though he too could feel my pain. I tried to pull myself from underneath my husband, but it was pointless. He wasn’t done with me just yet. Just then, as though he read my mind, my son began crawling towards me. ‘No…no’, I yelled
Struggling to get Kunle off of me, I screamed some more, hoping he’d just spare me a minute to get our baby off the table, I needed just a minute, a minute to get him away from this madness, but no….he pinned me down fiercely and began delivering more blows…
David’s cry grew louder…and he was getting closer to the edge of the table. You know, it seemed the more Nos I screamed, the deafer Kunle decided to be.
Soon my screams became rapid pants, I had lost my voice. I felt numb. Not from the incessant blows, but from the knowledge of the inevitable. And then, I saw him fall. He fell…right in front of my eyes, and I couldn’t save him. I couldn’t reach out to save him. I couldn’t…
He stopped crying immediately his head made contact with the floor.
I died…again..for the second time in two years, I died…mercilessly. He killed me once again.
Kunle fled, leaving me and my baby. I had lost my first child when I was only 6 months along. He had punched it out of me, and then rushed me to the hospital. He had begged for forgiveness. He had even come up with a beautiful tragedy, a story we’d both tell anyone who asked how we lost the baby.
Nonetheless, Mrs. Fifekemi has well struggled to remain sane, and she decided to share her story here because she wanted to pass a message across to women who are passing through such traumatic experiences as hers.
In her words, ‘Run! Run away, my dear. Love does not hurt, It doesn’t kill. It is not selfish. Love is compassion. It is care. Love is anything but madness. I never wish for any woman to go through half of what I experienced, losing two child, and not being able to have any more children. You know,m after the miscarriage, I loved him still. I told myself it was my fault. I told myself I upset him and so the beating was justified. I told myself he never meant for me to lose my baby..our baby. He loved me. I was willing to take him back. It was as though I myself believed the story we had made up, you know? That I had worked too hard and the slipped while mopping the floor. But that’s story for another day.
Thank you for this opportunity to reach thousands of women out there. I wish I had been given such an opportunity before going on to be with the demon himself. I saw the signs, but I loved him. I told myself he’d change. He begged me after all, got me gifts and told me he loved me. I loved him too. That was all that mattered. He was a fine man, just his anger. We would work on it, fight it together. But he wasn’t worthy of that love. He broke me, took everything away from me, and left me a dead woman. I’d never forgive him. I myself am not Jesus.’
If you’re interested in sharing your story or you need good advise on whatever it is you are going through, please send a mail to firstname.lastname@example.org. Or you can chat me up on WhatsApp (+2348106610978) or DM on instagram: @thewomenafrica.