Speaking at a women’s conference:
“Get your umbrella to shield the rain. That’s the right attitude to self-responsibility. Women should never think themselves as victims any longer”
Then someone asked “where do we find the umbrella”
I reiterated” whatever your hands finds to do, do it with all diligence; for you and for an astounding result”.
My husband had called it my confused reality, and with a strange smirk and a long stare, he had walked out on us 3 hours ago.
It started as a gruesome argument, this time, more intense than the usual, witnessed by my 8 years old daughter, whose quivering lips, unusual sad brown eyes moved between the two of us with a silent appeal we never would listened to. After the slaps, hate words, torn clothes, bloodied lip and swollen cheeks, he walked out leaving me, weeping and hurting all over. In the three hours that he left, I had planned the script; my escape route from this marriage. I don’t want it anymore.
For me, it was about to end. For him 3 hours after he left me bruised and bleeding, a change of heart had occurred and he had found another reason, a stronger reason for being a “non-abuser”. In his 3 hours sojourn, he had made a promise to love me better despite our differences. But I had made a vow to groom my spine and see the end of this marriage once I played my part of the script I had written.
My script began once I had ushered my daughter out of the room to go watch her favourite show on the tv, and I brought a mate that made the most amazing love to me on our matrimonial bed.
I have never felt this way before, in the event of a continuous orgasm, I had completely forgotten about my husband and anything related to him. I wasn’t ready for the rude interruptions even by a batterer who just became a Christian boy. The door slammed open and jolted me and my mate out of our frenzy experimentation. At the door bearing gifts, bags, suit jacket in hands with my 8-year-old daughter in tow, was my husband looking lost, strained and annoyed at me and the vibrator, I held in my hand. The strange, erotic and needed feelings I felt with this new found mate- “the vibrator” was out of my usual experience with the hubby. I smiled as I saw his confusion and annoyance with me, I muttered beneath my breath “the script has begun”.
Outraged, he flung me from the bed and held my vibrator as if he caught a condemned criminal and in annoyance he yanked it off the socket as he shouted
“So this is it? This is my replacement, I often wondered why you never was satisfied, never knew you needed and electric penetration, I would have called the NEPA jerk-off for you”. While we rained insult and held each other by the throats, from the corner of my eyes, I saw my daughter walked over to where the Vibrator was flung, took it and looked at it intently. After about a minute of looking at it, she leant forward to peer at the round edges at the top. At that point, Tade, my husband looked at his daughter and I in contempt then hissed and went to the wardrobe to pick his clothes. few seconds later he had emptied his wardrobe, his shoe rack and emptied other cabinets belonging to him. All the while, my daughter stood still, entranced by the object in her hand. I, on the other hand, was nursing a bruised hand and neck and at the same time trying to capture back the minutes of ecstasy that was snatched from me. I was undaunted, I had written this script well, and today must end the whole troublesome marriage. Nothing in this world prepared me for the feeling I had with the vibrator. When Esther my friend had suggested it some months ago, I had shrugged it off saying, I would rather die in this loveless, abusive, celibate marriage than let anything penetrate me. I am overwhelmed still, never noticed when he took his things downstairs to the car, nor when he came upstairs again. He started to go to where his daughter stood at the far end of the big bed, but held back when he saw the concentrated attention she gave the vibrator, her small fingers cross over the round tip, and in simple, yet deliberate movement, she closed her hands on the round tip of the vibrator before running it down the length , this time slowly, and with a keenness akin to a pro, she tangled her hands around the length of it. I and Tade watched dumbfounded. I saw her novice intention turned Tade enraged. He stood in angry amazement as he watched his daughter while running wild thoughts on his stupid head. He shook his head as if willing the thoughts to disappear, then he turned to me pointing accusatory fingers and hurling insults at me about our daughter. I hissed and moved closer to the dressing table, oblivious to him, I had my script well written and planned. I had written the script that my nonchalant attitude at his actions instead of cowering in fright will get him prancing around the huge bedroom like a mad cow. I was proud that my indignance as he would call it got him exasperated to the point he would finally make do his dare to call the marriage over.
I love that he looked wounded, more wounded than the countless bruises he had inflicted all over my body. I predicted his next movement, as he walked over to the dressing table to force me to look at him, he grabbed me and straighten me up against the wall until he heard my pained gasp. He tore the upper part of my nightgown as I knew he would; he only get aroused when he is angry. He ran his hands hungrily on my breast while cursing how, unattractive, ugly and dull looking I have become. Cursing me always get him instantly hard, maddening hard that he hurts and hurt all over too. He held my hand back in a tight grip and bent to pick one nipple with his mouth, he sucked, I cried and in the presence of our daughter whose brown sad eyes looked at the normal drama, he had his way with me after seven months of tortuous celibacy. I enjoyed it, And I didn’t show that I did. He cursed more and with slaps and every other action his hands findeth to do, he did. His abuse always comes with the confession about how he had loved me but I wounded him, how he had always wanted to be enough for me and only him, how he hated me now and how repulsive I am.
The next scene planned out the way I wrote the script, he dragged me by my hair to where my daughter stood with the vibrator, still entranced by the object and our other drama. He asked me to look at my daughter, to look at what I have created. I looked at my daughter and with open admiration and a secret wink, an unspoken wisdom passed between us. She winked at me, with a small slow smile and looked at her father.
Tade looked at me, incredulously and shouted, “you are a screwed up mother, leaving in confused reality, and I hope you and your daughter regret this. You are a whore”.
I couldn’t have vividly described his actions in my script like this, but I knew he was greatly pissed by my unusual nonchalance at his actions, and my quiet demeanour was a first for him, I guess he couldn’t handle my “whatever” attitude and that pissed him the more.
He spat on me and told me it was over; as customary as the end of most of the black marriages goes, I knew ‘it’s over’ means we are divorced. I couldn’t care less. I was silently delirious, ecstatic, grateful and happy. Incredulous at my silence, he ran his hands on the remnant of hair on his head, then walked out.
My relief was like a strange squirt, walking out hurriedly from a closet. At this point, I couldn’t contain my happiness. At last, I thought. I looked at my daughter and this time, I noticed the strange aloofness, I hadn’t seen before. I saw her quiver, the start of a cry, a lone tear rested at the crest of her lower eyelid. I had not written the script to involve her, more so the script didn’t involve the batterer coming back with a changed mind and behaviour, nor with the changed behaviour turning to the old one instantly at the things he saw. The script only included the vibrator and again not the part that I would discover me, either pleasant or unpleasant it must have been to him. I couldn’t rewrite the script nor the things my daughter had witnessed, I couldn’t rewrite what she feels or think about all these. one thing was clear, though, my eight-year-old is no longer innocent. I can only wish our lives together will be better now that her father has finally left my life. Will she be ok? Have I gone too far? Have we gone too far? Her words as she walked away to the door and turned to face me affirmed what I feared had happened to her.
“Mummy I need a divorce too”.
From a different angle, I looked at the strains our words, actions and everything could have done to her. We had allowed our differences to affect her. I saw what the last two years of fights, quarrel, beatings, abuse and differences that could have been related better had done to her, I saw a pile of old age on my daughter’s shoulder as she shrugged and took off with the vibrator in her hands. The sound of her pounding steps against the surface of the rug, jolted me to the reality we had lived, the confusion we have given to her. Her usual light step sounded like the goliath’s on the staircase as the sounds of the porch door opening and closing tells me she had gone outside. I quickly went to the window and saw her march close to where her dad stood by the car, stuffing the remnants of his belongings to the rear of the car. With a noisy tap from her 8-year-old finger and the straightened look from the father, I knew she must have delivered the same news to him, tears in her eyes, she walked away from us. she walked across the street, oblivious to the speeding car from the other side of the road.
…to be continued.