theinkheartblog

letting the ink tell the tales conceived in my mind………

Month: September, 2013

Abimbola

My daughter was a genius. Who knew a 15 year old could help me gain my freedom from my derailed husband. She told me what to do and it worked perfectly well. I was very skeptical about her plans at first but when I saw the seriousness in her eyes, I decided to finally give in. It was either I win or he wins and the latter was not an option, so I decided to give it my best and win by all cost. I took a hasty shower and wore a shorts and tank top. I knew my husband hated me wearing those things. He wanted me to wear nightgowns or pajamas. He had told me that no one was looking so I need not show off my body in skimpy dresses. I took my time to apply make-up on my face and brushed my hair well. I looked at the mirror and I saw a young woman about to be free. I took my i-pod, plugged my ears and increased the volume to the loudest. My daughter had told me to the exact things that irritated her father to trigger the beast in him.

I sang loudly and danced to the music as I moved to the kitchen. I saw the anger in his eyes but I ignored it. I saw his mouth move; he was obviously asking what was going on. I ignored and continued dancing without my heart in it. I was anticipating his move to hit me. Just then, he tapped me and I turned to him. I saw him raise his hands and moved quickly to stop him mid-air. He was shocked. It felt good to shock my husband, I felt strangely empowered. I removed the ear-piece from my ears and set the i-pod on the table. It was on
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Abisola

I watched as my mother held my father’s hand mid-air. I knew he would overpower soon once he was over the shock. I moved into action immediately. I ran into the kitchen and emptied the bottle of shampoo and hair oil on the floor. My mother moved aside and I poured the bowl of hot on my father. Immediately, my mother started whipping him with his leather belt; the same he used on my mom. He fell on the floor in pain and he struggled in vain to stand up. My mother hit him harder and I saw her smiling. She looked happier than she had in a long time.
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Abimbola

I felt so in control as I hit my husband with his belt. He began to whimper like a child and that served as fuel to hit him harder. I hit him till my arms began to ache. I took the hot pot of pasta he had prepared and emptied it on his head. I took one of the kitchen stools and hit him on his back and his knees. I felt so good. I finally had my husband at my mercy. I felt like I was finally free and I could live normally again. I went to my room and packed the money he kept in his home bank; it was a lot. I took some crucial documents and took my daughter away from the house. We got to a safe place and I contacted someone I knew that could move money illegally from a bank account to another. Since he had foolishly bought the house in my name, I called a solicitor to sell it off. It was the best day of my life.
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Rumour has it that Abimbola and her daughter; Abisola are living in luxury in ghana while Gbolagade has managed to secure a room apartment with the help of one his friends. He was last seen at an office trying to get a job.
T H E E N D ! ! !

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Posted by theinkheart

Gbolagade and Abimbola’s daughter; Abisola

I hissed as the tv program ended. If I were watching the program with my friends, they would have looked at me as if I was possessed. I’m sure they would have expected me to be ecstatic about seeing my mom being interviewed on television but I was irritated. My mother was such a hypocrite. How she could comfortably sit down and talk about abused women and how to get help baffled me all the time. How she wrote a book on it was even a bigger mystery. She helped many women gain their freedom while she was in the bondage of a man who beats her at his will.

My parents were living a lie and I hated them for that. They would go out together, wear the same attire, hold hands and act all cozy. I’m sure they fooled their friends and made all of them green with envy. I was not even sure who I hated more; my father for always assaulting my mom or my mother for always allowing herself to be assaulted. I could remember talking to my mom about her “situation”. She told me that my dad loved her so much and he only beat her to correct her. She told me it is was his own way of showing his undying love for her. Undying love, my foot. I saw no love. I saw a woman who subjected herself to an abuser and encouraged him to “correct” her when he felt the need to.

I got up from my bed and went to check if dinner was ready. I wanted to cook noodles but my dad returned just then and told me to go and watch a movie till food was ready. It was almost 9 and food should be ready. I whistled as I walked the short distance to the kitchen. As I got to the kitchen, I heard my mom apologizing for coming late. I doubled my steps and as I got to the kitchen entrance, I saw my father slap my mother so hard that she fell on the floor and hit her head on the wall. I felt as if a bucket of acid was thrown on me; I was on fire.
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Gbolagade

I smirked as I helped my wife up. She looked more subdued now unlike when she came in. Not that I did not support my wife being successful. At least, I stood by her when she decided to launch her silly book and even gave her the money for it. I supported everything my wife was but I would not allow her cheap fame to get into her head. She would always remember that I was the lord over her life. She would not disrespect me in my own home.
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Abimbola

The silly smile on his face irritated me and I felt like slapping it off him. I bit down on my lower lips and prayed for strength to hold on for just one more day. My patience with the man was beginning to thin out. I walked to fridge and took out a bottle of water. He looked at me and gave me the disgusting smile again while chopping onions. I felt like collecting the knife in his hands and stabbing him to death with it. I was thinking about the many ways I could kill him and dispose his body when he told me to go and wash up for dinner. I was angry at the way I easily succumbed to his orders. I thought of going to scratch his eyes out with my nails but I would be calm. I would live to fight another day.

I got to my room and saw my daughter sitting by the entrance. She had on a look that radiated seriousness. At 15, my daughter had a way of getting my attention without trying.
“Hey baby, a hug for mummy?”
“Mum, cut the crap. We need to talk”

Posted by theinkheart

I had watched my father hit my mother many times. He always beat her at every chance he got. For every wrong she did, my father had a punishment waiting for her. Things like serving his food late, forgetting to boil water for him to bath, forgetting to iron his shirts or clean his shoes would earn my mom three hot slaps or more. Whenever she committed big crimes like going out to visit friends and staying too long or sleeping over at her parent’s place without permission earned her a taste of the whip. There was a time my mother had served my father orange juice instead of his beloved pine-apple juice. He had not only slapped her till her nose bled, he had emptied the whole jug on her. My mother did not cry, she went down on her knees immediately and apologized for being such a bad wife. My father had proudly dragged her closer and rubbed her head. That was the end of the issue and my mother never served my father any juice other than pine-apple juice even when it was out of season.

I can remember asking my father when I was 18 why he enjoyed beating my mom so much. My father laughed and gave me a pat on the back
“Son, when you’re married, you will understand why I beat your mother.”
“But daddy, my teacher told us in school that women are supposed to be treated with care.”
“Who says I don’t care for your mother. I give her more than enough. She has the best of everything.”
“Do you love mommy?”
“Surely, I love your mother very much.”
“Dad, will you ever stop beating her.”
“Son, it’s not like I love to beat your mum. It’s just my way of helping her to remember the right thing to do.”
“But daddy….”
“No more questions son. Go and finish your homework”
“Yes daddy”
I was almost out of the room when he said something to me that I never forgot.
“Son, beating a woman is a way of showing her who’s in charge, you know. It sets them straight.”

Although we never talked about the issue again, I understood perfectly well why my father beat my mom. The fact that he never beat us buttressed his point. I never forgot that discussion and I lived by the creed laid down my father. So, when I married my beautiful Abimbola, I did the same thing to her. No matter how popular and accomplished she was, she never forgot who the head of the home was.
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I was sweating. I was not even sure if it was the heat from the lightning on the set or the heat radiating from within. I had lost count on how many times I had been interviewed on tv and yet, I was not used it. I used the handkerchief to mop up the beads of sweat on my forehead.
“So, what advice do you have for women that are being abused?”
“They should speak up, get out of that relationship or smoke weed and beat the shit out of the man.” Everyone laughed at my joke and I calmed down a bit.
“Very funny. What do you have to say to those men?”
“Well, get help. I hope one day these women will be strong enough to beat you to death.”
I took a sip from the water to wet my parched throat. Talking about abused women could be a very hard thing to do. If only they knew I was a teacher that did not adhere to her own lessons.

The presenter rounded off and I quickly rushed out of the studio without waiting to say much to people. It was past 8 and I was supposed to be at home a long time before then. I rushed to car and prayed for the road to be traffic free. Luckily, there was no traffic and I got home at almost 9. I rushed to the kitchen and found my husband chopping vegetables. I started shaking. I was in trouble. My husband turned and smiled.
“Welcome, wifey the famous writer.”
“I’m so sorry, darling. I got….”
That was all I could say. I fell on the floor and could not see anything. That was what Gbolagade’s slap did to me.

This episode in 3 parts. The 2nd part will be up tomorrow and the last part, next week….

I sat at the edge of the only chair in the room and watched as my wife packed her things. She moved about the tiny room picking bits and pieces to be packed with her clothes. She would throw occasional murderous looks at me and my ego would shrink further. All the speech I was making in my head would disappear with the looks too. I watched as she zipped the big-sized “ghana must go” bag with tears forming in my eyes already. She dragged the heavy bag that contained virtually everything in the house. I stood up to help her and she pushed me to the ground. I was perplexed. The tears were already streaming down my cheeks then and I had started whimpering and pleading for my wife not to leave me. I held her feet and begged profusely. I did not even care if I looked like a weakling, I just wanted my wife to stay. She looked at me and did the dramatic clap accustomed with women. She hissed and pushed me off her.

“Stupid man. You think you can tie me down and let my life waste, abi? You this good for nothing idiot.”
“But Abike, I love you. You are the only thing that makes sense in my life. Don’t go, please.”
She rolled her eyes and did the dramatic clap again.
“See this man ooo… I should not go ke? I don reach where I dey go sef”
“Abike, please now. Stay with me, things will be better. Please.”
“Stay where? Stay with who? You this man, I beg you in the name of the Lord, just leave me let me be going o.”
“I promise, Abike, it will get better soon.”
She looked at me with hatred in her eyes and that shattered my heart completely.
“It will get better, abi? That is what you have been saying since we got married. For almost ten years, I have nothing to show for it. Money, you don’t have and you are as good as impotent too. So, tell me, when will it get better? When we’re both old and no tooth to eat the good things of life, ehn?”

I looked on as she hurled those hurtful words at me. They hurt so much that I just fell into the rickety chair and allowed the tears to fall. I held my head in my hands and cried. She was right. We had been married for ten years with nothing to show for it and God knows that I tried my best. Since I could not get a white collar job, I did all kinds of domestic job to feed and take care of my wife. When she had complained about her not getting pregnant, I had sought help from local doctors and visited all the pharmacy stores in the area. I had used my drugs diligently and prayed just as much too but still, all my efforts were futile. I raised my head as she opened the door. She dragged the bag outside and came back to pick her scarf. She looked at me; a mixture of pity and contempt on her face.

“Please, Abike, don’t leave me.” I muttered so quietly that I could barely hear myself.
“I’m sorry, Dele. I can’t afford to live in abject penury like this. I have a purpose and I’m leaving you to fulfill my purpose. It’s not my fault your life is without a purpose. If I were you, I would have killed myself already.”
With that, she left the room and closed the door behind her. I had never felt so empty in my life. I got up from the chair and left the house too. I was going to do exactly as she had suggested

20 minutes later…….
The pain was too much to bear. Abu had not told me the drugs would work that quickly. I thought I would I have the chance to write a love letter to my Abike before I’m gone. I wanted to tell her how sorry I was to waste her time. I wanted to tell her painful it was for me to see her leave. I wanted to tell her she was the best thing that had happened to me. I wanted to tell her about how much it hurts that I could not make her pregnant. I wanted to tell her about how sorry I was to have saddled her with me when I had no purpose. I wanted to tell her that I love her and she was right that I was useless. I coughed out blood and wiped my mouth with the sleeve of my shirt. I heard a knock on the door and for a moment, I could not feel anything except hope that Abike was back. A middle aged man entered the house and rushed to my side when he saw me on the floor. His cry for help was the last thing I heard as I was thrown into a pit of darkness.
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Post-Man’s Part.
I screamed for help but no one seemed to hear me. The man on the floor was in so much pain that I could feel it too. I stood up and ran outside to call his co-tenants but nobody seemed to care. I went back inside and checked the man. He was already stone cold. I removed my phone from my pocket and called an ambulance to pick the body. I was dialing my boss’ number when a woman entered the room. She looked angry and confused.
“What are you looking for?.” She did not even notice the body on the floor.
“I came to drop a letter for a certain Mr. Oladele Olowolabayaki. The address on the letter shows that he lives here.”
“Yes, he lives here. He was my husband. Where is he anyway?”
“Ma’am, I came in and met this man on the floor. I don’t even know if he is…” I had not finished my statement when the woman screamed.
“Yepa!! Dele!! Dele, open your eyes, it is me Abike”
“He is dead. I already called an ambulance to pick the body and…” The woman held my shirt by the collar and started shaking me back and forth.
“You have killed my Dele ooo. You killed him o. What did he do to you that made you kill him.”
“Madam, I just explained to you what happened. I did not even know he is Mr. Dele.”
She bent down and shook her husband’s body. It was then I saw a small note and a nylon with pills in it. I took the note and read it. I looked at the pills in the nylon and I shook my head. If only he had been patient.
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Abike’s part
I shook the body trying to rouse him from the sleep. Maybe it was a sick joke to get me back. I saw the post man pick up a note and the nylon with pills but I was more concerned about waking Dele up. He gave me the paper and the letter he was going to deliver to Dele and sat on the lone chair in the room. Sadness was etched on the man’s face and his shoulders had sagged from evident pity. I read the note first and started crying. With shaky fingers, I opened the letter. It was a letter from a company, awarding Dele a contract worth millions of naira. The tears were unstoppable. I looked at the note and the “ABIKE, I LOVE YOU STILL” written on it heightened my guilt. If only I had waited a little longer, Dele would have lived to become a wealthy contractor and a father. I rubbed my tummy and I could not help the anguish that enveloped me. If only I had waited…

Posted by theinkheart