WHO CARES WHAT THEY SAY?

The story

Walking down the street of Allen Avenue that cold evening, the rain was dripping. One could see reflections of lights from moving vehicles on the stable water on the tarred road.

Everywhere was frigid. The time was about some minutes pass six in the evening. As I walked down the street, soaked by the heavy downpour that evening, it seems all  eyes stared just at me.

 By the end of the street, taking a U-turn, one could see a three story building facing Saint Patrick Catholic Cathedral, the church I visited for confession whenever I couldn't make peace with myself. The building with the inscription " EMMANUEL'S COURT", was where I lived with Ron for two years since we got married. 

Allen Avenue was like a semi business hub in the suburb of the city. One could see small businesses here and there.

 I have  always lead a private life even when growing up. When I got married to Ron, I asked that we moved to the suburb of the city, away from busy life of the town.

As I walked pass the newspaper stand just few metres away from my apartment, a group of news readers who happen to have known me stared, perhaps in sympathy for loosing my worth at such a youthful age to marriage. I was actually fading with my skin pale like an unripe mango fruit.

Approaching a hair dressing salon across the street, the buzz of the ladies at the salon sounded like I was being mocked for becoming a fairly used item whose worth was half a penny. In all honesty, the salt in me was lost.

That evening i was actually returning from meeting with my mom to inform her of my  reasons for wanting to divorcing Ron.


"Henna, your father and I have been in marriage for 34 years now. You can't simply throw away what others are looking for because of intolerance..." my mum had said..

"..Do you know how many time I have had to put up with a lot happening in this house just to make sure the family is in peace?" She asked as if she was seeking for my affirmation.

"...but mom," I interrupted without waiting for the next question from her... 

" mom,.. you and I know that dad has never laid his hands on you before. Dad is not a drunkard, a gambler... Dad that I know is nowhere near the kind of person Ron my husband is" I said trying hard for mom to see why I shouldn't life with Ron anymore.

"Hanne, you are a woman..." my mom added even before I could say anything else.

"women are dynamic, flexible.... they tolerate a lot. Go and tolerate your husband.
"It is not our tradition that women should divorce their husband. It is a trend brought upon us by the West." She said sounding like a preacher sermonising his new convert.

"Have you considered how the society will mock me and the bad name you will bring this family?  They will say that I didn't give you proper home training?.... I don't want to listen to this nonsense conversation ever again..." she added, walking angrily away from the dining room.

My mom really wanted my marriage to work no matter what it was going to cost; at least from how she sounded.

At that moment I realise how our tradition and has made us women take bitter pills of unfaithful husband, force it down our throat and still smile like nothing happened. 

While the world has change, which in turn as affected the way our men uphold the sacreds of marriage, women are expected to dwell in the old tradition whose tenets have been diluted by men to suit their polygamous nature.

Worse is that the oath of marriage are taken by the women as if they owe the men gratitude for not allowing them die as nuns.

These and many more have made women to be subjected to untold story of abuse, domestic violence and any unpleasant thing you can think of all in the name of marriage.

Because of traditions, naysay etc. our gender are dying silently while others plea for the heavy stone of abuse to be lifted off their backs.

Psychologically speaking, it seems a padlock is placed on the lips of the women for the fear of not loosing their worth and their place in the den of monsters they called marital homes.

Back to my unpleasant story.

My crime was wanting to opt out of a marriage with Ron, my husband who had turned our union to battle ground where common mistakes and errors are turned into whipes at the least opportunity.

My youthful skin bore marks like an ancient slave. Marks of various degrees of injuries decorated with bruise of whipes from my husband waist belt was visible even at afar.

If that wasn't enough, Ron, a harden womaniser, and gambler wanted to drowned me in the misery of what he turned his life into.

One evening, drunk as usual, he had staggered into our bed, smiling the ungodly scent of liquor.
Like every other time, I had long retired to bed knowing that he may not return that night as it was in most cases.

He ordered I served him the food he paid for.

First, I objected as I wasn't in the right frame of mine to have intimacy with Ron.
He insisted that he eat his apple not wanting to know the reasons for my objections.

I told Ron I wasn't gonna let him have his way that night.

Turning to face the other direction of our bed, Ron, intoxicated, descended on me like a wild bear. Trying to force his way in between my legs, I pulled him off.

The second attempt was accompanied with a blow on my head. Before I could realise, my eye lid was cut open. I begged for mercy, but Ron distributed blows like a boxer in tight situation with his opponent in the ring. I cried, begged but it was to no avail. My strength failed me, bruise and injuries sustained in the struggle served me severe pains as Ron in his intoxicated state devour me.


This was just one of too many occasions my husband had turned me to a piece of rag.

I was slowly becoming a walking corpse. Life was hell to me in what I called marriage.

It was so unbearable that on many occasions thoughts  of ending my miserable life cripped into my mind.

That was last the straw that broke the camel's back.

I decided I was gonna divorced Ron no matter what it takes before i have a tombstone as the only thing left of me.

My name is Henna and this is my story...


~ Patrick Ekong ©️