Normalized evil and other stories

The first time someone shows you who they are, believe them. — Maya Angelou

Beating his wife was Mr Ayeni's daily job. A job he wasn’t paid for, but one he carried out nonetheless. A job he executed perfectly, like he was trained from birth for it.

I was thirteen when the Ayenis moved into the apartment next door. They looked like the perfect couple. Mr Ayeni was tall, dark and handsome and Mrs Ayeni was a slender woman, fair in complexion and absolutely stunning.

I became her secret admirer. Whenever she came out of their home and I saw her, I would make sure to talk to her. She had the voice of an angel and I enjoyed her talking to me.

“Good afternoon ma.” I would say if I saw her in the afternoon. Whatever time of day it was, I would greet her accordingly and she would reply with a smile on her face.

The first time she called my name, I was thrilled. My heart skipped a bit. My name sounded different coming from her. She made it sound exotic. “Chinwe, how are you?”

“I am fine, ma” I replied and smile back at her. In no time, we became friends.

The first time I saw a glimpse of her husband’s true colours was the day she was helping me braid my hair. He came back from work early that day and the way he shouted at her sent a shock through me.

“What are you doing there?!” He enquired contorting his face like someone in pain, only he looked really angry.

She hesitated a bit before answering. “I am helping Chinwe make her hair. This is the last one. I’m done.” She stood up and made her way over to him. “Bye, Chinwe.”

“Good evening sir.” I greeted Mr Ayeni. He looked at me without a response and went into his house with his wife trailing closely behind him. She looked back at me and then waved.

The next day I saw a bruise on her face and when I asked her what happened, she just smiled and said “Nothing, my dear. Just a minor home accident.” I would not know until later that the home accident she was talking about was different from the home accidents I was taught about in school. At a point, I came to realize that the home accidents were becoming constant. I would see her with a cut on her lip, a black eye or both, even though she was very good at hiding them. Also, I was not deaf to the cries and shouts that emanated from their house. It got to a point I couldn’t bear it and I decided to talk to Mrs Ayeni about it.

“Domestic violence, Mrs Ayeni. That’s what they call it. It is a human rights abuse. And someone who loves you shouldn’t be abusing you this way.” I said with the limited knowledge I had gained from school earlier that day. The news of the singer Osinachi who was killed by her husband was trending and people were talking all about it. In school, on social media, in the market, in churches, everywhere.

Mrs Ayeni laughed. “Oh, Chinwe. You are such a bright child but you can never understand. This is beyond you.”

“What can’t I understand?” I asked, baffled. This wasn’t a laughing matter.

“Don’t worry, you will understand when you grow up.” I never knew how true that statement was going to prove.

I would later come to realize that in Africa, a woman’s greatest achievement was having a man to call husband. And being a woman meant you had to endure whatever your husband dished out to you. Which meant you had to stay no mater how hard he beat you. “Men will always be men”, “Don’t do things that will provoke him”, “Do things that will make him happy”, were words I would become familiar with.

Young as I was, I knew the neighbours saw the black eye and heard her cries, but nobody cared to ask. Nobody dared to step in. After all, it was their private family life, they would say. “Why step into a husband and wife’s private spats?” I heard one neighbour say. “It is true o. They will reconcile now and turn against you.” I heard another say. My parents were not left out. I tried talking to them about it but they silenced me.

“She’s pregnant and still he beats her.” I pleaded with them to help her.

“There’s nothing we can do about it. My daughter, this is Nigeria. Everyone has their own problems. Even the police officers will ask us to mind our business.” My dad said with his newspaper in hand. Sometimes, I felt like dragging the newspaper from him and demand for him to look at me.

Mom just kept mute. Sometimes, I felt like shaking the words out of her. Speak, Mom. Speak.

One day, we heard the all too familiar cry for help, but as usual everyone pretended not to hear. Suddenly, we heard a shout different from the one we were familiar with. This time, everyone stood up. They rushed to the Ayenis home but it was too late.

We met a heavily pregnant Mrs Ayeni dead on the floor, her husband standing over her in shock. There was a suitcase close by. I think she was finally ready to leave, only she didn’t know death was her only means of escape. I was fourteen when she died.

Twelve years later, I became another version of Mrs Ayeni, but this time it wasn’t me lying dead on the floor. History repeats itself, first as tragedy, second as farce. Yes, I killed my husband and when I finish writing this, I will kill myself. I won’t let myself be captured and continue suffering for his deeds. I know I should have left instead of killing him but what if the same thing that happened to Mrs Ayeni happened to me? I couldn’t let that happen.

If you are reading this, I hope you have a wonderful marriage. One where you won’t have to kill or be killed by the person you promised forever who also promised you forever. One where you won’t take ‘till death do us part' literally. One where you wouldn’t have to choose between his life or yours.