Not My Father's Will
Mayowa Ojo
6/10/20269 min read
When I first laid eyes on her, Becky was like a vision. While those could have been words from a song, that’s exactly how I felt. She was very yellow for starters and as she walked down the church aisle, the backdrop of stained glass windows, pulpit, pews and paintings of angels seemed to come alive. I remained frozen in time; my rosary stuck to my hands and my eyelids suddenly incapable of movement as I beheld the glory of her presence. She moved with such ease, it felt like she floated and did not walk. In my stupor I managed to move my eyeballs to check her ring finger and once I saw it was empty I could have sworn I heard the angels sing too.
Becky and I started dating and boy was I the happiest man on earth. If I thought she was beautiful before I asked her out, I was in for a shocker. She upgraded herself to drop dead gorgeous and it made me giddier because she put in all that effort just for me.
By the time we got married, I knew Becky had a temper but, you see, I loved Becky. I quickly accepted my cross in the form of her temper; persuaded that it was one of the things I said I do to.
The first time she physically abused me was two months after the wedding. I could not believe it. She got upset and threw her phone at me over a misunderstanding so small that I don’t even remember it anymore. I was upset but too shocked to react constructively.
We exchanged a few words in anger and then her shoes followed. I parried them like they did not hurt but they did. Not just the sharpness of the heels but the crudeness of her actions. In retrospect, the signs and symptoms were there before we got married but I ignored them believing it was just a little temper.
During our courtship days, she had “misplaced” her phones a couple of times and I had generously replaced them. I remember this one time when I visited her shortly after one of our lovers’ arguments and I saw a tiny but unmistakable part of her previous phone under her bed. Apparently, whenever she was angry, her phone was usually the first to hit the wall in a bid to vent. Finding that piece under her bed explained the sudden loss of her phones; needless to say I stopped buying her new phones.
I soon became the object of her vents after we got married and, trust me there were a lot of such times. There were so many incidents that I was often unable to tell if I was over thinking things or if she really was that violent. The lines were blurred between the reality of what was going on and my love-induced denial. I just knew that I could not control her much whenever she was in that state.
By our first year anniversary I was convinced that I was married to an active volcano!
Please don’t think I was a wimp for not hitting back…or maybe I was. I just didn’t (and still don’t) think it very gentlemanly to hit a woman. Her abuse became something I very quickly adapted to in the name of love. It’s funny how we would be laughing one second and the next she would be upset and get violent.
One Saturday we got into a fight about her spending pattern. From the get go we agreed to run a sort of joint account and to be fair to her, she earned more than I did. But she was defying all our financial goals with her frivolities. When I broached this subject with her, she got verbal and then physical. I’m not sure which hurt more – the verbal abuse or the look on people’s faces when we turned up in church the following day. Whoever inquired was asked to rejoice with me as God had saved me from a bike accident…and rejoice they did!
Almost two years into the marriage and it became evident to all that there could only be so many bike accidents for someone who had a car! I almost stopped going to church. Almost.
The morning of my first and final rebellion against church attendance, Becky pummeled me; convinced that I wanted to let the devil into our marriage. While she hit me (not sure if to teach me a lesson or to exorcise me) I took several glances at her and could have sworn I saw two horns and a tail. The devil was not trying to get into our marriage. I was married to the devil!
Last Saturday, was our third year wedding anniversary. There was a meeting for married men in church and I decided to attend since Becky was at the salon. No sooner had I entered the church premises than I was waylaid by Ugochi.
“Brother Moses, good afternoon.”
“Good afternoon Ugochi.”
We stood in awkward silence as I waited for her greeting to be followed by a question or statement of dismissal. Neither came.
Ugochi was the leader of the Single Women at the Parish. She was well advanced in age. She had a friendly yet firm disposition. When she spoke you had no choice but to listen and obey. Her quiet persona was not to be mistaken because she could very easily rally up a mob in a heartbeat. The women loved her. Married men gossiped that the single men were afraid to approach her because the ones who dared had been sorry they did. I once asked if anyone knew exactly what she did to scare off the guys but no one had a tangible story to tell. For this I admired Ugochi even more. She was an enigma and that created a soft spot for her in my heart. But I kept my thoughts to myself.
“Is anything the matter?” I finally asked.
“I should be asking you.”
She had my attention. “How do you mean?”
“At least once a month you have a visible injury or scar or bruise. Lord knows what non-visible injuries you bury beneath clothes. Last Sunday you had yet another bruise on your face… this one,” she proceeded to touch my face but I moved back a little. “What is going on?”
You’re very observant and I see you’ve been keeping records, I wanted to say but I did not. Instead, with what felt like a flattened esophagus, I managed to whisper, “Thank you,” and I started to walk away.
Ugochi was not having any of it. She planted her hand firmly on my shoulder and turned me around. Truth be told, I had a small crush on Ugochi especially because of her caring nature; a crush that had lingered for, perhaps, too long. I knew she liked me too but this one move of preventing me from leaving stirred hatred within me. I felt like I was being addressed by my wife but worse, Ugochi was NOT my wife. I instantly felt like a failure of a man being tossed around by yet another woman, and one that I admired.
She noticed.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry or insult you. It’s just that I’m really concerned for your wellbeing and sometimes we need someone to talk to and you look like you could use someone. Let me be that someone today.”
I could not think straight. Her words came across as a double entendre and I struggled to figure out which meaning to read.
“Thanks for your offer to help but I’m fine. I really am.”
As I turned to leave again she said, “It’s your wife isn’t it? It’s Becky!”
My two seconds of shock gave me away. I was never good at acting. The way my wife’s name curled on her tongue with such venom was not lost on me. In Becky’s defense, I felt that my giving Ugochi any more attention would be tantamount to infidelity. Yet I could not move.
I stood there, a horrid mix of relief and shame coursing through me. Was Ugochi particularly observant or was I that transparent?
Within minutes that felt like split seconds, Ugochi rallied some of the single and married women in my parish who cheerfully led me to my house a few minutes’ walk away – the married men’s meeting long forgotten. As they marched me home, I wondered what the motive was for both the married and the single women - neither group had a justifiable reason that I could immediately think of.
One thing was clear though - the ladies had one goal in mind and that was to teach Becky a lesson.
Like the shell of a man that I was I led them to my wife to lay her on the altar of sacrifice that would teach other women a lesson even though I did not see how. I remember praying fervently that Becky would still be at the salon.
Upon our arrival, Ugochi now in the lead, we burst through the living room door causing a stir that produced Becky from the recesses of our bedroom. I saw her and for a split second I fell in love with her again. She was wearing make up the way I liked it, obviously getting set to celebrate our anniversary. Her time from the salon had paid off as she looked delicious.
“Didn’t your mother teach you to respect your husband or is it that your empty head cannot process ‘Wives submit yourselves to your husband’?” Ugochi asked.
Becky was caught off guard by Ugochi’s characteristic audacity and in our house! Finding her voice, Becky opened her mouth to say something but a resounding slap from one of the married women ensured her words did not make it out. My wife was visibly stunned, to say the very least. She looked at me, desperate for defense. I wanted to defend her but Ugochi spoke again.
“Now, you will beat your wife, correcting her in love so as to right this gross injustice that she has subjected you to for three years! You have our express permission.”
I smiled. I thought she was joking. Certainly I was not going to raise my hand to beat my wife but the look on all the ladies’ faces did not mirror the dry humor on mine.
“Beat her now or else all of us will beat you and then we will beat her,” the deputy leader of the married women said.
I stood still like a log of wood; unsure of what to do.
“Are you just going to stand there and watch these women humiliate me?” Becky said, finally finding her voice as she inched close enough to try and slap me. Instinctively I caught her hand before it hit my face. I swear it felt scripted.
I gradually brought down her hand and saw her shocked expression. Not once in the three years of abuse did I so much as stop her, save a few attempts to deflect her blows. While she looked at me with disbelief registered on her face, my left hand came from her blind side, landing heavily on her face as it corrected her look of disbelief to one of great disbelief. For the first time in as long as I remembered, I suddenly felt alive. Something roared inside me and the loud cheer from the ladies fuelled this exhilaration.
For the next couple of minutes that I beat my wife, each slap was a reminder of how much I’d suffered at her hands despite my attempts to love her unconditionally. Each blow was a reminder to self that I was not a violent person or worse, a wife beater but that this was something that needed to be done this one time.
As I beat Becky I wanted to cry just to show her that I was sorry but I could not bring myself to shed tears. Initially I thought it was the shame I would feel for crying in front of the women but in truth I was simply done. It felt like something inside of me died at the very moment something was birthed within me.
I beat Becky. Oh God, I beat my wife and I’m sorry to say this but it felt good… while it lasted. I watched her bleed and then I went into the house to wash my hands and get changed before driving her to the hospital. Thankfully the doctor had treated me on several occasions and was aware of the on-goings in my home. After he attended to her, he walked into his office where I awaited his scolding. He smiled at me for a few seconds before warning me sternly. This must never happen again.
Of course it would not. I still loved my wife. I did cry that night when I went home but it was more from the pain of having been reduced to nothing before I could kick against Becky’s abuse. To compound issues, even though I knew I would never lay a finger on her again just as she would know better than to abuse me again, I would forever be tainted as a wife beater. The world may not know it. The women at my church may never report me to the Priest (although I’m sure he will hear) but in my heart I know that, if only for a few minutes, I became the very thing I swore never to become – my father, the wife beater – and for this I will always feel like a failure.
Domestic violence is a common thing around the world and there is absolutely NO JUSTIFICATION for it - regardless of if it's the husband or wife who is physically abusive. If you're in one, get help for you and your spouse and if you know someone who is, get them help and pray for them if you know how.
Thanks for reading.