I beat her.
She cheated with seven men. She insulted my mother, took out a loan using my house as collateral without telling me, and now I’ve lost my home.
Wait, there’s more. She smokes, she’s addicted to drugs, and refuses to change.
She’s irritable, she’s touchy, and I can’t get through to her.
God, she offended me, crossed so many lines, and still plays the victim.
I try to speak, but she talks over me.
All I can do is scream… “Listen, listen, listen, listen.”
Oh my God, I’m being verbally beaten, and all I can do is scream, “Listen, listen, listen.”
But she doesn’t; she drowns me out, reminding me that I cheated 12 years ago, calls me a fool, questions my manhood, and attacks my very essence.
Should I walk away? I actually do, but her words hit my back like hard bricks.
I go sit in the car, in tears. I must cry, but no one must see me cry because I am a man.
I struggle. All I wanted was an apology, just some clarity.
Why didn’t you tell me you were going to wreck the car? Why didn’t you tell me you were traveling? What about all this debt?
But no. Because I slept with her friend, because I couldn’t pay for her latest outing, because I disrespected her father, I’ve lost all respect and must be treated like a rat.
They say, “As you lay your bed, so shall you lie.” In her world, there is no forgiveness. Even if there was, she won’t forget.
She has the mental strength to hold a grudge, to keep a fight going for years.
She has stopped cooking for me, even though I still contribute financially.
She’s closed herself off, leaving me a lonely, desperate man. She no longer comes to my church, and all my efforts at reconciliation have hit a wall.
I don’t recognize her anymore. This is no longer my best friend. This is a stranger.
I finish crying. It’s 1 a.m. I have to go back in; the mosquitoes are killing me. I have a new session in the morning. I might get a board seat. I have a big meeting and need to be at my best.
So, I sneak back into the house. She’s asleep, but she’s locked me out of the room, so I take the couch. But sleep doesn’t come.
Heavy eyes, nagging headache, hisses, and muted curses greet me in the morning as I head to my meeting, already defeated.
I lose the job, get sidelined at the board meeting, make countless mistakes, and fail to deliver a brilliant presentation because my mind is everywhere.
It’s been three weeks since the fight. She still hasn’t spoken to me. Still no intimacy. She’s reported me to the church, and now the pastor calls me for a one-sided lecture.
I am the victim here. I feel trampled on, but to the world, I am the aggressor. I am the wicked monster with the unfaithful past, the cruel husband who no longer loves his wife, the father who doesn’t care for his kids.
Haaaaaaaaaaa, who will listen to me? I just want to be heard. Haaaaaaaaaaa…
My boys don’t get it. They’re worse off and can only tell me, “Guy, ignore it, drink more beer.”
My mother hugs me, but it doesn’t help. “Go and beg your wife,” she says. The pastor says, “Go and beg your wife.” But I’ve been begging, and it’s only gotten worse.
“Go talk to her.” It’s been six weeks now. Okay, I’ll talk.
The look in her eyes, her arms crossed—it’s worse than navigating a minefield, but I must try.
I choose my words carefully, knowing that a wrong word, a wrong gesture, even a wrong breath, and I will lose her.
Five minutes into the conversation, the frown, the cynicism, the smirk—it’s all there. She can’t wait to go back to her phone to update her friends.
Then I slip up. I say the wrong word. She jumps up, and the verbal onslaught begins again.
Six weeks later, her anger is fiercer than ever, the words are sharper, the attacks relentless.
Her words tear me apart. “You’re a fool, not a man. Your children have no father, your mother is a prostitute, you’re useless… I regret marrying you. I regret it. God will punish you. I should have married Koye; I still have his number…”
I see her on the floor, in pain. Blood dripping from her lips, writhing, the mother of my children.
I had walked away so many times, I had begged, I had endured deprivation, but I cracked. I lost control.
I step over her and lock myself in the room. I didn’t even realize what happened. I didn’t know when it happened.
The mother of my children. She had a C-section for me, I walked her down the aisle, I chose her, and now I’ve hurt her.
I feel worse than anyone can imagine. I’m beating myself up more than anyone else could.
Nobody will listen to me, and I don’t care because they’ll say, “You must never hit a woman.”
But this is me, a failed man. I hit her. I hate myself, and yet, I love her.
I don’t need the world to tell me I messed up. I know it, and I am beating myself up because I beat her.
I will never win. Nobody will listen. There is no justification. They will shout, and I know that.
She remains the perpetual victim, and I will always be the aggressor. I feel doomed, labeled a wife-beater.
Nobody talks about the provocation, the taunts, the verbal abuse. All they know is that I raised my hand, and now I am condemned.
But guess what? I condemned myself long before they did. The man in me has died.
I am dead, but I will stand. I stand on my death. I am dead, but I stand.
Duke of Shomolu
