Dead Love IV

African Woan

She was only married for 5 years,
but she lived with the man
till the day of her death.
First, he was the love of her life,
then he became her man,
then he became her husband,
then he became the father of her children,
then he became the man,
till he was simply a man,
a man that she lived with,
that she had sex with,
that she fed,
that she washed clothes for,
that she went to events with.
A man, and nothing more.

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Mrs

MrsI am experimenting a style of prose writing in which a character narrates the whole story to the reader in a personal way, like the reader is a spirit/ghost and the chosen character is the only one that can see them, like a secret best-friend of some sort. I am still working on it, not done yet. Enjoy!

We just spoke, for three hours straight. Tomorrow is ‘the day’, our wedding day, and to say that I am extremely nervous would be to say the least of the emotions that I feel right now. There are probably ten more that I cannot describe with words. See my palms; they are so sweaty.

My friends are having a good time in the room next to this one; I just don’t know if I need to let them know that I am freaking out. I need to use the bathroom so bad too.

Before I leave for the  bathroom, I just want you to know that I am very happy; don’t get me wrong, but just as worried as I am happy, worried that something might go wrong with this contract that I’m about to sign. I’ll tell you about the call I had with my man first, after my bathroom break, and tell you something I’ve never told anyone later.

I’m back. Sit with me on my bed.

About the call, I had never heard him say the words “I love you” so many times in three hours! He kept going on about how happy he was that we were finally getting married, and how lucky he was, and all that. I had never heard him talk so much, so I guess he is nervous too. In-between sentences, he would ask if I was listening, and I would say “yes”. Then he would tell me he loves me and I would reply that I love him even more. There were about ten “I love you”-“I love you even more” pauses before I told him I needed to sleep, and that he needed to sleep too.

There is a problem though. Well, I don’t know if it’s a problem or I’m just being petty. I had never really considered it an issue before now but I can’t get it out of my mind. He hit me a year ago with his belt, I’ll tell you why later, and I’m scared that he might do it again. I had never seen anyone that angry in real life.

He promised it would never repeat itself, I believed him, and since there were no permanent scars on my neck and arms, I didn’t tell anyone. Giving an account and telling someone else my business wasn’t at all necessary.

This is the thing- he has anger issues that I have refused to fully address, and I might be done for. Babe becomes a beast, a raging monster, whenever he’s angry. Oh! I should tell you something else before I forget. I went to an astrologer/psychic out of curiosity. I’m a Leo and he’s a Scorpio, if you would like to know. She said we have several Venus-Chiron-Mars-Pluto connections in our synastry analysis, and because those aspects are hard, we both need to learn to understand each other and we would be fine. He came up as The Emperor reversed/4 of Pentacles,and I came up as the Queen of Pentacles/Strength cards, in the readings.

Maybe I shouldn’t have said “yes”, but I love him. I don’t ever want to get a divorce; the thought of it is so frightening, because I hated it when my parents got a divorce. I don’t know; I don’t know what I’ll do if he ever hits me again.

Dead Love

womanShe always had to ask if he loved her, and he often replied with a “yeah, yeah, love you, sure I do. Why do you keep asking?”

She was looking for the Àjọkẹ́, s’ó n gbọ́ mi? Mo nífẹ̀ẹ́ rẹ. The I am in love with you that was often said with a soft voice and a pleading gaze; it was what she was used to, what she had taken for granted. It was what she really wanted.

She hated herself for hurting a man who used to declare his love for her ever so often, sometimes with tears in his eyes, because he did so. 


There could be two different men in this piece, or just one man [the same man], depending on how you choose to interpret it.

Untamed

Untamed

“Tango Rouge” by Michael Escoffery

He drew closer,
and immediately, she knew who he was.

“My knight!
Does he have the shining armour?
Yes, he does!”,
she exclaimed.

She waited till he stopped the white horse,
ran to him, embraced him and kissed him.

“Take the armour off and give the sword to me.
Let’s go into the house.”

He took the armour off and gave it to her,
as well as the sword.
She let him go into the house first,
made him sit,
told him she had to go make him a meal,
went outside the house,
put the armour on,
held on to the sword,
went to the horse,
kissed her head,
sat on her back,
and rode on her into the sunset, giggling.

Wife Material

He called you “wife material”,
so you began to blush.

No matter what she knows,
and what she becomes,
why is it that what a woman weighs on
anyone ‘s wife material scale
is what she’s worth?

So, he made you his material,
true to his word.
He even prostrated to get you-
paid your expensive bride price in full.
You’re intelligent and beautiful;
you’ve been spent in the university too,
but you have a new name and owner,
who can do whatever he wants to you.

“K’aso e soke!”,
[raise your gown!];
“afi ko maa lo e mole bii aso oke”
[he demands for the sex he paid for].
He even beats you like “aso ofi”,
to tailor you to suit his needs.
Your husband’s insecurities have to come first;
who are you to have any dreams?

He wears you out,
then he wears you out to functions
where worthless wife-materials must be worn,
to be entitled to respect and dignity.
He shows you to his friends
and tells them to get one like you.
Then he takes you home and hangs you;
he’ll respect you at the next event.

I’m not telling you to miss being a Mrs;
I’m telling you to not miss your life
to be a man’s reserved slave- a Mrs.
A single person is a person still;
if the society will not accord you respect
till you get a husband,
whether or not he will abuse you
in ways that are socially acceptable,
accord the society’s lack of respect no respect
and take all the time you need.

People wipe your tears for a while,
and then they let them dry on their own.

Lady Justice’s Husband

lj

Lady Justice’s husband
is a White supremacist.
He grabs her breasts
and bites her ears,
slaps her buttocks
and wipes her tears,
tells her he loves her
and calms her fears,
and in the mornings,
she does whatever the hell
she’s asked to do.

Love is for Everyone

Love is for people who can’t say “love”.
Love is for people who can’t see “love”.
Love is for people who can’t hear “love”.
Love is for people who can’t write “love”.

Love is for people who have no
knees or legs to propose with.
Love is for people who
can’t afford to buy diamond rings.
Love is for people who haven’t
stepped out of their native countries.
What we sometimes celebrate in
the name of love is the lack thereof.

Love is for everyone!
There should be no discrimination in love.
Love is for me;
love is for you.


 

Whenever differently-abled people or people with special needs especially step out to share their pre-wedding photographs and whatnot, like the other human beings that they share the earth with, they tend to get very terrible reactions.

“Oh my God! He’s a dwarf!” 

And?

“Is he blind? The woman must be stupid to marry a man like that.”

Yes, he can’t see, and so? Also, you’re the stupid one. 

It’s just ridiculous.

Keep your pity, feelings of disappointment, feelings of disgust, ridicule and scorn in your pockets. If you have nothing nice to say, shut your mouth; it’s simple.

Love is for everyone. Love is for me; love is for you. There is no “them”.

‘No Use’ is Abuse

He doesn’t want to eat whatever meals she prepares; the old him wouldn’t even be satisfied with just one serving. Yesterday, she made this delicious plate of yam-pottage for him. He gets home, heads straight to the dining table, ignores her greeting and her presence, and calls his eldest daughter. She responds, and he asks, “Sade, talo s’ounje yii?” [Who made this meal?] She says it was her mother. He gets up to pour it into the dog’s bowl. “Sade, make me another meal with the ingredients in that bag.” He points to the nylon bag that he arrived with. “I don’t want to be poisoned by this witch.”

Liberian Artist Ehi Obinyan

Art by Liberian Artist, Ehi Obinyan

She says “good morning”, and “good evening”, and “good night”, and the days keep going by, but he never responds. He doesn’t sleep beside her in her room like he used to; he doesn’t sleep with her. He sleeps in his own room, and it’s been 10 months. He’s an angel of evil; nice in open spaces, psychopathic behind closed doors.

It all began the day he yelled at her for taking too long in the market and she, being very stressed and upset, briefly apologized but called him a “short-man devil”. He has always been very sensitive about his height, and it really hurt him. He swore to himself to show her how much of a devil he could be.

He hasn’t really spoken with* her since then; only the children know about it. They speak to each other briefly when they have visitors or when they attend social functions together but that’s about it. She has apologized many times. She even slipped an apology/love letter under his door one night, but he tore it into shreds after a quick glance.

It’s domestic abuse, but a different kind- the kind that kills the soul. It’ll be the 11th month in 10 days; it hasn’t stopped.