In Loving Memory…

Photo credits: https://www.womenscontact.org/womens-counselling-program/

The first time he hit me I kept thinking he was sick. I rationalised it, maybe I had provoked him. Robert wasn't violent, I had known him for like what, 8 years? So he wasn't the violent kind. I know him – I knew him. I knew his heart and the things that he wouldn't do to hurt me. We stared into each other's eyes for what seems like eternity. In those moments, we didn’t talk we simply stared into each other's eyes, the gateway to the heart.

Each time I looked into his eyes, I saw his purity at heart, his gentleness, deep sadness and a devilish twinkle. Everyone has it, right? My Robert had it alright, I never judged him for it because I knew I had the same kind of devilish twinkle in my eye. I loved him, even though I knew, I suspected something was amiss and my gut had warned me – but still, the heart wants what it wants.

And so I fell, deep I did fall.

We would go dancing, we loved to dance. He was a jealous lover and couldn't stand to share my attention with anyone. He would get irritable when a guy stared at me for too long; talk to me for too long; even very much as smile at me for too long. I found it sweet and I liked it. We didn't have much, but we had each other. He liked his whisky, and I had no problem with that. He didn't talk much, only when necessary but when he laughed, his deep booming laughter would reverberate the entire room.

It was love.

Years later…

Our kids, my babies, two beautiful babies aged two years apart. Robert, being who he was, only drank himself silly and was never present at their births. I was content, I never complained, never fussed, never nagged. I knew he had his own way of showing that he cared. He paid the maternity fees so, what was there to fuss about? He smiled at them when he woke up and sometimes sang to them in his drunken stupor. He was a flawed father, but he was their flawed father regardless. We never quarrelled since I let him do as he pleased.

The day he first hit me, he had been his usual self, drinking himself silly. He got home and found me breastfeeding our youngest child. Leo, our first born son, was napping peacefully oblivious of the prospects of things running amok. His chest rose and fell rhythmically as he took in the purest of air through his tiny nose. Robert staggered in and stared at me for a while, I felt a sliver of panic blossoming within me but I remained calm as my baby suckled on. He didn't look away, we kept staring at each other. He then sat on his favourite seat and within no time was fast asleep. My baby was asleep too, as if on cue. I went to put him to sleep, then proceeded to wake Robert to go to bed since he hated waking up on the couch in the morning. As soon as I poked him, he sprung up and struck me hard in the face! It was unanticipated and in the next instant I felt the ground touching my face, or is it my face touching the ground? Bile crept up my throat and I lay there on the floor trying to recollect myself.

Morning came.

Robert didn't utter a word about that night's event, and life went on as it always does.

Time went on.

My two boys were accustomed to a drunk father who was, with each day, becoming more of a stranger to them than a father. I was accustomed to living my life for my two boys. Robert became a distant memory. He came home late everyday alright, left in the early morning but we never said anything to each other. Not even a good morning grunt, or “Where are my socks?” or “Is my tea ready?” Nothing. We barely said a word to each other, and I was okay with it.

I knew he was okay. I'd know when he wasn't.

I'd know when he was disgruntled about something. I'd know, right?

Wrong.

Saturday June 6^th, that Saturday was our 8^th anniversary. However, anniversaries are for people who are financially stable. Not for financially confused individuals like Robert and I so it would've been stupid to expect anything from my emotionally and financially detached husband. So, I spent the day reminiscing what we had always been and loving my baby boys who were my world and heaven above. Other than that, I went about my daily chores around the house and left for the market to sell omena. Robert was a construction worker who liked to spend his daily wages on booze. I liked spending my daily wages on my two boys, getting them fed, clothing them up and all. I didn't mind, they were all I had in this world.

Nobody else mattered.

The omena business was a booming one and so, having sold my cache, I closed early that day. I strapped Len, our youngest, on my back and proceeded to pick Leo from Mama Sophie, who runs a local day care. Nothing compared to the day cares known to the suburbanites, but it was one familiar to those living in hovels. I picked him and paid Mama Sophie for the day and proceeded home to cook for my sons. I got to my humble dwelling and made dinner. At around 8:30 PM, dinner was ready. Robert staggered in as usual, took his seat and started singing incorrigibly. I served him some food but he seemed unmoved by the sweet aroma of the sizzling hot plate of fried omena and ugali. I then started helping out Leo, who never likes feeding.  Len was fast already asleep having suckled while I made dinner. Then, I thought I heard Robert mumble. I turned to look at him but his head hung as if he was getting too sleepy, by now he'd stopped singing and an ingratiating calm rented the air.

I continued urging Leo to eat, but for some reason I couldn't shake this nagging feeling that something was amiss. I glanced at Robert and our eyes met, his eyes had this evil twinkle, then he blinked and looked away. Knowing better, I didn't ask anything. I finished feeding Leo and later noticed that Robert hadn't touched his food. I wasn't surprised but, at the same time, I couldn't quite shake this nasty unsettling feeling I had. The wind pushed open the window and, as I locked it up, I noticed that outside the night seemed darker than usual. The wind continued to whistle fervently. I shifted my gaze towards Robert, the love of my life, father to my two little lovely boys. He must've felt my gaze poking him for he looked up and met my eyes, for the second time that night.

I saw darkness in those eyes. It was a darkness that I had never seen, yet it appeared to have always been there, lying, waiting. A deeply rooted kind of darkness that even light can't drive out. He stood up, grabbed a machete from under the bed, charged towards me like an angry bull and slash! The first slash landed on my hands as I tried to cover my face. I was scared stiff, couldn't even manage a scream. I was afraid for our son Leo. Luckily he was on the seat where I had placed him.

Another slash!

My son Len is fast asleep. Full of life even in his oblivious sleep. It was Leo who pained me more than the landing of the machete on by body.

Slash! He continues slashing my body, all I can feel is unfathomable pain. Not for my body which is breaking with every blow, but for my little boys. Then I am wet – blood. Wet from my own blood, I can feel my face falling apart, wait, I can't breathe. Why is my chest tight? My legs are wobbly, my knees I can't feel them too. There's blood everywhere and, on my way to the ground, I manage to see Leo’s face. A splatter of my blood has touched it. I meet his baby eyes and I see terror all over. My heart breaks.

 Then there's darkness.

P.S       I wrote this story in memory of a life lost due to Domestic violence. Jackline Nekesa was brutally murdered by her husband who decapitated her in the presence of their children and is still at large. My heart bleeds. This brutality and violence against women needs to stop. It is not normal, there is no normalcy in violence, so let us not succumb to numbness. The reality is that there is no neutrality – we are all involved in this violent reality. Therefore, let us not presume apathy such that we normalize domestic violence as a society.

#WeWillNeverForgetJacklineNekesa

 #EndGBV

Read full story here: Man beheads wife after domestic fight in Kibera

In Loving Memory...

By Janet Kilel

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