The moment where I killed my husband…
My mind flashed back to the days, the weeks and years that led to this one defining moment in my life. The moment where I killed my husband…
It wasn’t me…
No…
It wasn’t me…
I couldn’t bear to look at myself in the mirror.
My blood stained tank top, the blood splattered all over my face and neck and the knife…I didn't realize the knife was still cradled between my fingers
Oh my God!!!
It was me…!!!
It was me in the mirror!!!
I killed him…
I was a killer…
I AM a killer…
I slumped to the side of the black leather couch in the living room, I had always hated that couch but right then, it seemed like the couch was my only comfort.
My mind flashed back to the days, the weeks and years that led to this one defining moment in my life.
The moment where I killed my husband…
Mofe and I had been married for twelve years, seven months, one week and three days. I still remember how we met. How he walked up to me with that crooked grin and one-sided dimple. The mere thought of his dimple brought a nostalgic smile to my face.
Mofe was such a lovely person. He was the best boyfriend any girl could ask for. He was handsome, intelligent, funny and very caring. He could never hurt a fly.
I remember our wedding day, the single tear he shed when he raised my veil and kissed me for the first time as husband and wife, our first dance, our first night together. I had married the man of my dreams.
Or so I thought…
Three months into our marriage and the abuse started. I remember that Saturday evening oh so vividly. He wasn't drunk nor was he high. He had just come back from playing basketball with his friends on the Island .He got mad because I hadn't opened the door for him on time and gave me a hot slap…the first of many to come.
I remember falling to the ground and hitting my head on the side of the coffee table. I remember watching him walk away acting like he didn't notice the deep gash on my head. I don’t know what hurt more; the slap or the sudden realization that I was married to a monster.
One slap turned into two, two slaps turned into a pounding, pounding after pounding led from one miscarriage to another.
Seven miscarriages later and I still couldn't leave him. I couldn't bring myself to walk out on this marriage I had prayed so long for. I mean…he loved me…he promised me he did…he just couldn't help himself when he got so angry.
I just had to try not to get him mad and we’d be fine, everything would be okay. For some reason I kept making these stupid excuses for him, not just to myself but to my family and friends as well. Everyone told me I was stupid but I loved him. Love endures all after all doesn’t it?
This night however, it was different. He came home late from work and got mad because I made rice for him instead of amala. He came into the room and dragged me by my hair into the dining room. While I was trying to explain things to him, He shut me up with two slaps. I wasn't sure if it was stars I saw or if it was the whole Milky Way. I tried to walk out on him but he pulled me back by my shoulder and started hitting me. When he was done he left me on the floor and went into the room.
On the floor, too weak to even move, I felt it again. A familiar trickle of cold fluid down my thighs and I knew it had happened again. I had lost another baby…my eighth miscarriage…my baby!
I couldn't cry, there were no more tears left in me…I just stood up in a robot like fashion, went into the kitchen, picked up a knife and went looking for Mofe. I found him lying down on the bed, looking so peaceful in his sleep. How could he be so peaceful when he had taken another baby away from me? He didn't deserve to sleep. He didn’t even deserve to live. So I did it. I pushed the knife into his chest and didn't stop until I heard him take his last breath.
Now I’m here, leaning on the couch in the living room, watching the blood drain out of my husband, wondering how I let everything get this far. I could have left him, I could have walked out of this marriage, walked out of this pain, it didn't have to get this far.
I couldn't help but wonder how many women had gone through this same mental, emotional, physical and psychological abuse. How many women had been stuck in prison-like marriages trying to find a way out?
Don’t be like me. Don’t stay and take the abuse. It doesn’t get any better…leave…please leave him…
Written by Kofoworola Oyegunle.
Kofoworola Oyegunle is a lawyer in equity.She loves meeting new people and exploring exciting adventures in her spare time.Find her on Instagram:@Kofooye and Snapchat: Kofoo
Short Story: Domestic abuse & vengeance revert
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