The first time it happened was on a Tuesday night. Your husband, Hassan, had just returned from work, and you could immediately tell that he was in a terrible mood. If the way he slammed the door as he entered wasn’t a good enough tell, then the deep scowl on his face certainly was.
Concerned, your mind had raced with possible explanations for what could have gone wrong in his day. Did another important deal fall through? Or did that same colleague embarrass him in another meeting again?
Maybe it wasn’t even work-related. Maybe the traffic that evening had been more hectic than usual or maybe his new car had suffered some form of damage on the road.
You weren’t sure what it was, but it didn’t even matter. Your husband rarely ever got angry, and in the few times he did, you knew it was best to leave him be and not pester him with questions until he cooled off.
So, as he got into the living room, you greeted him softly with a hug, and you made sure not to ask him how his day went. After a brief, clipped conversation for a few seconds, he went into the room to remove his clothes and to take a shower.
While Hassan was freshening up, you served his food on the dining table, and you sat down to wait for him to come to eat. When he finally arrived, he looked a little more relaxed than he was before, though his body language was still a bit tense.
He gave you a peck on the cheek as he sat down, maybe to reassure you that all was well, but you still noticed the little sharpness of his movements and the slight heaviness of his breathing. You decided to not say anything yet.
“Thank you for dinner, baby,” he said, and you had smiled slightly in response.
In the minutes after that, the only sounds in the room were the clinks of your forks against your plates, the soft hum of the refrigerator from the kitchen, and the sounds of either you or your husband adjusting in your chair.
By the time he was done eating, Hassan seemed to have eased up even more. You saw him drink his glass of cold water in one long gulp and heave a sigh of relief before leaning back in his chair with a loud exhale and a small smile of content.
The sight made you happy. You knew your husband could be irrational when he was in a bad mood, and you needed him to have every ounce of his rationality for what you were about to tell him.
You had considered telling him first thing in the morning, but you didn’t want him to find out on his own, and you counted yourself lucky that he hadn’t even found out during the day.
“Babe…” You had started, your voice dripping with caution. “Remember that my friend, Bose?”
“Yeah, I remember her. Is she okay?”
“Yes, well, she’s fine, sha, but… she called me today and told me that she needed some money urgently. Her landlord was threatening to send her and her girls packing from their house if they didn’t balance their defaulting rent. And well, you know… she’s been all by herself since her husband died, with no one left to support her… so I just sent her the outstanding money.”
“Anjola,” he had replied, shooting you a puzzled look. “You’re allowed to help your friends whenever you want; I don’t know why you sound like you’re reporting yourself to me. It’s your money now; spend it as you wish.”
“Well, babe, that’s the thing.” You took a very deep breath then, bracing yourself. “You know all of my money is currently tied up in my business, at least until the end of this month, so I had to use the money we’ve been saving up for the kids’ summer vacation.”
You had paused to wait for his reaction, and when he didn’t say anything, you had quickly tried to salvage the situation.
“But don’t worry, babe; I promise that she’s going to pay it back as soon as she can. She gave me her guarantee. She was just very desperate, Hassan. You should’ve heard the way she was crying; it was heartbreaking. I could hear her daughters crying over the phone too. It was all a lot.”
Your husband had sighed deeply again before finally looking up at you, his gaze pinning you in place and sending goosebumps across your skin.
“Anjola,” he said, his voice low. “I don’t understand. You used my children’s money to pay your friend’s rent?”
“Our children’s money, Hassan,” you had replied, raising a brow at the tone of his voice. “And I’m sorry, babe, I really am. I know I should have told you beforehand, but she was really desperate, and it was very urgent, and I knew it would be difficult to reach you at the office.”
He had sighed deeply in response again, softly clenching his hands that were on the table, as if willing himself to remain calm.
“How much of it did you use, Anjola?” he asked.
You couldn’t help but avoid his gaze as you replied, “Everything, babe.”
The next thing you heard was his fist slamming the table.
“For God’s sake, Anjola!” He shouted, his voice reverberating across the room. “What do you mean ‘everything’!? See how you’re casually telling me that you gave your friend millions of Naira to pay her rent. Millions of my hard-earned money – our hard-earned money! Money that was meant to take care of our children this holiday.”
Of course, you had tried to muster your best smile in response. You knew how bad it sounded, and you had even questioned your decision multiple times since you made it, and yet you still believed it was the right thing to do.
Bose was your close friend, and she wouldn’t have asked you for such weighty help if she hadn’t been at rock bottom. There was no way you were going to let her down so your children could visit the same country they had visited the previous year and the year before that, whilst her own daughters would have no place to sleep.
It just didn’t add up to you.
“The holiday is still months away, Hassan,” you had said. “Bose will try her best to pay it back before then. And if she doesn’t, then the children will spend this year’s summer holiday in Nigeria. I’ll take them to the village to be with Maami, or they’ll go and see your mother in Kano; it’s not every time they must travel out of the country. Please, be reasonable.”
Your husband had stared at you in disbelief, clearly not believing the words you were saying. He had opened his mouth to say something, but he closed it without uttering a word, and then the both of you settled into a very awkward silence.
“Sometimes, you can be very gullible, Anjola,” he had finally said, his voice sounding resigned. “Or stupid. I don’t know which one, but it’s definitely one of the two. And at this point, I’m starting to think that it’s stupid.”
Your mouth had dropped open in shock, and you immediately felt tears stinging at the back of your eyes.
“Your other friend that you borrowed money to last year – Hadassah, or what’s that her name? – has she paid you back, no? But she’ll come here, to my house, and the both of you will be smiling and laughing at the television. I’m sure she hasn’t mentioned paying it back to you, and I know you also won’t ask her. Now, you’ve done it again, with our children’s money. Next thing I know, you’ll be selling the house.”
He had paused.
“For someone that’s so brilliant and intelligent, you make some very questionable choices sometimes. Some very foolish choices, Anjola. I don’t know how you don’t see it.”
You had no response to him because your words failed you. You only stared at your lap, playing with your fingers and fighting back the tears as you felt small, stupid, and humiliated.
It was not the first time he would say things like that out of anger, but it still didn’t hurt less anytime he did again. You knew, deep down, that this would only end in another bout of back-and-forth argument and bitter exchanges, so you made the decision to leave him until he had cooled off.
“Where are you going, Anjola?” was what he asked you as you stood up from the dining table. “We’re not done with this conversation.”
You had ignored him, making an exaggerated show of packing your plates and his plates. Yes, he was maybe justified in his anger, but you still hated how mean he could get in moments like this.
You knew you shouldn’t have spent the money without at least consulting him first, but you also knew he could easily replace it in just a few weeks. You weren’t going to let him transfer whatever aggression he brought from outside onto you.
“Don’t walk out on me when I’m talking to you, Anjola!”
“Hassan, leave me alone, please! I won’t sit here so you can keep insulting me like I’m a child. Talk to me with respect; I am your wife, and not one of those foolish intern girls in that your foolish office that’s always making you come home with this foolish anger, Mr Foolish.”
That was the exact moment you had felt the palm of his hand strike your cheek with a strong force, causing a sharp sting to ripple across your face. It had seemed like the world was suddenly frozen and time itself was standing still as you stood there blinking, stunned.
For a few seconds nothing happened, but your hand had instinctively gone to your cheek, and the feel of the bruise on the skin confirmed to you that it had indeed just happened.
Hassan, your husband, had just slapped you.
Tears were streaming down your eyes when you finally met his face, and you had been greeted by a pure look of horror drawn clearly across his features.
His face seemed to mirror both fear, remorse, and disbelief all at the same time. He had looked like he couldn’t believe what he had just done, like he was just as shocked as you were that it had indeed happened.
“Anjola, oh my God.”
Hassan’s voice had gone hoarse, and you saw his hands trembling as he stared at them. He immediately took a step back, shaking his head furiously and clenching his fists.
“Oh God, I didn’t—I don’t—“
You were still dazed and reeling from disbelief when he had suddenly appeared in front of you, holding your face in his palms with the same hands that had just used to strike you. You could see the tears welling up in his eyes, the anguish in his irises mirroring yours as he whispered his apologies furiously.
“Babe, I didn’t mean it. That was a mistake. God… I don’t know what came over me. Anjola…”
Then he was on his knees, holding your two hands in his, squeezing them as he pleaded.
“Anjola, I’m so, so sorry. Forgive me… I’m sorry.”
You had just stood there in silence, hearing and feeling nothing as your husband knelt before you, crying and begging. You weren’t sure of exactly how to react, as the moment of what he had just done kept replaying in your head. And whilst part of you was deeply shocked, the other part was deeply hurt.
Since you had met Hassan, he had never hit you before, no matter how angry he got, and even that was a very rare occurrence.
Yes, he would sometimes say insensitive things. Yes, he would sometimes insult you and shrink you into nothing with his words. Yes, the both of you would sometimes get into long bouts of verbal arguments, both sides spewing venom back and forth. You had accepted that maybe all of that was normal in a marriage.
But to hit you? No, he had never done that, and he had never come close to doing that. Not until that night when he had. He had slapped you across your face in anger, and there he had been, kneeling before you and pleading that you forgive him and that he was sorry and that it was a mistake that would never happen again.
Of course, you had believed him. Why wouldn’t you have? You believed him because it was Hassan – your Hassan. The man you married and the man you wanted to spend the rest of your life with. You knew who Hassan was.
Wasn’t he the same man who held your hand whilst you were in labour even when all the doctors wanted him to leave? He was the same man who would leave sweet notes in your bag before you went to work in the morning. He was the same man who kissed your forehead every night before you went to sleep peacefully in his arms.
That was your Hassan; this… that thing he did, this horrible action he had just taken, was not the man he was. No, no. That had just been a mistake, a horrible, terrible mistake, one that he had made in a moment of anger. That wasn’t him.
Was this not what you told yourself as you had stood there in silence, trying to make some sense of the situation? After what seemed like an eternity, you had finally looked at him again, kneeling before you with tears streaming down his face, and remorse welled up in your heart.
Hassan never, ever cried, which meant that he was truly sorry. He had just been angry, and it’s not like you had been completely innocent either; you had pushed him to react that way. The both of you were equally at fault, so you decided to forgive him.
“Don’t you ever lay your hand on me again, Hassan,” you had forced yourself to say, your voice straining in your throat. “If you ever do, I will leave you, and I will take my children with me, and you will never see any of us again. Don’t.”
“I won’t, Anjola. I promise. I swear it. Please, I’m sorry, babe. It will never happen again.”
His words all came as a rush, and that was when he stood up and pulled you into his arms. Holding him, you felt a mix of fear and longing, your heart yearning for comfort from the same person that caused the discomfort.
You hated the fact that you wanted to be so close to him whilst the underlayer of your skin crawled with resentment. You had wanted to leave, to pull away from his arms and run as far away as possible.
But when his hands stroked your back in that tender way he often did, the last of your resolve fell, and you let the tears pour freely down your face as you sunk even deeper into him.
In the weeks after that incident, Hassan became a completely different man. He would come home from work early, help the kids with the dishes and their homework, and bring you chocolates and flowers every single day.
Suddenly, he had more time to do all the things he would usually make excuses for not doing. He would also tell you he was sorry every time you woke up, and he would tell you he loved you every time right before you slept.
He was more loving to you than he had even been before that fateful night.
At first, it was hard for you to meet his eyes. Every time he touched you, you would flinch a bit, feeling the sensation of his hands striking your cheek as fresh as you did on the day it happened.
You barely let him hold you in those weeks, and even though you felt like you had forgiven him, something just didn’t feel right about you being so close to him or sleeping in the same bed with him, and, even worse, the mere thought of him trying to have sex with you terrified you greatly.
But he didn’t. Every word Hassan said and every action he took in front of people was aimed at letting you know that he was sorry for what he had done.
To prove that his actions would never repeat themselves, eventually, all your terrified instincts calmed down, and you felt safe again; you eventually let go of what he had done and allowed things to return to the way they were before.
Wasn’t love all about forgiveness? Didn’t all marriages go through rough patches? Don’t people make mistakes and deserve second chances? You knew your husband and you knew the man he really was.
He was not a violent man; it had just been a slip of judgement at the moment, one he was truly sorry for, and he had now proven it. He truly loved you, and you loved him too. He was not a monster, and that was all that mattered.
The second time your husband was violent toward you was not like the first time, so you almost forget to count it sometimes. There was no slap or overt violence this time, no.
This time, it was quick and subtle, and it ended before you could fully process it. The only reason that moment still lingers in your mind is because of the chills of fear you had felt in your bones when it happened.
In the middle of another back and forth, Hassan had suddenly exerted a hard, punishing grip on your wrist, his fingers tightening like a vice, firm enough to leave a mark you would notice after.
You had looked up at him, and, in that moment, you could not recognise the person you saw in his eyes. This person was cold and distant; he was not the sweet man that promised to love you for the rest of his life.
That moment had only lasted for a few seconds, though, because he had immediately softened, letting go of your wrist with a deep sigh.
Then before you could even step back or rub the soreness away, he had caught your wrist again, this time gently, as he brought it to his lips. He kissed the place where his fingers had been, and he had whispered softly.
“I’m sorry.”
His voice was calm and regretful, like it was meant to assure you, but all you felt was a deep sense of dread. He hadn’t hurt you, but the look in his eyes was enough to make a pit form in your stomach.
On another day, you knew that the story might have been different. Rather than feel any relief from his kisses and apologies, you had felt… trapped, like you were now at his mercy, and you were in danger of whatever he wanted to do to you at any time.
The worst part was that you knew that he had felt the same too.
If you were being honest, not all the days were so terrible, right? There were days when you’d wake up to the warmth of his arms wrapped around you and his breath soft against your skin.
Those mornings when he’d press a kiss to your forehead before you opened your eyes, and he’d murmur either a “Good morning, babe” or “I’m sorry about last night”, depending on which was needed.
Then he would whisper your name with a delicate care, lacing it with apologies in that same voice that still made something deep inside you melt in yearning and longing.
There were long stretches of evenings when nothing happened, and you’d once again fall into that sense of safety and security.
Evenings when Hassan would come home with flowers, just because, and he’d pull you close for a slight sway in the living room, dancing to a song only him could hear, whispering, “Remember when we used to do this all the time?”
Then you’d inadvertently giggle because you did remember. The early memories of the man you fell in love with and got married to were the only things that kept you going in the aftermath of the worst moments.
You remembered when love between the two of you was easy, when your laughter came freely with no hesitation, and his touches were gentle, never making you flinch in panic or retreat in defence.
That beautiful time when you didn’t have to think long and hard before speaking, and you never had to weigh his mood with extreme caution before deciding on how to act.
Some days, you’d catch him watching you across the dinner table as you ate in silence. His gaze would be soft and filled with something that could almost be likened to awe, and then he would say something sweet, like, “I can’t believe how beautiful you are, Anjola.”
You’d try to force a smile in response, suddenly self-conscious about the bruise on the side of your face or the cut above your head you had tried to cover with makeup so your children wouldn’t see it.
Then you’d flinch slightly as he reached across the table, thinking he wanted to “correct” you for a mistake you had made unknowingly, but he’d just take your hand and kiss your knuckles like you were a delicate artefact that he never wanted to break.
Every time he made those little “efforts” and gestures and promises, you’d choose to believe him. Hassan was a good man, and he was trying; he was just acting that way sometimes because he was stressed and under a lot of pressure.
You’d tell yourself that his little mistakes should not define him as a man or erase all the good he had done to you in the past.
Wasn’t that what marriage was about? Ups and downs, for better or worse? You’d remember the words of those women on the podcasts and in the sermons, their voices ringing in your head as they constantly hammered on the fact that no marriage was perfect and that even true love came with its own fair share of pain.
You’d tell yourself that those bad nights were not him, not really. Those moments were something separate, something other from your Hassan, the man you truly knew and loved.
Deep down, we both know you knew better, and yet you persisted. You’d rationalise his actions and then you’d make all sorts of excuses for him.
You’d try to see the light at the end of the tunnel, deluding yourself with hope as you wondered how the same man who looked at you in adoration could be the same man whose hands bruised you in contempt.
How could the same lips that murmured tender affection after intimate moments be the same ones that spewed venom and shame into your face on countless nights? And how could the same hands that held your children so tenderly be the ones that have now hurt something in you that’s far deeper than the surface of your skin?
You had no answers, but you still believed that if he could be like this… If he could be the man who spoilt you with gifts after every storm, the man who tucked your hair behind your ear and told you that he could not live life without you, then… Then surely, the other nights did not count for much because the love he showed you outweighed the pain he caused you.
And, surely, that means it was worth staying. Right?
Months after Hassan’s abuse became a regular occurrence, your friends started to notice. You’re not sure what gave it away – maybe it was because you closed your business to be a full-time housewife or because you stopped attending social events like you used to.
Either way, it made you panic because the last thing you needed was everybody finding out that your charismatic, loved-by-everyone husband occasionally used you as an outlet for whatever negative emotion he was feeling.
Unfortunately, there was nothing you could do about it because the people closest to you had noticed the difference in your actions and manner of living, and they had begun to talk about it as often as possible.
At first it was little comments that were easy to deflect, little remarks about how you barely called again and how you were being distant to everybody. The ones who were lucky enough to visit you at home after relentless prodding would make little comments on how tired you looked or on how you were constantly nervous and jumpy.
Every time it happened, you’d just laugh, shaking your head, and waving it away.
“It’s nothing serious, jare,” you’d say. “It’s just life, the children, all of that. I’m fine, really.”
Nobody you told that believed a word you said, but they all acted like they did. They’d nod and sigh in agreement, but the concern in their eyes would still be wholly evident.
The moment you noticed this, you immediately limited all forms of contact to phone calls and external visits that were to be scheduled weeks in advance.
You knew that there were many people you could have confided in, like your friends or one of your brothers – many people that you could have run to for help, baring your heart in tears and telling exactly what the issue was.
You knew this because there was an endless barrage of reassurances and love that the people closest to you started to pour when they all realised that you were indeed going through something.
They didn’t know what it was, and there was no way they could have ever suspected it, but still they wanted you to know that they were there to help.
And you wanted to – God knows you badly did – but how were you going to explain it to them?
How would you have made them understand that, yes, even though Hassan did hurt you, he also loved you better than anyone ever had?
How would you have told them that although he often lost his temper, he was still a good father, a present provider, and a good man deep down?
How would you have told them that every time you felt like leaving, you just couldn’t bear the thought of doing so?
Nobody would have understood you; that’s the truth you believed. They’d have called you crazy and labelled you as some sort of mental victim, slapping a word that’s difficult to pronounce as your “condition”.
There was no point trying to explain, so you just alienated everyone that was left till, eventually, one after the other, they stopped trying.
That was the first time you felt like you were truly alone, but you knew it was probably for the best. However, it shattered your heart that you could no longer take solace in the fact that you were still loved by the people around you. Your new reality was that there was no one else left for you again.
Just your children and him.
The more aggressive and violent Hassan became, the sweeter and more loving he also was. The love, the notes, and everything else intensified as the months passed. The bad moments became shorter and more spontaneous, and the good moments became more affection-filled and lasted longer in-between.
You didn’t know what to feel anymore; you had even stopped trusting your feelings because all they did was betray you. Your life and your emotions were always conflicted, and nothing, outside the smile and laughter of your two boys, was enjoyable again.
You had stopped crying a long time again, and you no longer wallowed in sadness or pain. Everything just seemed totally… pointless, and there was no outlet for you to find some relief, so you kept it all in. It still hurt deeply, of course it did, but you had accepted your fate now.
So, every morning when you woke up, you’d put your hand on your chest to feel the steady rhythm beneath your palm. If it was still beating, then you were still here, so you chose to focus on that.
That thud-thud-thud rhythm was part of your own existence, and it was proof that you were still alive; proof that you could survive another day again, as you did the day before. You would be fine, if not for yourself, then definitely for your children.
On the worst days when you wanted to run away from Hassan and on the worst nights when you wanted to plunge a knife into his chest as he lay beside you asleep in bed, you reminded yourself that he was still a good father.
Hassan was always gentle with your children; it was clear that he loved them fiercely, and they loved him too. He would never do anything to hurt them.
So, what kind of mother would you have been if you had taken them away from their father? Or their father away from them?
You saw the way your boys would light up when he walked through the door, the way they’d collapse into his arms, beaming at him like he was the best thing in the world.
In a way, to them, he definitely was, and you’d have been an evil mother to take that away from them, so you endured. It was a lie, but you told yourself that was the only reason you still stayed.
You told yourself that as long as your children were okay, then you were okay because it wasn’t about you anymore. Love was sacrifice, and good mothers did whatever they could for their children to be okay in the world.
You had taken it all, and you would continue to take it all for their sakes, as long as you needed to.
Maybe when they were older and independent, then you’d finally be able to lea... But you never completed the thought because you hated it.
And because you knew, deep down, that you could have packed your bags at any time and left. They’d have been fine without you.
There was another reason you stayed, it was love, and we both know it. You loved Hassan with all your heart because you knew how much he truly loved you too.
And as I stare at your body in this coffin, Anjola, your eyes closed as you finally seem at rest, I’m at peace knowing that I loved you as deeply as any husband could have ever done.
I was not perfect, but I know you loved me deeply too, because you stayed with me despite all my… flaws.
From that first Tuesday night till now, many years after, you saw me as a man and not as a monster, and even though the mistakes I made have now led to your demise, I know you still won’t hold it against me.
I promise to always carry this love of yours with me forever, and I solemnly swear to you that our boys will be fine.
Thank you for loving me, and thank you for not leaving me.
This story is one of the extras from my upcoming short story collection, THE STORIES AROUND US, that will be published by Masobe Books in the coming months.
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Spoiler, if you haven’t read it, but…
I hope nobody misses the two parallels that often constitute cases of domestic abuse like Anjola’s own.
1. The protection, rationalisation, or justification of the abuse/abuser by the victim.
2. The lack of self-awareness by the abuser, usually due to narcissism, of the depravity of their nature, despite being acutely aware of the consequences of their actions.
And that’s why I enjoy fiction writing because all this can be compressed into one story, without saying too much.
You just have to pay attention.
You Dey write please😭🤝