In the kitchen where she had gone to get some fried rice to feed her five children, the husband-turned-monster ambushed her with a single punch to the back of the head.
‘Please don’t hit me,’ the wife begged, ‘and what did I do to you that you hit me so hard and so many times?’
Angry both at her request for an explanation and at her plea for mercy, the monster again struck the woman in the left eye and nose. He aimed for her teeth and hit her on the top of her lip.
Red blood ran from the woman’s nose and mouth and splattered all over the cement floor, along the edge of the kitchen cupboard. She was missing two teeth behind her upper lip.
Apart from protecting her face with her elbows and arms, she was defenseless against the monster’s cruelty.
With the back of her right hand, the woman began to wipe the blood dripping from her nose. In doing so, she exposed her cheek, and ‘the monster’, the woman later said, ‘slapped me with the speed of the devil, seven times on the right cheek and three times on the left’.
The last blow was so forceful that it knocked her off balance and she fell. She quickly got up from the floor and leaned her back against the closed kitchen door. For the sake of her children, she stood her ground until the very end, when she suddenly broke down and started screaming. Her screams attracted the children’s attention.
‘Close the door quickly,’ said the three-year-old, the youngest of the boys.
‘What’s happening?’ asked the seven year old.
‘Dad is hitting and hitting mom again,’ replied the oldest of the five.
Silence fell over the children, an indicator to the mother that they had picked up on the commotion. ‘Oh! My children! Oh, my five hungry children,’ she cried.
On top of the kerosene stove, resting on the low kitchen cabinet, was a razor-thin kitchen knife. The woman thought of grabbing it and applying it to the monster’s throat, but she didn’t dare.
Sensing his vulnerability if his wife mustered enough courage to grab the knife, the monster decided to finish her off. He kicked his shod feet into her abdomen and chest, forcing her to double over, crouching by the kitchen door.
Satisfied that the woman was beaten to the point that she had no mind or physical strength, the monster staggered out of the kitchen, her voice threatening as she walked away, ‘Tell anyone, tell your family, tell your mother, tell to your friends. or your sisters, and not only will I ridicule them, but I will beat you some more and throw you out of my house.
Despite the monster’s warning, this time the woman was brave enough to report the repeated abuse. She had had enough. Once the abuse came to light, the demon went on the run; persecuted, not by authorities since they don’t exist, but by his inner demons.
Police have been called in the past to handcuff an Igbo man who had knocked his wife out with the brutality of his left fist, only to have them laugh and walk away, saying: ‘This is not a police matter.’
A parish priest has been called in to reprimand and sentence to hell an Igbo man who gave his wife two black eyes, only for him to say, ‘You know, when you got married, you got married for better or worse, including death. ‘.
You would be wrong if you thought that the court of law would differ from the police and the priest. A judge, in every case, would laugh out loud, stroke his beard and say: ‘That is a family matter, my young friend; Go home and agree with your husband.
The families of battered women, who should be the last resort of protection, often raise their hands in defeat and demand that the women go back and cook better food for their monsters.
This current culture of ‘looking the other way’ has allowed wife assault to skyrocket among Igbo Nigerians. However, back in the days when Igbo men had guts, my uncle Karl had to send my cousin CKG to tear apart an in-law who had assaulted my niece.
If an Igbo man beats his wife in any civilized country, he goes to jail, where he is beaten by real men; So why wouldn’t a paunchy bastard in Nigeria who beats his wife be thrown in jail, where he at least would learn the true meaning of life?
One could postulate forever why a man, an Igbo man, can hit any woman twenty-two times in the face, on the lips and on the nose, and not even stop to think about his actions when he draws the first drop of blood, or when two teeth fall out of his mouth.
Frustration, some say, is the real reason Igbo Nigerians beat their wives every day: frustrations stemming from poverty, frustrations stemming from personal failures, frustrations from unfulfilled expectations, frustrations from a swollen belly, bad breath, ugly teeth and impotence.
Others think that Igbo wife beatings would not exist if Igbo youths had a little more education. They say wife beaters are half-educated.
As such, it never occurred to them that life is not a bed of roses. It’s no wonder, then, that every time they step on the thorny patch of married life they go crazy. If they had been educated, they would understand that Igbo women have strong opinions, and trying to suppress them is like trying to suppress a growing pregnancy.
For clarity, let me point out that not all Igbo men assault their wives. There are Igbo men, poor and rich, educated and unschooled, who have impeccable character. They would never lay a hand on their wives or tolerate any man who hurt their dear daughters, their beautiful sisters, and his amazing mothers.
But, you know, as the Igbo proverb says: “When oil makes one finger dirty, the rest of the fingers are dirty.”
