He grabbed my hands and bent them backward, breaking one of my fingers. I was in shock. I was stunned. I was in serious pains. A few hours after the incident, He broke into tears and told me how sorry he was. I loved him so much, so I believed him when he said it wouldn’t happen again. But life became hell after that. For the next two months the abuse was nonstop.
He kept me in a constant state of terror. I’m not a drinker, but he’d toss a bottle of beer in my face and say “drink”. He’d punch me in the stomach or kick me in the thigh if I didn’t. I started walking on tiptoes around him, fearful of everything I’d say and do. But it didn’t matter; the abuse continued. He dislocated my shoulder several times.
He’d lift me up by the ankles and bang my head against the floor in the living room. A part of me wanted to leave, but another part of me hesitated. Somehow I felt I was partially responsible for the abuse. If I hadn’t made a particular comment or if I had just sipped the alcohol everything would have been OK. And for the first few months he was apologetic after the beatings.
He’d say he felt very bad and that he didn’t mean to hit me so hard. He’d actually cry sometimes and show such remorse that I’d forget my own pain. He’d become romantic and sweet, and I’d fall in love with him all over again. I started to isolate myself from friends and family. I didn’t want them to know about the violence.
I put on a happy face with my two kids and tried to act like things were fine. They knew about the violence but didn’t know the severity. When my mom wanted to see me, I’d lie, saying I was busy. I didn’t want her to see my bruises. I was embarrassed. Sadly, the abuse worsened. The rapes began about two months after we were married.
I was dressing for work when he came out of the shower and asked me where I was going. He didn’t wait for my answer. He threw me on the bed, sat on my stomach, pinned my arms up beside my head and ripped off my clothes. “If you want s*x, wait until I get home tonight,” I said. “You’ll do it when I want, and how I want,” was his response. It got worse after that. He would tie me up and put foreign objects such as necks of beer bottles into my v*g*na.
Five months into the marriage I endured beating after beating. While most of the assaults were done when my children weren’t home, I was worried that they might step in and try to protect me. If they did, they might get beaten, too. I began plotting our escape, but it was difficult. He had begun making threatening comments: “You can never get far enough away from me. I will always find you. If I can’t have you, no one will.” I felt trapped.
How I left? He had disappeared for three days. I didn’t know where he was. I thought he had been in an accident. I called his phone; he would answer but not say anything. He arrived home on the third night at about 1a.m. and immediately started screaming at me that he didn’t appreciate me trying to track him down. We were in the sitting room and he grabbed the land-phone receiver and began to beat me in the face with it.
His eyes were red and flashing like I’d never seen before. I ran to the bedroom, and he was right behind me. He picked me up over his head and threw me across the room twice. I broke my tailbone in the second fall. My 6-year-old daughter woke up. She must have heard something and came to see what was happening.
She just stood there, stunned. He looked at her and got scared for some reason. He went into the bedroom and pack his things. I found my phone, fighting the pain from the broken bone, limped to the living room, I then called my father who took me away from the house. Since then I have not set my eyes on Dehinde. Please what should I do about this marriage?
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