Dating and Relationships – Domestic Voilence

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    [caption id="attachment_4212" align="aligncenter" width="200"]STOP DOMESTIC VIOLENCE STOP DOMESTIC VIOLENCE[/caption]


    I was born into my family as a seer, although many called me an Ogbanje.

    I had the power to do and to undo. I could make it rain in the middle of drought. I could turn a river into a pile of sand within seconds. I could talk to the deād, writhing out of them, answers that their living relatives craved to know.

    I was what many called a wizard, and people came from far and near to see me.

    I was only six-year-old yet so powerful.

    It would interest you to know that my powers weren’t the most popular thing in our house.

    My father continual bēating and abuse of my mother was.

    I grew up watching my father thrash my mother with wood, belt, and shoe. I watched him mark her body with broken bottles. I watched my mother suffer miscarriages because our father had kicked her pregnancy out of her.

    Black eyes were like eye-shadow to my mother, and bruises were adornment on her body. Her cries as my father beat her was a wild soprano that resonated in our house, day and night, night and day.

    One day, though, my father bēat my mother so much, the punch he had given to her left eye, blinding it in a way I knew it would never heal from.

    I was provoked. I was irked. I was vexed.

    I ran into my room, straight to the place I kept my dolls. I collected the biggest of them– the one with charcoal marks on its face as beards.

    I walked to the place my mother was lying on the ground, crying and wriggling in pain as her eyes blēd profusely.

    Holding the doll up to her, I asked, “Mama, may I?”

    She wiped the bloōd out of her face, and with a cold and lifeless voice, she said, “Yes.”

    I held the doll tightly, twisting the head around until I ripped it off, separating it from the rest of its body.

    Seconds later, we heard a satisfying thud come from inside of one of the rooms.

    Later that night, my father’s body was carried out by our neighbors.

    They said he fell on the floor, his neck broken, and his head snapped and twisted to the back.

    Let’s tell these stories properly.

    Let’s tell them with voodoo and guns, not with words of peace and pleas.

    What is your take on this short epistle?

    © Desmond Ben (King Of Twists)

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