WRECKED
/ WRECKED 10 9
Once, she swallowed bleach, but the taste was too pungent for her to drink enough to die. Another time, she held a fruit knife in her hand and thought of ending her life, but she could not muster the will to stab.
Over the next several months, his outbursts became more frequent. They went from a few outbursts a month, to two, then ve per week to daily. Hauwa could not honestly say that she did not remember when exactly it was that she started walking on eggshells around Abdul, but it seemed to have happened overnight. Her marriage was quickly spiralling into an inescapable nightmare.
She was stuck. She was still being brainwashed by him that she refused to believe that she could have been better without him. Everything she did was for him—for their marriage, to keep him happy and to be exactly who he wanted her to be.
As time went on, all the fights seemed to run together. They morphed into one giant nightmare. At this point, Hauwa became used to all the screaming and insults, and learned to brush them off and just roll her eyes. Unfortunately, Abdul caught on to the fact that he was not hurting her as much with his words anymore. He was forced to find another way to hurt her. So in the next argument he ran to the kitchen, all the while calling her a 'prostitute', grabbed the kitchen knife and ran towards Hauwa.
Hauwa kept herself from screaming, but instead pleaded with him to put the knife down. He held it up to her face, less than two inches from her nose, "I'll do it. Don't make me do it," he said.
All Hauwa could think of was I'm done. That's it. She debated going to the police station, if she survived, then told herself she was crazy for even having that thought. Her husband was a policeman.
Although they fought a great deal, there were also times that were very good. There were the rare days when they would not fight, but would watch television or just take a drive in the car and chat while munching hot suya. Hauwa lived for those days. She prayed for those days. Those were the days that kept her invested in the marriage, that kept her believing that it was her who was truly the problem, and she alone could make things right.
Things went great for the first few weeks after Hauwa became pregnant. Abdul and his wife got along better than they ever had. Each day that went without a huge blowout fight, the less Hauwa felt she had to walk on eggshells around him anymore. Things were finally starting to look up. Until one day, unexpectedly, the violence resurfaced.
It was a public holiday and he had invited Hauwa's uncle Isa and his family over for lunch to celebrate a recent promotion. About two hours before they expected company, as they sipped glass bottles of Fanta, Abdul decided he was hungry and Hauwa had to speed up the lunch preparation. When lunch was ready, she brought his bowl of steaming masara and fried meat to where he sat on the mat and as soon as she laid the tray on a small stool, something inside him changed. That look of absolute anger and disgust appeared on his face again, for the first time in a while.
He asked Hauwa about the portion of food she gave him. She could not recall exactly what the question was. He then proceeded to throw her bottle of Fanta onto the floor, soaking the carpet and the surrounding chairs with the orange liquid in the process. He grabbed the bowl of food, walked into the kitchen, and viciously threw it into the sink, shattering the bowl and getting food everywhere. He grabbed her arm and screamed, "Look, Hauwa! Look what you did. Clean this mess before your people get here. Actually, clean it up and tell them not to come. Plans are off. No more celebration."
All she could do was cry.
Why did this happen? She thought. Why is this starting again? I thought we were past this…
After that, Abdul became increasingly violent. He thought nothing of hitting her, even though she was pregnant. His mother's visit when she was almost due put a kind of restraint on him, but not much.
She gave birth to her first child in a crowded community hospital. Her stature was so diminutive; doctors delivered the baby by caesarean fearing she was not sufficiently developed to give birth naturally. The baby was weak and troubled by fever and whooping cough.
Because the baby was too sick and did not have the energy to breast-feed, after five months of struggle he died. Life went on normally, and for a little while, Abdul was sober from the death of his son.
****
Hauwa felt curiously empty after the loss of her baby; hollow, as if something immense had happened and it had not sunk in properly. At the same time, she felt afraid. She did not see Abdul for two weeks after the incident and she enjoyed his absence, enjoying spending time with her uncle's wife, Asabe, until the time came for her to return to her husband. Hauwa then basked in the solitude. Some days Abdul called, some days he did not.
He returned in filth, wearing clothes that stank like a homeless person. He peeled them o in the living room, left them in a reeking pile, and went straight to the backyard to have a wash.
When he was done, he smelled a whole lot better, and looked much better, too. Hauwa served him dinner and performed his favourite of her wifely duties. He listened to her tell him pointless things about what had gone on in his absence, while he stroked her hair and told her she was the most beautiful thing he'd seen all week. His hands stilled as she shared some of the conversations she had had with her Auntie Asabe.
"I'm a bit hungry, let me get some fih and garri," Hauwa said, standing up and walking to the kitchen.
"I have to go out," he said.
Hauwa came back into the room, not sure she'd heard him properly. "Did you say you're going out? But you just got in. Why aren't you staying? Are you on duty?" Hauwa went up to him and slipped her hands around his waist. He kept his hands in his pockets for a moment, and then took hold of her upper arms and pushed her firmly away from him.
"What's wrong?" Hauwa asked, a sinking feeling starting to take over from the feeling of being happy.
He met her eyes at last, and his were dark with a level of fury she had not seen before. "What's wrong? You really have no clue, Hauwa?"
"Abdul, tell me. What have I done?"
He shook his head. "Did you have to talk about me with your auntie?"
"Talk about you? Auntie Asabe just asked how you were doing at work, and I told her you were due for another promotion soon. What was wrong with that?"
"Hauwa!" he exploded, "you women are all the same. Can't keep your mouths shut. People get into trouble because you all can't just shut up."
"Abdul, I didn't say anything wrong," Hauwa said, feeling tears well up in her eyes. This was all going terribly wrong.
"Oh, don't start crying!" he roared. "Just don't dare cry!"
Hauwa bit back her tears. "Abdul…" she touched his arm, tenderly, trying to calm him down, but he shrugged her hand away.
"Abdul, please, I'm sorry," she tried again, and this time he shoved her, hard, with both hands. She fell backward onto the floor mat, the breath knocked out of her. Hauwa automatically curled into a ball, stunned by the force of his fury and devastated by the prospect of another violent quarrel.
In the twinkle of an eye, Abdul went over and took her in his arms. "I'm sorry, Hauwa," he whispered. "I'm very sorry."
"I'm sorry too. I'll never discuss you with Auntie Asabe again."
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Hours later, lying in the darkness of their bedroom, listening to his breathing, regular and deep, the question that had been swimming around in her mind, since the moment she first saw those eyes, finally found a whisper. "Who broke your heart, Abdul?"
The reply took so long, she thought he was asleep…and then the word, whispered into the air like a charm, like an incantation "Zainab."
The next morning, Hauwa had forgotten where the bruises on her arms had come from. But she never forgot the name, nor the way he said it, with such a reverence: a breath, a sigh.
****
Her happiness came and went like a ghostly breath. She went from looking forward to Abdul working, to missing him, to looking forward to him going back to work. They had another fight and he stormed off for days. Her phone, ringing, made her jump. She had been waiting for something to happen, waiting for him to call. But it was auntie Asabe.
"Auntie Asabe!" she said, trying to sound as cheerful as she possibly could. "Saanu, ma."
"Saanu, Hauwa. Are you okay?"
"I am. How is uncle Isa?"
"He is fine. We are all fine. You should come visit soon. You can come to my stall tomorrow."
Hauwa could not reply for a moment, holding the phone tightly, looking at a spot on the wall, trying to concentrate hard on not breaking down. "Okay, auntie," she finally said.
The next day, Hauwa left the house at exactly noon, grabbing her small purse and wrapping a shawl round her head. The market was busy, but then Fridays often were; full of shoppers, mothers, students, youth corps, and people who really should be at work but for some unexplainable reason, were not. The sun was shining bright; maybe the weekend would be good to her. She hated crowds, she would much rather stroll through the town centre without seeing another single living person; but today she had to meet Auntie Asabe.
At her pepper stall, Auntie Asabe waited for her, sitting on a stool and dividing the pepper into groups. "Hauwa," she said by way of greeting, "sit here. Sit." She patted another low stool and Hauwa sat. One of the stool's legs was shaking dangerously, but it managed to hold out for Hauwa.
"Here. I bought you aya," Hauwa handed a small bag of wet tiger nuts to her auntie.
"Na gode, thank you." Asabe smiled and set it aside with her left hand, while she reached into a basket and handed three cobs of roasted corn to Hauwa.
"How is uncle?" Hauwa asked.
That took care of the next half hour, right up to halfway through Hauwa's third cob.
"So, how are you, Hauwa?" Asabe asked as she handed her a cup of water. "Is Abdul taking good care of you?"
Hauwa shrugged. She cast a glance at the shoppers. She twirled her cup slowly, watching the patterns swirl and twist on the surface of the liquid.
"Yes," she finally said.
"Why so sad, then?" Asabe asked.
Hauwa knew she was not doing a very good job. She was supposed to act bright and cheerful, like the happy sun, but she was not able to convince her auntie.
"I miss my son," Hauwa said, which was entirely true.
"You'll have another, Hauwa."
She nodded. "I know."
"So what else is bothering you?"
Hauwa shrugged again, contemplating telling her story and wondering if it would actually do her any good at all. "I'm not sure," Hauwa said, as she shook her head and knocked back the last of the water. "I'm just tired."
Asabe leaned across and patted her hand. "I'm here if you ever need to talk. You know that, don't you?"
Hauwa managed a bright smile for her. "Of course, auntie. But I'm fine, really. I just need rest."
"Dauki wannan. Take this," Asabe squeezed something into her hand; a bundle of twenty naira notes, roughly packed. Hauwa stared at it, then looked up at her auntie.
"Keep it. Buy something nice for yourself. Be happy, Hauwa." Asabe put her damp hand around Hauwa's back, patted and rubbed, as though she was trying to force some warmth inside.
"You're getting thin," she said and Hauwa nodded. "Are you sure you're alright? You promise me? Because I think something is not quite right."
"Auntie, everything is fine."
She could not promise. If she asked again, she was going to break down and lose it. There was only so much lying Hauwa could do, and promises were important to her, she did not take them lightly.
Asabe hugged her again, just in the wrong place. Hauwa tried hard not to wince, but it hurt. Her whole body hurt.
"You know where I am if you need me?" she asked.
Hauwa nodded and said "Sai anjima," then headed off back to her home. She wondered if her auntie guessed what it was. She knew something was not quite right, but she did not have a name for it yet. Hauwa had names for it, but not ones she could repeat.
She looked around the market square for a moment, looking at the faces of the women and men that bustled past her, wondering which women were like her and which men were monsters.
She stopped to buy yam and vegetables, browsed around in some stores, looking at clothes but not bothering to pick any. She just did not feel like going home, not yet. Abdul must be very busy at work since he had not bothered to call, so she took her time.
****
When she opened the back door, she had that immediate sense that something was not right. Abdul's car was not in sight, or any other car for that matter. Hauwa just knew someone had been in the house while she had been out. She stood at the doorway for a moment, the door left ajar behind her. She slowly walked into kitchen, went through to the living room and stopped dead. Abdul was sitting on the couch, watching television with the sound muted.
Hauwa gasped in shock. "Abdul you scared me!" He stood up and went towards her.
"Where have you been?"
"In town," Hauwa said. "I went to the market…"
"You went to the market for two hours, Hauwa? To buy what?"
He was standing inches away from here. She could feel the heat of his body, like the force of his anger. His hands were hanging relaxed by his sides; his voice was even.
Nevertheless, she was afraid.
"I bought yam and vegetables, walked around the market. I did not know you were coming back today. Let me go and fry the yam," Hauwa said, and turned back on him to enter the kitchen.
She felt his fingers circle her upper arm and he pulled her around with such force that her feet left the floor. "Do not walk away from me," he said into her face, his breath hot on her cheek.
"Yi hankuri. I'm sorry," she muttered.
He let her go and she stumbled against the door. She saw he was unbuckling his belt and knew what was coming. She bolted for the back door – she had to get out, she had to run.
She never made it. He was at the door before her and before she had any idea what was happening his st made contact with the side of her face, the corner of her eye. She found herself on the floor by the stove. He was standing over her, looking down. Hauwa was so shocked she could not catch her breath, sobbing and touching her cheek to see if she was bleeding. Then he crouched next to her and she shrank back, thinking he was going to hit her again.
"Hauwa," he said, his voice low, shockingly calm. "Don't make me do that again, okay? Just come home on time or let me know where you are going. It is simple. It is for your own safety. There are some dangerous people out there. I am the only one who's looking out for you. So make it easy for yourself and do as you're told."
Hauwa knew that whatever the future held now, it could not possibly be good. She began to sob. "Come here," he said softly, pulling her into a hug. "Don't cry. It's okay."
He held her gently with both his arms around her, her head nestled in his shoulder. "Don't cry. I am no good at showing how I feel. I'm sorry if I scared you."
She pulled back from him so she could look in his eyes. "Can I ask you something?" He nodded. "What if I run to the police, Abdul?" She dared further, "What if I tell them what you do to me?"
"You'll make a statement, then it may get led, and nothing would happen there." He stroked a finger across her cheek, wiping away the last tear.
Hauwa thought about what he said, wise enough to notice his implied threat that something would happen 'here', in this house. She thought about what she would have to do to stop him hitting her again; about being home on time, about telling him if she went anywhere without him, about wearing what he told her to wear and doing exactly what he told her to do.
She always thought women who stayed in bad relationships must be foolish. After all, there had to be a moment, a realization that things had taken a wrong turn and you were suddenly afraid to be with your partner – and surely, that was the moment to leave. Walk away and do not look back, she always thought. Why would you stay? She had asked them. And they'd say things like, "It isn't that simple" and she'd always thought, yes, it is that simple – just leave, just walk away from it.
In addition to that moment of realization, a moment that had already passed for her, there was a new realization that walking away was not a simple option after all. Having a part of her that liked him, the gentle, vulnerable part of him that was still inside, somewhere, was only part of it: it was also the dreadful fear of what he might do if she did anything to provoke him. It was not about walking away anymore. It was about running.
It was about escape.
Chapter end
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