Musing; Two Sides. One Coin.
Some mothers are busy bringing up beautiful, dutiful, responsible, almost perfect daughters, to fit the mould of a societally accepted wife. Some mothers are bringing up sons that will kill them.
Ben was sitting across from his pastor. The wide, polished oak table created enough respectable distance between the parishioner and his shepherd. There was an ugly scar across his left cheek. His eyes were bloodshot and bags hung heavily under his eyes. He had apparently had no sleep. His shepherd cleared his throat, sank lower in his big chair, clasped his hands together, intertwining his fingers, and placed them on the table.
“So Dorcas still hit you, after I spoke with her at length. What was it this time?”
“Sir, I did not see this coming, I would have taken cover. I only suggested we matched our outfits to work. I woke up with a color combination we both have, on my mind. I did not know it had become an offence to want to match outfits with my wife.”
“I don’t see how that should be a problem?”
“Exactly sir. But before I knew what was happening, she was talking about me trying to control her and how I did not respect her wishes. Sir, I only suggested, I didn’t ask her to wear it compulsorily.”
“How did it become physical?”
“Ah! She lost it. Grabbed one of her high heeled shoes off the rack and came straight for me. She missed my eye by the fraction of an inch. I could not go to work with that wound, I had to call in sick before going to the hospital to get it treated.”
“Hmn . . .” the shepherd sighed deeply, thinking over his next words before he asked, “has she apologized to you?”
“Dorcas? Apologize? My Dorcas? Sir, we’re talking about the same Dorcas we both know. If I want peace in that house, I will be the one to apologize to her. Her temper is like a volcano, probably hotter.”
“See, Ben, since you know what works for your wife, do it. We will continue to pray for her deliverance from the spirit of anger. God is on your side. Meanwhile, do not let it leave the corners of this office that your wife did this to you. You have bravely borne all her attacks, we thank God for His protection over you, but no one must know this.”
“Why sir?”
“Because, in our culture, a man that is beaten by a woman is considered a weakling. In this case, it is not just a woman, it is your wife, the woman you paid her bride price. It must not be heard. God will continue to protect and strengthen you.”
“SIR???” Ben did not know when he blurted out. He was completely bewildered. Maybe as shocked as bewildered. He barely heard the pastor asking him to close his eyes for prayers.
The sadness that hung in the air weighed tons. Quiet sobs, loud wails, deep sighs and occasional clapping of the hands together in resignation. As the dust to dust rites were read out, a shrill scream rent the air. Tokunbo had to be restrained to prevent her from jumping into the open grave. She looked at the wooden box that held the remains of her best friend and burst into a fresh round of heart wrenching tears.
Was this the end? She would not see Bolanle anymore? They had grown up as toddlers in the same neighbourhood, gone to the same primary and secondary schools. While Bolanle proceeded to Canada for her university education, Tokunbo remained in the country for hers. She did not really have the head for books. So, barely passing her JAMB exam and the necessary O’level papers, she was grateful for a spot in one of the federal universities. Despite the distance and time difference, she and Bolanle talked everyday.
It was during one of their talks that Bolanle told her about Derek. He had captured her heart, he was everything and more she ever dreamed of in a man. Tokunbo was happy for her friend. Then, one day, while they were Skyping, she noticed a mark on Bolanle’s neck, though she tried so much to hide it. Derek had hit and wounded her. Tokunbo warned her. A man that hit her while they were still ‘madly in love’ with each other, will do worse in marriage. Bolanle told her she had provoked him. Tokunbo would hear none of it, but they were too far apart for her to do more than just encourage her friend.
If he only ‘patted her cheeks’ in courtship, he rearranged her cheekbones in marriage. At the slightest provocation, he hit her, pulled her hair, threw her against the wall, he even pushed her down the stairs once. Each time Tokunbo told her to leave, even if for some time, for her safety, Bolanle went on and on about how the society did not look kindly at a divorcee, especially where such is a woman. Her family was totally against her leaving her husband’s house. Her pastor’s wife told her to keep enduring, offering advice on changes she should make. She made all those changes, but Derek would not budge. He got worse. Bolanle ended up depressed and eventually returned home to her parents, Derek would not allow her take their daughter with her. She slept one night and did not wake up the next morning. The autopsy report, well, that threw up more questions than answers.
The line between love and hate, is very thin, very very thin. Life and death are like the button on a switch. One click, on, one click, off.
When I hear matters of intimate partner violence, it sparks off something in me. Two people who professed love to each other, undying, unconditional love, before a large or small number of witnesses, suddenly, or gradually, become Tom and Jerry under one roof. And when it gets bad, family and friends take sides, depending on who their favourite or ‘blood’ is.
Admitted, the incidence of cases involving women is higher and more prevalent, but what about the women hurting and killing their husbands? Sometimes, they strike back from pent up anger, sometimes it is uncontrollable rage, other times, it’s just one crazy moment of 'losing it'. Whatever the case, life is life, and none is more superior to the other. In these cases, preservation of life should be the main objective, not taking sides. And if that is it, we should be looking at a better cultural, traditional and religious stand on this matter. Some religious leaders, parents, ‘elders’, already have blood on their necks, for advising or making a victim of domestic violence to stay put. At the first finger lifted, something decisive should have been done.
And, proponents of women’s liberation, be careful with what you propagate. I’m all for women having a healthy self esteem, being financially empowered, taking their place in all spheres of society, yes, I have absolutely nothing against these. But, where you begin to give a woman a blue t-shirt with a big yellow and red 'S' emblazoned on it, you have set her up to fail.
A woman cannot and will never be a man. She was not so wired. A man cannot and never will be a woman, his place is clearly cut out. Human equality is all about equal opportunities, between the sexes, each having equal opportunities to maximize their potentials. Attempting to switch roles will do no one any good.
Women, nurture, comfort, support, love, care for your man. Be his best friend, his listening ear, his sounding board, his cheerleader, all, while wearing your pencil heels and your power suit.
Men, be the protector, the provider, pillar, best friend, cover, biggest fan and support to your woman. This does not take the jeans off your waist.
Ben was sitting across from his pastor. The wide, polished oak table created enough respectable distance between the parishioner and his shepherd. There was an ugly scar across his left cheek. His eyes were bloodshot and bags hung heavily under his eyes. He had apparently had no sleep. His shepherd cleared his throat, sank lower in his big chair, clasped his hands together, intertwining his fingers, and placed them on the table.
“So Dorcas still hit you, after I spoke with her at length. What was it this time?”
“Sir, I did not see this coming, I would have taken cover. I only suggested we matched our outfits to work. I woke up with a color combination we both have, on my mind. I did not know it had become an offence to want to match outfits with my wife.”
“I don’t see how that should be a problem?”
“Exactly sir. But before I knew what was happening, she was talking about me trying to control her and how I did not respect her wishes. Sir, I only suggested, I didn’t ask her to wear it compulsorily.”
“How did it become physical?”
“Ah! She lost it. Grabbed one of her high heeled shoes off the rack and came straight for me. She missed my eye by the fraction of an inch. I could not go to work with that wound, I had to call in sick before going to the hospital to get it treated.”
“Hmn . . .” the shepherd sighed deeply, thinking over his next words before he asked, “has she apologized to you?”
“Dorcas? Apologize? My Dorcas? Sir, we’re talking about the same Dorcas we both know. If I want peace in that house, I will be the one to apologize to her. Her temper is like a volcano, probably hotter.”
“See, Ben, since you know what works for your wife, do it. We will continue to pray for her deliverance from the spirit of anger. God is on your side. Meanwhile, do not let it leave the corners of this office that your wife did this to you. You have bravely borne all her attacks, we thank God for His protection over you, but no one must know this.”
“Why sir?”
“Because, in our culture, a man that is beaten by a woman is considered a weakling. In this case, it is not just a woman, it is your wife, the woman you paid her bride price. It must not be heard. God will continue to protect and strengthen you.”
“SIR???” Ben did not know when he blurted out. He was completely bewildered. Maybe as shocked as bewildered. He barely heard the pastor asking him to close his eyes for prayers.
The sadness that hung in the air weighed tons. Quiet sobs, loud wails, deep sighs and occasional clapping of the hands together in resignation. As the dust to dust rites were read out, a shrill scream rent the air. Tokunbo had to be restrained to prevent her from jumping into the open grave. She looked at the wooden box that held the remains of her best friend and burst into a fresh round of heart wrenching tears.
Was this the end? She would not see Bolanle anymore? They had grown up as toddlers in the same neighbourhood, gone to the same primary and secondary schools. While Bolanle proceeded to Canada for her university education, Tokunbo remained in the country for hers. She did not really have the head for books. So, barely passing her JAMB exam and the necessary O’level papers, she was grateful for a spot in one of the federal universities. Despite the distance and time difference, she and Bolanle talked everyday.
It was during one of their talks that Bolanle told her about Derek. He had captured her heart, he was everything and more she ever dreamed of in a man. Tokunbo was happy for her friend. Then, one day, while they were Skyping, she noticed a mark on Bolanle’s neck, though she tried so much to hide it. Derek had hit and wounded her. Tokunbo warned her. A man that hit her while they were still ‘madly in love’ with each other, will do worse in marriage. Bolanle told her she had provoked him. Tokunbo would hear none of it, but they were too far apart for her to do more than just encourage her friend.
If he only ‘patted her cheeks’ in courtship, he rearranged her cheekbones in marriage. At the slightest provocation, he hit her, pulled her hair, threw her against the wall, he even pushed her down the stairs once. Each time Tokunbo told her to leave, even if for some time, for her safety, Bolanle went on and on about how the society did not look kindly at a divorcee, especially where such is a woman. Her family was totally against her leaving her husband’s house. Her pastor’s wife told her to keep enduring, offering advice on changes she should make. She made all those changes, but Derek would not budge. He got worse. Bolanle ended up depressed and eventually returned home to her parents, Derek would not allow her take their daughter with her. She slept one night and did not wake up the next morning. The autopsy report, well, that threw up more questions than answers.
The line between love and hate, is very thin, very very thin. Life and death are like the button on a switch. One click, on, one click, off.
When I hear matters of intimate partner violence, it sparks off something in me. Two people who professed love to each other, undying, unconditional love, before a large or small number of witnesses, suddenly, or gradually, become Tom and Jerry under one roof. And when it gets bad, family and friends take sides, depending on who their favourite or ‘blood’ is.
Admitted, the incidence of cases involving women is higher and more prevalent, but what about the women hurting and killing their husbands? Sometimes, they strike back from pent up anger, sometimes it is uncontrollable rage, other times, it’s just one crazy moment of 'losing it'. Whatever the case, life is life, and none is more superior to the other. In these cases, preservation of life should be the main objective, not taking sides. And if that is it, we should be looking at a better cultural, traditional and religious stand on this matter. Some religious leaders, parents, ‘elders’, already have blood on their necks, for advising or making a victim of domestic violence to stay put. At the first finger lifted, something decisive should have been done.
And, proponents of women’s liberation, be careful with what you propagate. I’m all for women having a healthy self esteem, being financially empowered, taking their place in all spheres of society, yes, I have absolutely nothing against these. But, where you begin to give a woman a blue t-shirt with a big yellow and red 'S' emblazoned on it, you have set her up to fail.
A woman cannot and will never be a man. She was not so wired. A man cannot and never will be a woman, his place is clearly cut out. Human equality is all about equal opportunities, between the sexes, each having equal opportunities to maximize their potentials. Attempting to switch roles will do no one any good.
Women, nurture, comfort, support, love, care for your man. Be his best friend, his listening ear, his sounding board, his cheerleader, all, while wearing your pencil heels and your power suit.
Men, be the protector, the provider, pillar, best friend, cover, biggest fan and support to your woman. This does not take the jeans off your waist.
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