There’s was once a woman I used to know. She wasn’t just in love. Her man built barricades on her paths. He was a drinking one and a temperamental one. In the morning, he could leave home for no job but to the local drinking den, till in the evening. And later go home with a nauseating stench with no food and no money in his pockets. And still have the audacity to strip the woman and delve neath her legs. The woman, once could go fetch the man from his drinking den. On this one occasion, she couldn’t have it anymore she stripped her blouse and revealed how perfectly her body was knitted with bruises. Ribs got blue black scars. But even in that she was just beautiful.
“….. you have no idea what your kid is eating. ..you leave early in the morning and leave no money for food… at night you demand to make love to me, if not you beat me up, either way you still win…. I swear I’m not leaving here without you. ..”
She was wailing. Crying like a woman who felt a pang of pain cutting through the flesh of her womb, taking her back to the first time she lost her virginity, remembering the first night she conceived her first child and the nights she went through labour pains. Her child nestled under her legs clutching on to her feet. The child innocently didn’t know what was up. But in her eyes she was sorry. The crowd was watching in amusement with curiosity of stares to see who the man was. But the man never came out, the woman wailed fruitlessly, till she couldn’t do it anymore. Her voice was lost, to be engulfed by the murmuring crowd and the passers by who whispered amongst themselves, “she’s so young. And beautiful. Who sent her in a marriage that early? Girl just go home. ”
There was once a woman I used to know. She wasn’t just in love.
She sat with her friends on more than one occasion. They conversed about their lives. Her friends had a good story to tell about their men or boyfriends, or perhaps the other rich married man they were seeing secretly. To her, her friends were living the life. The ideal life. More than once her friends could advise her, to leave her man for he wasn’t worth her. True, the man wasn’t worth her. For she was beautiful and amazing, she was that kind of girl who everyone in the estate died for. Amidst her bruises and petty make ups that hid her blue black face, she still smiled. See, men with big houses, big cars often came flaunting car keys on her doorstep, beseeching her for love and care. They didn’t care if she had a child or a good for nothing man. They just wanted her as she was.
There was once a woman I used to know. She wasn’t just in love, but believed in the power of a prayer.
Her man had nothing. She had nothing much of a life of luxury but just of basic needs. Their daughter, she hoped took from her, to endure all life’s misery, but she wouldn’t let her. She wasn’t as happy but none could tell if she was sad. Nights after enduring pain. She would sob and speak silently to God.
“Father, you gave me a broken one. So please give me strength.
It isn’t in my jurisdiction to tell you if God was faithful to her. One night her man was passed due. He never came home. So she went out to his drinking den to look for him. Before she entered she said, “I’m not leaving here without you..” but the man wasn’t in there. She stared at the ugly broken, sulkenly swollen faces of men and women like barbecue, who were in their drunken stupors, but never saw that of her man. She asked them of his whereabouts but they all laughed at her. She went knocking from door or door, asking, “has anyone seen my husband?”. Some could slam the door on her face. Some laughed even more. Some said, that he was a drunkard, even if he sleeps out he will be home at dawn. But that wasn’t his man. He was pathetic. He was good for nothing. He was a drunkard. But that wasn’t him. It wasn’t him to come home at dawn. He always come back home. This night was odd.
That night she went home, sad and cold she slept alone. She somehow missed her man. She missed his bruises. She remembered her friends telling her to leave her man. That he wasn’t worthy. But she knew better. In the morning, as the man came staggering back home, she was waiting at the door step. With clothes packed in a suitcase. The man felt betrayed. He felt defeated. He almost cried but his tears weren’t steady enough. The woman carried her child on her back. Grabbed the suitcase and asked her man to come with her. As drunk as he was, they left out of town. Nobody ever heard of them again.
There was once a woman I knew. She wasn’t just in love. She was toughest. She knew that in this life, you might ask and desire for things. But you can’t get the perfect of things. Most times you may have the broken of pieces and it will be upon you to perfect them. Or yet give up on them.
There was once a woman I knew. She wasn’t just in love. She loved unconditionally. For if you do, no reason can ever make you unlove. For endurance, I respect her.
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As written by Phill Ibsen ( Master Of Descriptions )
2017
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