Short Story: Bondage of matrimony

In this desolate place I find myself in, I had very little to cheer me up. And so, day and night, I trek on the retrospection path, reliving moments that will be with me, even on my death bed.

My smile widens as scenes from my wedding day spring to life in my memory; so vivid, I can almost see the wrinkles on the maid of honour’s face, and smell the perfume on my husband’s clothes that caressed my nostrils.

It was an Issey Miyake perfume I bought for him when I travelled to England a month before our wedding. Oh, and the vows made under the watchful gaze of a huge portrait of Jesus hanging on the cross come to my head too.

Yes, I remember how I was so certain it was only death that could do us part. And my innate feeling, call it a dark intuition, would be a prophecy that would come to pass, leaving in its wake, blood that the earth thirst for.

The kiss after the vows had been said was unlike any I’d had before. I’d felt as if a swarm of butterflies had taken residence in my stomach, and each flap of their collective wings defied gravity and set in levitation when my husband and I locked lips, as the watching congregation cheered loudly.

Sadly, or happily, depending on which side of the road you decide to cross from, my husband is the reason I’m locked behind these prison walls. You might be wondering why. Well, that is because I killed him in cold blood.

I still remember his warm blood trickling down my arms, as I walked towards the bathroom sink to wash off the blood, hoping, but knowing I couldn’t escape the long arms of the law for killing a human being. In that moment, as I walked to the bathroom, I’m sure an onlooker would have seen a clear portrait of a wild beast, perhaps a lioness after a kill, in me. And the irony of the whole situation is, I feel no remorse for sending my husband to meet his maker before his time.

Please don’t judge me. I’m not a mean-hearted person. Neither am I psychotic in any way. I’m actually a kind woman who had set up a school that offers scholarships to more than half of the school’s population.

I’m sure the question biting at the edges of your brain is, “Why did I kill my husband?” I could name physical abuse. I could name emotional abuse. I could name neglect. I could name ungratefulness. But the one thing that tipped me over the edge was infidelity. Yes, a seemingly common practice for most men, but I couldn’t take it anymore, when it seemed to become a favourite pastime for my husband. I’d seen a video of him having sexual intercourse with my best friend’s daughter. And when I confronted him, all he said was, “look at how fat you’ve grown. You’re even lucky I consider having sex with you.”

I’d felt something snap within my heart, when I heard those spirit-dampening words, and I’d slapped him. The result of which would be, a nasty fight that would lead to his demise.

It wasn’t all bad though. As a matter of fact, we’d started on a very nice note. I’d met my husband, Mike, at the University of Cape Coast. I was in my final year, and looking forward to facing the world, and hopefully making a change to society.

A lot of men came my way; men whose finances would have ensured I’d continue to live in luxury, for I was from an opulent home. But I hadn’t paid any of them attention.

To me, they didn’t look like men I could settle down with. When Mike came my way, he’d offered something different. With Mike, I felt as if I could do anything. He wasn’t overly handsome, far from it. In fact, at the tender age of twenty-three, he had a forehead that looked like a motorway, for he was balding badly.

And he was so poor, the soles of his shoes looked like a slant on a sixty degree triangle. But I hadn’t cared. In Mike, I saw someone I believed I could start life from the bottom with, and make something we could call our own and be proud of when we greyed and wrinkled in our old age. But we couldn’t make it past our thirties, before Mike started showing his true colours.

My parents had had their misgivings about the marriage, because they wanted me to marry someone from my social class, but they’d funded the wedding and bought us a small house when I told them of how much I loved Mike. And sadly, it was in the house my parents bought for us that Mike would show me his true colours.

The first signs of Mike’s cheating ways had come to the fore, when our neighbour had engaged him in a bloody fist fight for sleeping with his wife. The neighbour, with blood running down his face after the fight, had pointed at me and said, “Check your foolish husband. He’s been having sex with my wife in your porch when you aren’t around.”

Mike had apologised unequivocally, saying he hadn’t known what had come over him, and that he wasn’t going to repeat the act.

But that cheating incident would be the beginning of many to come.

Mike, despite being a holder of a first degree in agriculture, had been made the branch manager at the Tema branch of my father’s bank, and each month, a complaint of a sexual kind was filed against him by a lady employee.

I’d have walked out of the marriage, but my mother had advised against it, telling me it was a normal male practice to seek the comfort of a woman outside the walls of marriage. Besides, I was the one who had said I was in love when they’d wanted me to marry someone else, and so I had to lie in the bed I’d made, she would say.

I’d stayed with Mike, and I’m guessing he took my staying and turning a blind eye to his infidelities as some sort of weakness, for he started yelling at me at the least provocation. My food started to taste bad all of a sudden. Then, there were times I could go months without my husband touching me in any form.

So, dear reader, you can imagine my rage, when I saw Mike and my friend’s daughter, Esi, riding the waves of coitus bliss. I’d been playing with his mobile phone, when I saw what looked to be a pornographic video. I’d touched on the screen to press play, and what I saw tempted to send me to an early grave for my heart wanted to force its way out of my chest with how hard it beat.

I’d confronted Mike, but he’d hit me when I called him a liar. As if the physical abuse wasn’t enough, he’d gone on to tell me how fortunate I was that he was still having sex with me, especially as I looked like a sumo wrestler.

It was then that rage of the malevolent kind sprung forth within me. I’d directed heart-piercing words at him, emphasising how poorly he performed in bed, and he’d hit me harder, before shoving me to the floor. On the floor, he’d kicked me in the mouth, forcing me to taste my own blood.

I’d found a screw driver close to the legs of the bed, and when Mike attempted to hit me again, I’d poked him in the eye with the screw driver. He’d let out a blood-curling scream, and his screams seemed to bring to life, some hidden beast within me, for I’d charged at him, and stabbed him repeatedly, until his body got into a dance of the tremulous kind.

Now, I sit in this cold and smelly prison cell, watching the world go by, and missing out on the many beauties nature has to offer. Some people would feel desolate in a prison cell, but not me. For, most of the time that I was married to Mike, I felt as if I was living in a prison cell.

 

Source: graphic.com.gh