I was fifteen when he proposed to me. I didn’t know much, but I said yes. I remember how everyone in our area adored him. The women wanted to be with him, and the guys spoke highly of him. I figured he was a good man. He was good-looking too.

I didn’t know his age, and he wouldn’t tell me until much later. That’s when I learned he was ten years older than I was. I was fifteen, but we did everything lovers do—except for the final step. He told me he wouldn’t do it until I turned eighteen. Everything I needed to know about intimacy, he taught me.

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He promised to wait, but when I was seventeen, he snatched my innocence from me. I was going to live with my aunt, and he told me he needed to do it so I couldn’t run away from him. “Women stick with the men who broke them,” he said.

I was fine—or so I thought. I was in love. I clung to his promises and couldn’t wait for the day they would all come true.

After my national service, he asked me to marry him. I told my mom, and she told my dad. My dad didn’t agree. He said I was too young to marry, especially without a job. When I finally got a job, he asked me again, “You have a job now. Marry me.”

This time, my dad said yes, and we got married. We’ve been married for eleven years and have three kids, but I’ve never been happy in this marriage.

I resent my husband. I feel he took advantage of me. He was twenty-five and already a man. He should have known better. Out of pent-up anger, I once told him when he accused me of changing, “I’m no longer that small girl you took advantage of. Stop ordering me around like I’m your child.”

He’s fond of looking down on me. He tramples on my achievements as if they’re things I picked up off the floor. He shouts at me to stop whenever I try to make moves that bring me growth or happiness. He still sees me as that naïve girl who didn’t understand love but was willing to be led to the slaughterhouse.

I’m not saying he’s all bad. He can be sweet when he wants to be, especially when I follow his orders and do what he wants. He wants me to be his child so he can take care of me. He throws candies at me, but he’s quick to bring out the stick if I complain.

I’ve reached a point where I’ve considered reporting him to the police for what he did to me when I was seventeen. I’ve looked him in the face and called him “awingaa.” I’ve made an issue out of his friendship with a young lady in church. I told him, “I’m old now, so you’re looking for another flower to destroy, right?”

We fight more than we love. Yet he won’t let me go, and I won’t let him go either because he’s the only man I’ve ever known. He tells me I’m the only woman he’s ever truly loved. I don’t know what that means. If it were true, he wouldn’t have taken advantage of my naivety.

I’ve been searching for a listening ear—a channel to pour all of this out—but I’m scared of what I’ll uncover or what our marriage will become when it’s all said and done. These thoughts leave me so tired—so tired I want to run away from everyone: my children, my marriage, the world, and everything that seeks to hold me down.