My husband was a seminarian, training to become a Catholic priest, but at some point, he opted out. When we started dating, I asked why he opted out, and in a sweet voice, he told me, “How would you get a husband if I became a Catholic priest?”

My friends who met him for the first time during our wedding said that I was loud and rowdy, so I was going to control my husband because he was calm and unassuming.

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Our first fight was on our honeymoon. He was complaining about the arrangement of our things in the hotel room, and I told him it was the best I could do under the circumstances. He said softly, “I’m telling you something, and you’re talking back at me? Was that how you were raised?”

He didn’t say another thing until we left the hotel and came back home.  After church one day, I didn’t see my mom. My dad told me she wasn’t feeling well, so I followed him home to see my mom. It was when I got there that I sent my husband a message that I was with my mom and would come back soon.

I was home hours later only to see him with a frown on his face. “You left me here hungry and spent the whole day with your family? Why are you coming back? Go back. I’ll starve and die.” I pushed myself into the room, and he slapped me across the face and pushed me to the floor, hit me with his leg and asked me to go out.

I couldn’t shout out of pain because I didn’t want to invite neighbours into our fight. He was talking louder, and I was trying to tell him to bring his voice down, and he found that offensive too. So he kicked and shoved me around the room. I got up, ran to the bedroom and locked the door. For several minutes, he tried to get in, but I didn’t open the door.

I called Ekua, my best friend, who was also my maid of honour. I narrated everything to her, and she was like, “Hamilton? No, I can’t believe that. You mean he did all that to you?” I was crying while talking to Ekua, but she still didn’t believe my husband would lay his hands on me. She asked, “Or he caught you with another man?” I asked, “You’ve known me for ages. Do you think I’m capable of doing that?”

The next day, I called his dad to tell him everything. He laughed at me. He thought I was exaggerating. When his dad called him, he denied the truth and swore he didn’t touch me.

When it happened again, I ran home to my parents. Even when I was able to convince them that my husband had beaten me, they insisted I might have done something grievous for my husband to handle me that way. My mom said my husband was almost a Catholic priest, so I should count myself lucky that I got such a man.

You should see my husband in church. He carried himself around with charisma that got everyone enchanted. He bowed while talking to the elderly. He spoke softly but firmly. Though he didn’t become a priest, a lot of the elderly people called him Father. It annoyed me at first, but later, I came to accept I was the problem. Everyone couldn’t be wrong about him while I was right.

When he beat me, I apologized. When he insulted me and brought my parents’ parenting skills into disrepute, I agreed with him. I got pregnant. When I told him, his first question was, “Are you sure I’m the one who got you pregnant?” I was like, “Who else? Angels from heaven?”

He removed the belt from his trousers and started whipping me from left to right. How dare I ask such a question? He told me the pregnancy wasn’t his because Fathers can’t have children. He even told me that in school, they taught them how not to impregnate women, and he had used that skill since we got married two years ago, so he couldn’t be the father of the pregnancy I was carrying.

If I’d ever held a man’s hand after marriage, I would have convinced myself that I got pregnant through holding another man’s hand. He asked me to abort the baby because he was not ready to father another man’s child. He talked to me nicely, doing his best to get me to agree with him. I was pressing my phone, looking for a way to record him.

When the recording started, I grew confident enough to tell him no. He shouted, “I’m talking to you nicely. That doesn’t mean you should forget what I can do to you. I don’t want to pull my belt.” I screamed, “Pull it. Is that not what you do to me all the time? Just pull it.”

He didn’t pull his belt. There’s a Wellington boot he wore to the farm. He picked that up, held the top of the boot and started hitting me with the sole.  He asked if I would abort, and out of fear, I said, “Yes, I promise you. Take me to the hospital now. I’m ready.”

He hugged me and said, “I love you when you’re this obedient. I’ll go out and buy you the drugs. You only have to insert them, and everything will be gone in a few minutes.”

When he left, I picked a few things and left the house. My mom saw the distress on my face and asked, “You’ve done your thing again?” My dad added, “You’re not going to stay here even for a night. Go back.”

I played the recording. It didn’t end when my father stepped out. A few hours later, he called. “The police have picked him up. Come and write your statement.”

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I wrote everything from day one. My dad took over the fight. He was willing to see him behind bars for as long as the law would allow it, but the church interfered and the issue was brought home. Divorce is not part of Catholic doctrine, but no one in the church argued that I should continue with the marriage.

Lawfully, we are divorced now. I gave birth to a boy. He hasn’t sent even a pesewa, but I’m okay. Our baby will grow up, and I’ll play the recording in his ears and say, “I was pregnant with you when your dad did this.”

I’ll then leave the rest of the decision in his hands to take.

—Bridgit   

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