NdukuOutLoud

It is hard to believe she once felt safe in his arms. That the same hands now throwing punches once held her when she cried. That hands still soft- strange for a man who has done so much hard work- are capable of splitting her skin, loosening a tooth, even stealing sight from one eye.

How did we get here? She wonders, trying to get her mind anywhere but there, at least until it’s over. She knows now that if she doesn’t fight back, it ends faster. If she doesn’t scream for help, he either decides he’s achieved what he set out to do- or maybe he just grows tired of hitting something that won’t resist.

So she waits. Shields her eyes. Ducks when the blow aims for her nose. Quietly steals glances at Amara-silent apologies that her daughter has to watch her father do this to her mother. Silent prayers that Amara won’t grow up thinking this is normal. And a fragile hope that maybe she can still save her from this kind of life.

He always showers before bed. As if trying to wash off the guilt. Or maybe it’s just another routine-like the fights. Can he even call them fights if she doesn’t fight back? Why doesn’t she anymore? he wonders, rag across his back. She used to resist, call him names, cry, apologize. But not anymore. No screaming. Has she finally learned her lesson? Should he forgive her now? Can he forgive her? Can they ever move past it? And what about Amara?

It has become the norm: after the incidents, Amara sleeps beside her mother while her father retreats to their bedroom. Her mother still tries to read to her, even after the blows. She cleans up in the bathroom, steadies her voice, and reads without cracking. Holds Amara like she is the only thing keeping her upright. And Amara clings back with all the strength her little arms can muster. She chooses the story, listens intently to her mother’s beautiful voice as it speaks of happily-ever- afters and handsome princes.

And her mother wonders if she still hopes for one herself. If somewhere deep inside, she still believes in a happily-ever- after – for her daughter, if not for herself.

…. we started here…