Life and General Fiction StoriesNaija Stories

She Knows My Name

Suppression, oppression, persecution—I have seen them all. They glare at me every night, and watch my insomniac eyes wink in absolute depression. I see them in every nightmare before the dawn of each day. I feel them in my soul and the emptiness of my heart. Like MTN, I hear their voices everywhere I go, and gaze at my reflection. Maybe it’s just my imagination, they remind me of grave memories. Especially where she said, “Till death do us part.”

Speaking of death, I’ve died a thousand times, only to live to tell the tale of my lifeless existence. Any time I try to cross the line that tore us apart, I fall two feet short of six, and bury those thoughts at night. Only for me to wake up to what broke me down. Here I am totally stuck in the past, where her memories reside.

It started when my inheritance was subjected to the condition of an unbecoming marriage. Though my father’s dying wish was for me to get married few months later, I was dumbfounded and temporarily numb when I learnt of the condition laid down, to inherit what’s truly mine. And this made me give her a fair share of my name—an arranged marriage.

It was strictly a business affair with the consideration of an arranged sum of money after the expiration of six months, so we minded our businesses. I met her where four paths met, she was stranded and had nowhere to call home when I took her in. So it was fair for both parties no losses but gains… we were even against all odds.

Barely two months of living with someone I barely knew, I developed cold symptoms, and grew cold to the point of making the atmosphere hot for her. Though she was kind-hearted and adhered to my instructions of home distancing and private life, the fact that I knew nothing about her made me feel unsafe. I didn’t know who she was, who her parents were, why no one has contacted her till date, why she had no friends and other related questions. But I decided to keep quiet and feel less concerned. It was a contact marriage after all… for six months.

But nature has its way of getting back to us. That night after hanging out with my friends, I got home drunk. Prior to this day, the fact that I was sexually starving was a prayer point. At this point, what I had in my subconscious mind began to manifest. I met her warm welcome with a jaw-breaking embrace, and squeezed her tender body against her wish, till I had my way with her, and parted those legs of hers, forcing her consent.

I hurriedly left home the second day to save my face from the show of shame waiting for me. On other hand my mind thought she was too mature to harbour ill thoughts. But I had to finish what I started—taking responsibility. On getting home, the atmosphere was unusually calm, but as I took a step forward, the tear stained brown paper on the table caught my attention , and the rest… is the history I’m trying to rewrite.

Dear Alex,

The day you saw me at the motor park wandering like a lost soul without a guardian angel, I ran away from home and followed no man’s path.

I’ve always been a victim, a victim of my step father’s despicable acts. At nine I’d seen what my mom hasn’t seen, and did the styles she hasn’t done… like pinning me to the edge of the bed, and tearing my little pant apart. He threatened to kill mom if I let the cat out of his bag of dirty secrets. I didn’t want to mutiply mom’s trauma, the scars my own father left when he sent us packing in the middle of the night, was enough to make her miserable. So I play dumb to what I felt.

But I killed him anyways, or maybe I didn’t. I patiently waited for him to creep like he has always done, before I shared my deep wound with him, and stabbed him. I’d waited for fifteen years, and I finally did. I ran away from home, I ran away from my problems… only for you to add salt to my healed scars.

I’d always felt a part of him (my stepfather) in me… maybe his semen. I lived with them till the last minute. When you went through me, what I saw was his image jerking at me. Maybe I shouldn’t have killed him, all men are the same.

Remember the vow we faked the day we married: “Till death do us part.” I have done my…

The last paragraph… the paper fell off my trembling hands, and my legs were too heavy to move an inch. I ran as fast I could to her room, but it was to late. Her body was swinging like a pendulum… and I did was to shout

“Esther!”

Why not share?
Tags

Related Articles

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

Back to top button
error: Content is protected !!
Close
Close