“It Is All For Her That I Stay Around,” I Preach to Myself.

I am in love, I thought…once.

Picture perfect family, beautiful children who light up my face every morning.

Tall, dark and handsome man with the right genes by my side, I thought. I have it all;

just like how my mama narrated my future would be like. In my bubble… living it up, taking all the love and shoes and clothes and that ring!



Until came the slap.

Dumbfounded; I can’t believe the one I call my love and praise all day long just put his hands on me.

I trust you never to do this. News I thought. Maybe it is the extra finger of whiskey this time; I will let it slide and put my smile back on.

My mind goes on and on…

“What happened last night?”

“Was I wrong to give my opinion?”

Later… I couldn’t keep it to myself…

I have to ask this man what came over him!

To my surprise, yet another pound meets my eye.


I can’t cry, my little girl looks up to me as the stronghold of the family since daddy is always away.

More foundation this morning…maybe let my hair down to hide the scar at the side.

The disbelief is taunting me… I can’t sleep… I can’t touch him anymore.

What if he picks up the whiskey bottle this time?

He is right next to me…breathing…snoring…sleeping like he has no guilt conscience.

I stay strong, thinking of my little girl; she can’t grow without me by her side.

So I close my eyes, painful as they are from all the crying and bruising; justification for hope for my daughter.

He does it again, becomes a daily trend…but still I keep it to myself, consolation as my daughter’s future.

I am scared of my house. I am scared for my life, who will I talk to? Who will believe my story? My wardrobe changes, I wear more hats and longer skirts, darker shades of sunglasses and blouses, lower stilettos because my feet hurt from the fall down the stairs.

In my head thinking my smile is my leverage from judgment at the table out with my girls.



We laugh all night; but I have to be the party popper and leave early so that he can find me in the house, dinner ready, hot and served; typical master.

I stare at him over his laptop… he doesn’t seem to notice I am looking at him.

Questions fill my head. Why? How did we get here and I did not see it coming? What could have gone wrong in this fairytale? Maybe if I was more careful of what I say and how I say it… Just maybe he will be considerate? He may remember our moments and calm down for once… Random thoughts of constant betrayal and the pain…on my back, my face, my heart.

Where will I get the courage to speak up? Share my pain as if it would make the fist less real.

I cannot share this with my daughter; she is too perfect.

Not my sister; she is happy with her dream white old man with the range rover collection.

Not my mother; she taught me better than to cry over a slap. Betrayal, distrust, anger, pain, guilt, hates.




Where does recovery start? How can I learn to love a man all over again even if am saved from the claws of abuse.

Constant mental torture, deteriorating health, heart break! Tall, dark, hot madness of a human being becomes a past tense.

Numbing my heart from all sorts of sentiments and attachments.

Destroy any masculine desire I have left in the last strand of my nerve.

I look into my daughter’s eyes and see the love she has for her father; the man who has stripped me off my dignity and shame.

What kind of a monster will I be to take that away from her; the innocence in her eyes; unknown to what happens behind the bedroom door after her bedtime story.

It is all for her that I stay around; I preach to myself.

That she may learn to love and see what is best for her; never to find herself in the arms of another man in justification to looking for a man’s love.



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