Pure relief when my father died ...that's how we felt

Photo: Sanja Gjenero (on www.genderacrossborders.com)

“I know it sounds horrible and wicked to say this but when my father died, we were relieved. Finally, we were free.

My father was a very wicked man. My mum, siblings and I grew up in fear of him; he was ruthless in beating my mum and us anytime we crossed him, intentionally or otherwise. At a very early age, we all became very wise and avoided him anytime he was home.

Out of us all, I must admit that my mother suffered the most for she bore the brunt of his ways and she could not exactly avoid him like the rest of us. He beat her violently every other day, making sure to scar her at the end of almost every beating session. My mother’s screams were a constant sound track in our home in those days and we would all huddle and cry as we listened helplessly to her pain.

There were some particular incidents from those days that stuck to my mind. Once, we had a party at our home and his girlfriends (more like women friends because they were matured) came around. They were bold and when my mother came out to dance, they came out to spray her money. She knew who they were so she walked away in annoyance. My father followed her, and asked her to return to the dance floor and accord his guests some respect or he would pound her in front of everyone. Shame faced, she returned while the women smirked.

I still remember the horror I felt the day he stripped my mum after a beating and pushed her out of our gate; she was stark naked. I was twelve years old and that day, I learnt what a woman’s period was because my mother was bleeding while he did this. Luckily, a minute later, a neighbor rushed out to cover my mother with a piece of cloth but it was a minute too late for other people saw her stark naked too.

The time I decided my dad was not a normal human being was when he beat my nine year old younger brother every day for about a week. Every single day that week, once he got home, he would head straight for my brother and beat him up. My brother’s offence was mustering the courage to hold on to our dad one day as he pounded away at our mum. The poor boy could not bear her cries so he rushed downstairs and held on to our dad’s leg, begging him to leave our mum alone. My dad gave him a taste of the beating medicine for about a week to teach him never to cross him again.

One time, he threw my mother off the balcony of our home – from the first floor. She was lucky to survive the fall but her jaw was wired for a few months and she got a permanent limp from that incident.

When he died, we could not even shed ‘pretend’ tears because we were so relieved he was gone from our lives for good. Some people complained that we should have exercised some caution because our happiness was a bit too obvious but we ignored them. If you were in our position, would you have shed any tear or even pretended sorrow for such a father? Be honest.”