Celebrating a new life at 30


Date: January 1, 1970
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I had just finished boarding school and joined my parents in their home while I explored opportunities for college. I started working part-time and began to develop friendships with other girls my age and in similar circumstances.

Newly widowed, my friend’s father seemed a pleasant man who took a great interest in me. He was kind and loving – just like a real father.
 
Before I knew it, I was in a relationship with him. My parents were livid, my best friend was no longer speaking to me and I was pregnant.
 
I think I could have weathered my parents’ hostility and my friends anger if my new partner was supportive. I found out too late that he was a monster.
 
Food was a major issue in our household. I was not working so did not have money. Yet, I was expected to find food for him and his three children who all had jobs. My partner would sometimes buy old and wilted vegetables from roadside vendors and would throw them at me expecting a proper meal.
 
First it was only him that beat me when there was no food. Then, even his children who were about my own age, began to physically fight with me and abuse me verbally if the food was not to their liking or if it too little. They threw food in my face saying their mother cooked better or would just empty food into the dustbin.
 
My partner never defended me, saying it was something I had to sort out myself, as he could not take sides against his children.
 
He stayed out late at night and expected me to wait up for him. Sometimes he would get violent and chase me out of the house. He never allowed me to take my son, so I always went back.
 
I have a big family and could have gone to them for help, but I was embarrassed. My partner was their friend and older than them. They warned me about going out with an older man with big children. Many times, they told me that all he wanted from me was sex. I had refused to listen to them. I could not go back to them now and tell them they were right.
 
There were some good days, like when his children where not there and it was just the three of us. Or when he had some money and I could do grocery shopping. However, these became fewer and fewer.
 
In addition, the violence in the home was beginning to affect my son. He began to stammer and was frightened of all his half siblings because they were always attacking me.
 
My home looked like a bomb shelter. The doors were full of holes where the children or their father were trying to break down the door to beat me up. We had no television because that too had been broken in some of our fights. I lived in fear of all them.
 
I took refuge in religion. I began attending church regularly and found some peace there. But I never got close to anyone in the congregation because it would have meant visits to my home and I did not want people to visit me and see the conditions under which I lived.
 
My parents knew of my situation, as many times I ran to them, but they could not afford to look after me and my son. I still had to go back to my partner for money for my son’s food and other things.
 
The last straw for me was when I contracted tuberculosis and discovered I was HIV positive. Because I knew I had never had sex with any other person other than my partner, and the fact that his wife had died of a mysterious illness, I was quite sure where I contracted it from.
 
I told my partner who immediately went into denial and accused me of being unfaithful. He beat me up and chased me from his home. This time when I left, I took my son with me and went to one of my relatives and begged for a room to stay. I also ate humble pie and begged one of them to give me a job.
 
I had settled down in a small room and a job as a sales clerk when my partner began to woo me again. Like a fool, I fell for it especially as he seemed genuinely sorry and was really missing his son.
 
It was not long after that I had moved back that my former friend attacked me in front of her father. I beat her so bad that her father began to beat me and for the first time I fought back rather than cowered. I matched him fist punch for fist punch, I kicked, I bit and grabbed his private parts.
 
I knew there was something different about my strength. I knew it was because I had tasted independence. I knew that I did not have to take this, that I could walk out of that house and not be destitute.
 
I left and have not looked back since then. Yes I get broke and am tempted to ask him for money for my son. Yes I recall the good times and wish them back, but all it takes is to see my son’s fluent speech, thriving and secure and I know I can never go to that place of isolation, humiliation and hurt ever again.
 
My parents do not say it but I know they are proud of the way I am struggling on my own. I am also amazed that I am able to take care of myself on my own. I did not think I would. As I celebrate my 30th birthday this year, I am throwing a huge bash because not only I am a year older but I am also celebrating my new life.
 
* Not her real name.
 
(This story is part of the I Stories series produced by the Gender Links Opinion and Commentary Service for the Sixteen Days of Activism on Gender Violence). 
 
 


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