Domestic Death Trap

Slapped once, reassured of his love.

She stayed.

He broke her ribs twice. “I fell down the stairs” she said.

For him she always lied.

Pushed so hard against the door, the wood cracked. He begged for forgiveness.

She stayed.

Who told her of her worth, that she needed to leave to live?

Her true friends tried.

“His unfounded jealousy, blind rage were due to stress” she said.

Her excuses for him, dismayed.

The police found her dead body in a forest, battered and bruised. With no evidence nor history of violence, he was free.

So another victim he tried, while in a grave his wife laid.

©22-03-2018 DENyamekye

Freedom from Abuse: The Caged Bird’s Escape

70717F50-B087-4F31-B613-965700338E85Introduction
After watching CEO and inspirational speaker and best selling author Lisa Nichol’s inspiring video (check it out on the Gold cast Facebook page or You Tube) of a life transformed after suffering domestic abuse by her fiancé, I felt inspired to engage in some scribal indulgence telling a story of redemption but from a view point that considers the abuser’s mindset and triggers, not as a means of justification but shedding some light on some of the “hidden demons” in play in such situations.

The Caged Bird’s Escape:

Desired with his enticing eyes, colourful words and decorated with roses and alluring scents she felt on top, the executive of his heart, the CEO of his life.

In one night her dreams had come true; from reams of beauties she was chosen by one of the Hedge-Fund crew.

To him she was just meat, one of many slaughtered for devouring, bought in a club in one of many spending sprees he called sport.

A business man, bonus acquiring sharp talker in the square mile by day and by night a gigolo, a Casanova in clubs he called “cattle markets” bidding with his eyes for the best cow.. he laughs “that’s the woman- A COW!”

Flashes of his mother often appeared before his eyes, waving to him, a 6 year old “mummy is going to the shop, I will return” She never did.. “liars all of them”!

Sly as a fox, an expert in his game, he waited until the image of her was locked in him, he, a mirror that defined her significance. Now he had god-like relevance, the Fowler’s cage was her home.

One day was as living in a romantic play pen; his voice soft and soothing and to love songs they were waltzing.

Another was life in a torture chamber under a man-child’s bitter verbal whip and slaps with hate-filled vomit until she suffocated in fear and self hate. Every morning she braced herself for what was amiss, the ready for work psycho’s bullets of abuse and punches in her abdomen with a goodbye kiss.

A cycle of confused voices reeled in the cage “I love you”, “I love you not” as the battered bird wailed without a sound. In his “you are to blame! blame! blame! she felt grief and shame! shame! shame!

A rude awakening was the uncontrollable pain in her abdomen. The day of reckoning had come for from the abyss of farce living she heard the voices of many women thundering “call the ambulance or die!” The freedom fighter from deep within joined in, beckoning.

“How are you today, my dear?”
Startled, she opened her eyes and saw a face beaming at her “I am Claire”
“Claire?”
“Yes, I am your nurse, you called the ambulance, they broke in ‘cause you fainted after the call. Julie, your internal wounds and bleeding were serious. Thank God you came on time! You will be fine”

Julie shut her eyes. Smiling the risen woman within spoke:
“Yes thank God!
To a “A just in time” God: thank you!
I was that woman destined for a bright future based on scripture, even the prophetic word, then I lost my way and met a trickster and by him I became nothing but a caged bird in a home any woman would dread.

I was able to walk away, escape from the snare of the Fowler, but for him in compassion I daily kneel to pray and for caged birds unlike me who for reasons choose to stay, I shall sing a song of deliverance, that one day sunshine shall overtake the dark clouds of their circumstance.

”Our soul is escaped as a bird out of the snare of the fowlers: the snare is broken, and we are escaped.
Our help is in the name of the LORD, who made heaven and earth.”
(Psalm 124:7-8)

Song – My Soul Escaped by Windsor Dutton You Tube https://youtu.be/5TNUtN9a3vo

©11/11/2017 Deborah E Nyamekye

Feminal Dirge: RIP

The female infant

once full of life

muted by fear

rants and strife.

R.I.P

The young girl

used and abused

her destiny refused.

R.I.P

The woman, beaten

dreams tossed in a bin

now prematurely in a coffin.

R.I.P

©Jan2018-DENyamekye

Discourse:

Not every female child, young girl or woman has it good. In fact at every stage of some of their lives, they suffer abuse or assault.

This poetic dirge entitled “Feminal Dirge: RIP” above was inspired after I read an article (the guardian.com 11th January 2018) about a Pakistani TV News Anchor Kiran Naz who read the news with her infant child on her lap, she was paying tribute that day to the 7 year old child, Zainab who was found raped and murdered. Her body was found in a rubbish bin.

Justice for the young girl!

Zainab was not from a notably poor background and it is clear that this can happen to any child anywhere and does, we read about such tragedies in different parts of the world constantly.

Likewise teenagers and woman have suffered rape, sexual assault and other forms of abuse (physical and emotional). At times they have been murdered in the process. The news about all manner of assault and violence against the female has reached great lamentable proportions.

Justice and protection for the female!

This Dirge has three stages of a female’s life, infant/child, young girl and woman each marked with conflict and suffering.

To make a point, I intentionally placed RIP between each paragraph dividing the different stages of child hood, young girl and womanhood. What point? Each paragraph can be a stand-alone dirge as multitudes of infants/children, young girls and women have

-RIP tombstones erected due to premature deaths for such reasons

-If not physical death, a spiritual dead state ensues due to abuse or assault.

Who cares, who is listening?

Will you be a voice among a stream of voices to make it an ocean for this injustice to the female to stop. Will you be a prayer vessel among multitudes who bow their knees to pray? Let’s do our part if we can however we can. 

Sally’s Story: “Happy Family Life” Chains Broken!

Home alone we were, when he chased me around the house as I plead and run for my life.

“Come here, you are my price money” He said waving a knife.

I understood not, but only stopped when he said my little sis would be his new wife in the game of “happy family life”.

I begged for mercy.. I was his slave ..but no, not her! I will be his …erm price money..for the rest of my life! but no, not her! “Here I am!” I cried .

Deranged he was, but what could I do? I was afraid for my sister and my dear life. “Darling” mama called her husband. He was “Daddy” to us, his stepchildren, fearful of him as ones buried in quick sand.

Always flashy…with many rings and clad in chap elegance …butter couldn’t melt in that mouth with teeth covered in gold plaited bling.

Mama dragged us from pillar to post; yeh a Mr Pillar fathered one or more of us, then on we went to Mr Post… Home alone..daddy directed the play of “happy family life”, he was hubby and erm..I, Sally played his wife.

Three years, I stood by the detached escapee, a wretch, watching the bound persona of me ..aged ten, eleven and then twelve sitting pretty on daddy hubby’s lap traversing shallow waters in mama’s make up and cloths to flirty, kissy and full blown wifey depths …chained… drowned. Inner screams, loud. Innocence, shuttered.

Loud noises, banging at the door and in flooded the police, grabbing mama…”quick, quick, get him!” my mind plead as some chased daddy hubby out the window, the mad hatter on the run.

Eyes skirted over six siblings, I was taken, left me thinking “why, I did nothing wrong. They must be mistaken.”

Mama went to prison with her hubby among a peado ring ‘cause she was his accomplice. Her children and even the police wept for it was the saddest thing.

I was price money to mama’s hubby for giving us a roof in the hood and relieving her of spinsterhood.

The nightmare of Kichamare was far from over. In the children’s home, horror scenes with daddy hubby, traumatised.

Internal voices of accusation, amplified. Denigration and shame within, fortified. Fear of parents’ return from prison, terrified. Where can I, Sally escape? Nothing left but suicide! The doctor smiled. “Sally you are so lucky. You have a great life ahead of you!”.

My heart sunk “What life? I want death! not healing in a hospital!” I felt hopeless and fearful. My counsellor sat reading, she looked up and said “You tried to take your life. Slit your wrists, but I came just in time”

A book was open, on her lap. Dora what are you reading?” I asked. “It is the Bible”, she replied. “It is the Bible” the words like a light bulb shone that day, inextinguishable! Dora said this and more “I can give you the best counselling I have to offer, but without Jesus Christ as your personal saviour your healing will never be complete and the effects of the nightmare of Kichamare will always lurk beneath the surface, arising to cause havoc as a bombastic fleet. “It is the Bible” words that resonant to this day, powerful!

I stand here twenty years on giving thanks and praise to Christ Jesus, my Wonderful Counsellor, Mighty God, Prince of Peace and Matchless Healer. By him, I found hope to arise from ashes of hatred to receive and impart God’s love unhindered.

Christ in me the hope of glory and in him I live, more and have my being. With the abused girl child, I stand and for her my voice daily resounds.
©️Oct2018DENyamekye

NOTE:

If you are affected by this article, require prayer, encouragement or just sometime to listen to you and information about professional counselling and therapy please contact me by email:

thewitnessinstitute@gmail.com

📝 Please donate or support NAPAC : Their “vision is of a society in which every adult survivor of childhood abuse in the UK can access the support they need, when they need it.” https://napac.org.uk/about/