The room was modest yet meticulously arranged, an intimate setting with just the essentials: a dining table set with care, plates and utensils neatly placed in quiet anticipation. A soft, dim glow filtered through the space, casting elongated shadows over the orderly scene. Mrs. Igwe moved through the room with practiced caution, dressed in a plain white shirt and a traditional wrapper, her steps measured and almost reverent. The faint bruises on her arms and small stitches on her face hinted at a recent ordeal, yet her demeanor remained calm, almost serene. She paused to clean her hands on her wrapper, gazing at the table with a soft smile of satisfaction.
"Let me finish before he returns…" she murmured to herself, her voice gentle, almost as if reassuring her own heart. "It's 10:30 now, so he'll be back in about twenty minutes." Her gaze lingered on the table, a small moment of peace and pride in her work.
A sudden "ding" from the doorbell sliced through the quiet, startling her. She flinched, frozen for a brief, suspended moment, her calm shattered.
"Oh, he's back…" she whispered, fear flickering in her eyes.
Hurriedly, she slipped into the kitchen, retrieving a pair of bathroom slippers, and approached the door with trembling caution, opening it as if bracing for an impact.
Mr. Igwe entered with a sneer, his tone cold and edged with impatience. "Well, you took your time, didn't you? Did you plan on waiting until the world ends before answering?"
Mrs. Igwe immediately knelt, a reflexive response, her voice trembling. "Forgive me, sir. I was only—"
"Quiet!" His hand raised as if to strike her, his voice sharp and cutting. "Enough of your foolish excuses. Just look at yourself—a pitiful sight! Other women make their husbands proud, while you're here, dressed like a beggar. Move aside before I lose patience with you."
He pushed past her, kicking his mud-stained shoes in her direction. Silently, Mrs. Igwe gathered the shoes, clutching them as she retreated to the kitchen, her dignity diminishing with each step.
Mr. Igwe took his seat at the table, rinsed his hands, and lifted the plate cover with a swift, irritated motion. He bellowed, "Nkechi! Come here, you disaster of a woman!"
She hurried out of the kitchen, kneeling before him, visibly shaken. "Yes, sir? Is… is there an issue?"
A stinging slap landed on her cheek, the sound echoing in the room. He sneered, pointing to the plate of jollof rice and meat. "Are you truly that foolish? What is this? Did I ask for this?"
Her voice was barely a whisper, tearful and quivering. "Sir, you told me this morning to prepare jollof rice for your return."
He laughed bitterly, standing over her. "Jollof rice? Do I look like some foreigner to you? After a day's hard labor, breaking my back at that construction site, you dare serve me this? How dare you assume I'd want this after I've done everything to put food on this table for you, of all people?"
"I'm deeply sorry, sir. I misjudged. I won't make the same mistake again," she replied, her voice barely holding together as she knelt in submission.
"Of course it's a mistake—when one is as uneducated as you are, what else can one expect? You're nothing but an ingrate, jealous of my success. If I weren't famished, you'd be getting the punishment you deserve."
She bowed her head in silent acceptance, retrieving his slippers and setting them before him. He placed his feet in them with a deliberate, cruel step on her hand before resuming his meal. Silently, she retreated into the kitchen, her eyes lowered, the remnants of her pride crushed beneath the weight of his contempt.
Later that night, the room lay quiet and dark. Mr. Igwe had retired to the bedroom, leaving the house wrapped in a stifling silence. Mrs. Igwe moved into the dimly lit living room, careful not to wake him. She knelt in the darkness, pressing her hands to her face as her body shook with silent sobs.
"What have I done, Lord, but love him?" Her voice broke as she spoke, a whisper into the void. "Six years of courtship, four years of marriage, and now—barren, because of this man…" She paused, gathering herself, looking up with desperate eyes. "I have borne so much suffering, endured so much, yet he scorns me… He mocks my education, when I left it to support his, working tirelessly with my own hands. I gave everything I had, blinded by love, to see him succeed."
Her sobs shook her slight frame as she struggled to keep her composure. "He promised to make me the happiest woman alive. But it was all a lie. Only after we married did he reveal his true self. He demanded I leave my work, so I'd not be 'taken' by another man, as if I were a possession to be hoarded."
The words spilled from her, raw and unguarded, years of suppressed anguish coming to the surface. "The first two years were merely control, commands to obey him. Then came the blows. My parents said, 'Give it time; he will change.' But each day brought only more pain, more shame."
Her breathing grew heavy, her body trembling with grief. "I couldn't even tell his father—he was just the same, cruel to his wife until she… took her own life. He told me this when we were young… and swore he would be different. That he would be nothing like his father."
She intertwined her fingers in a desperate plea, her gaze fixed upward. "God, if You see me, hear me, send help, I beg of You."
Her hands fell to her lap, and the lights seemed to dim further, leaving her enveloped in darkness, her silent prayer lingering, unanswered, in the thick air around her.