Two Weeks Later
The light filtering through the curtains did little to soften the reality inside the Igwe household. Mr. Igwe sat in his wheelchair, a hollow shell of the man he once was. Tears streaked down his face, glistening in the light, and he sobbed quietly as he tried to find comfort in the empty space around him. Two weeks had passed since the accident, two weeks filled with silence punctuated only by the echoes of pain and sorrow that enveloped their lives.
From the kitchen, the sounds of pots clattering filled the air, a discordant symphony that added to the tension simmering beneath the surface. Mrs. Igwe entered, her movements deliberate, carrying a plate of steaming soup. The aroma wafted through the air, a stark contrast to the bitterness that hung over them.
"Please, my love… have mercy on me. I'm hungry," Mr. Igwe pleaded, his voice trembling with desperation.
A bitter laugh escaped Mrs. Igwe's lips, the sound sharp and mocking. "So you can beg now? Ehn, Ugo? Where's that mouth you ran when you still had your legs and hands? Where is it now?"
His eyes widened in shock, the weight of her words hitting him like a physical blow. "Chai. Nkechi, biko. It was the devil's work. Please, have mercy on me."
"Shut up!" she snapped, fury igniting in her chest. "Have mercy on you?! You ingratiate! Nothing I did ever satisfied you! I sacrificed so much for you, just so you could succeed. And the only joy I had, you took it away from me!" She dropped the plate on the side table, the soup spilling over the edge, a metaphor for the life they once shared that now lay in ruins. "Ugochukwu, you are a wicked man!"
His sobs deepened, raw and desperate. "Please forgive me. Nkem, biko. I've learned my lesson. Look at me, so helpless. Biko, forgive me."
With a sharp motion, she slapped him hard, her hand stinging from the impact. "Forgive you? You devil! Every day in this house was hell! Did I commit a grave sin by marrying you? What did I ever do to deserve this? Look at me, Ugo! I'm a barren woman now! I can't have children, even if I get married again! Ugo!!! You have made me a shell of what I was. I am broken and damaged!" Her voice cracked, the pain pouring out like a torrent, fueled by the memories of all the times she had reached out for help, only to find none. "Even my own mother abandoned me when I sought help! Because of you, Ugo! I endured the blows, the verbal and emotional abuse—all because I loved you and was too scared to leave. I didn't want to be mocked!"
"I'm not perfect, that's why I am—" he started to say, but she cut him off.
"Not perfect?! What does perfection have to do with this?" she spat. "That's the excuse you men give when you've wronged women! What does it have to do with the insults? What does it have to do with the beatings? What does it have to do with making me feel worthless? What does it have to do with making me lose my womb?! This is the same rubbish women hear over and over, hoping things will change!"
"Ewoo… Nkechi, please. I'm so sorry. The God who took your womb also took my legs and hands. Please, forgive me," he whimpered, tears streaming down his face as he looked at her, vulnerable and broken.
She chuckled bitterly, a sound that echoed in the quiet of the room. "You are raving MAD! Ugo, you are mad! Who's fault was it? Who made us get into an accident because he couldn't control his anger? You were even attempting to hit me before the accident! Ugo, shame on you! Look at my life—I have nothing to live for! I look older than my age!" She gestured to the scars on her body, remnants of his rage. "Look at all the injuries I sustained! Do you remember when you broke a bottle on my head? I had to treat myself for two weeks, Ugo! I was in pain! You isolated me from my friends, thinking they would mislead me. Ugo, where did I go wrong?"
He wept, his body trembling as he realized the depth of her suffering. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I witnessed what my father did to my mother while growing up. He told me that's how to train a woman. My mother never corrected that mentality. Please, I'm begging you, Nkechi, forgive me."
A heavy sigh escaped her lips, and she stared at him, a storm of emotions swirling within her. Without a word, she walked to the side table, grabbed the plate, and approached him with sudden determination. With a brutal force, she forced his mouth open and poured the hot soup into it.
"Jesus! My throat!" he screamed, the pain igniting a fire in his chest.
"It'll only burn for a minute," she said, her voice eerily calm. "Since you took a life from me, you'll pay for it with yours."
As he began to choke, blood seeped from his mouth, his chest heaving violently. His eyes widened in terror, and he gasped for his last breath, the weight of his actions crashing down around him like a tidal wave.
"I can't live in this prison of a marriage anymore," she sobbed, her voice breaking as the tears flowed freely. "I've endured so much. I am tired!"
She rushed into the kitchen, returning with a knife, her hands trembling as she gripped the handle. "I am tired. I have suffered enough."
Picking up Mr. Igwe's phone from the table, she dialed her mother's number. As the line connected, her heart raced with a mix of dread and relief.
"Ugochukwu is no more. I killed him," she cried into the phone, the words spilling out like a confession. "By the time you get here, I'll be dead too. I've endured too much, Mama. Every night I hear the cry of a child. I've blacked out more times than I can count these past two weeks. The pain is unbearable. I've failed as a mother. I'm tired, Mama." She paused, her breath hitching in her throat. "I will never forgive you. You were my last hope for help, and you didn't take my side! Because of your selfishness, you didn't want society to mock you. I want to rest, Mama. I've tried."
With that, she ended the call, her heart heavy with despair. She looked one last time at her husband, the man who had brought her so much pain, and placed the knife against her wrist.
With a deep cut, blood gushed out like a stream, and she collapsed to the floor, the darkness closing in around her.
Moments later, the stage darkened, and a frantic pounding echoed through the house. Mama banged on the door, her heart racing. She turned the knob, burst in, and rushed to her daughter's lifeless body.
"Nkechi, biko, open your eyes, nwa m! Please! What have I done? Nkechi, biko! I have failed as a mother!" Her cries filled the room, a haunting echo of despair.
The sound of Mama's wails lingered in the silence, a chilling reminder of the suffering that had unfolded within those four walls.