The Cry Of A Woman

Phillip Ibsen
THE CRY OF A WOMAN"

Half past midnight; in the living room I sit painting my nails; on the
television I tune to Al Jazeera, watching "The Boy Who Started The Syrian
War". Trying to ween away time; hoping that minutes from now I'll hear you
turn off the car engine in the parking lot; hoping that I'll hear your
heavy boots on the doorstep.

The night is silent; cold, lonely and deserted; indistinct barks of caged
dogs gives in to the rhythm of the wind. They always get louder when You're
nearing home. But times like this you never come home. Times like this
sleep often grow weary in my eyes; each time pulling my lids. Till I wake
up in the morning on the couch; television still on. I stare at the time.
Its 0600hrs. I have to wake up the kids for school. Then check if you're in
our room. But you're never quite there. Its always an ocean of bed; and I
just a droplet. You never came home last night.

Each night I have to wait fruitlessly. Blatantly I stare at my phone;
expecting your call or just a text;

"Honey, stuck at traffic, gonna be late"

But the traffic is often a traffic jam that even your calls or texts don't
get to me. I'm afraid to call you or text you the same; for your response
will be as vague;

"Wee mwanamke... Nimekuoa ama umenioa..? Kumbafu!"

I often wander,

"hii ni ndoa aina gani?"

The times that I tend to be lucky enough to hear you come home; I always
spring from my couch; switch off the television; and race towards you; hug
you maybe, tell you I missed you, ask how your day was, loosen your tie or
take your coat off.

But before I even reach to you; the stench of your alcoholic breath often
clouts my lungs. I ignore it only to be braced by your fists; blend of
different brands of perfume from other women drips from your sweat. This
sends me puking on the couch.

It doesn't end there. It never does. Blows often follow. At this part I'm
expected to scream; to beg for mercy; to shout "help! Help! Help"; to
call unto the ghost of my dead mother for rescue. But I stay mute; I
whisper not; trying not to wake the kids, for in them I believe there's
some beauty in sleep. And daddy loves them. That's what I keep telling them.

In the morning when we wake; my face looking all bruised up; battered;
pale; blue; black; even purple. I try to curl my lips into a smile and say
"good morning love?". You stare straight into my face; looking sobered
up; for a moment I feel my wounds healed. Only for you to grab my neck and
ask, "How bad does it hurt?"

Let me grab a scalpel from the drawer; and scrape off your stomach; let me
delve into your protruding belly that defines your wealth and let your
smelly intestines fall on the carpet as I squeeze each of them in my bare
hands. Let me watch you beg for mercy as you mourn in anguish like a bitch.
Look me in thy eyes; Tell me, how bad does it hurt??

Let me send you into a chloroformic slumber; let me grab the kitchen knife
and cut off the beast between your legs that you often flaunt before other
women as if You're a stripper showcasing your talent. Like onions let me
chop it off to feed it to the hungry dogs that incessantly bark whenever
you hit me; just the same way you feed it off to the lascivious women. When
you wake without it; tell me, how bad does it hurt?

Do you know how lonely it gets; to be a single mother yet you have a
husband? To feel like a widow yet you live with a man under the same roof?
Do you know? You don't! So let me put you through a couple of hypothetical.

Let me strip you off the title of being my husband and a father to my kids.
Let me take you to court and battle with you day by day; to watch you drain
your cash on expensive lawyers. In the end I'll be granted full custody of
the kids. You'll sign the divorce papers and share your wealth.

Tell me. How bad does it hurt? To crawl back to the women; broke and a
loser; even them they don't need you anymore. To be left without a home.
Tell me, how bad does it hurt to find a man who treats me better than you
did?

Barely old, yet I watch her go through all this alone. In the morning
when we wake, my younger sister asks, "where's dad?". To her she doesn't
know any better. How can she when she's as innocent as she is. But to mom
it burns the emblem of her eyes. Carries weight as her lids sags in tears,
yet she doesn't let them loose. She plays strong even when she doesn't have
to. Just because she don't want her kids to be without their dad. Sometimes
I wander why. But I'llunderstand when I got kids of my home.


Written by

Phill Ibsen
©Heart_Art_Poetics
2017