For 15 years, Roseline Wavinya* lived in constant fear of attack in the one place she should have felt safest – her own home. Her agony was perpetuated by the man who professed his undying love for her: her husband.
While there was always that option to walk out, for Roseline, this was never an easy route to take. Roseline, an information technology expert who lives in Mombasa, narrates why it took her 15 years to leave her abusive marriage.
“I first met my ex-husband, Jackson, in 1995 during a family ceremony at my uncle’s place in Nairobi. At first sight, Jackson was kind and good to be around with. He came from a strict, disciplined and religious family. He was also very good looking.
However, I initially hesitated to date him. I wanted to know what lay beneath his charm and good looks, and so I played hard to get. I found out that he hardly dated. In spite of this, he was persistent and patiently pursued me for 10 months.
Eventually, on October 6, 1995, I said yes. All through our courtship, he treated me with dignity and I knew I’d hit the jackpot. He did not cheat on me. However, I noticed that he didn’t seem too moved when someone got rough with me in a bus or restaurant.
All though he never talked about having an abusive childhood, I later found out that he had been brought up by a sister who frequently abused her husband and who had threatened to cut his genitals. Jackson was often the victim of her abuse.
But I told myself that if really I did love him, then I would have to accommodate all his imperfections – after all, no one is perfect.
One Friday evening in 1996, he took me out for dinner at a restaurant along Moi Avenue. I was pregnant with our first born daughter, and still remember him getting down on one knee with a dazzling ring in a pink box. The restaurant went silent.
How could I say no? I loved him and was ready to be his wife – and he had accepted my pregnancy without question, which I had been afraid he would deny. I said yes and the restaurant burst into claps. We got married that August.
Our marriage was blissful at first. As time went by, he began to suggest clothes for me to wear, and to ask me to change friends saying that they were having a negative influence on me. Then towards the end of 1996, all hell broke loose.
Battered and shocked
We had just relocated to Mombasa after my husband’s brother, who was a Permanent Secretary in government, got him a job transfer. On that Sunday night, I was in the bedroom ironing.
I accidentally burned the collar of his coat. An argument ensued as he accused me of being a careless wife. In the heat of the moment, we exchanged words and I guess I must have said something that didn’t sit well with him.
Before I knew it, he was yelling at me. Then he punched me in the face. I went mentally numb for a moment, thinking this was all a bad nightmare from which I would soon wake up. But no! It was not a nightmare.
Jackson violently flung me onto the bed, wild with rage. I remember being thrown against the wall, holding my hands up over my head in a desperate effort to stop the blows. Then he held the hot iron box towards me, threatening to burn me with it.
I remember how he kept shouting that he was the man of the house and I would have to toe the line and work like a proper village woman, and never answer back. Eventually he calmed down, thankfully without burning me.
This was just the beginning. The beatings became a regular occurrence even after the birth of our first born daughter. I never had my way whenever we argued.
His opinions and decisions always carried the day, and if they didn’t, then he forced them to – with punches. It began to hit me that maybe he was not the knight in shining armour I thought he was.
The beatings also assumed a pattern: Jackson would get unreasonably angry, pounce on me with kicks and blows, then calm down, apologise intensely and be really sweet to me.
He would make up for it by bringing home some flowers or taking me out for dinner. In every instance of abuse, though, he would yell that I was an imbecile and that I needed to be disciplined like a child. Such words hurt, but what hurt even more was the way he beat me up in front of our daughter. It never bothered him.
All along, I kept my suffering to myself, afraid that I would come out as a woman who couldn’t take care of her own home. We went ahead and had three more children in 1997, 1998 and 2001, as well as adopting a deceased cousin’s child. Some of my close friends suspected that something was wrong.
Once, when I had a swollen eye, one of our close family friends asked if I’d been beaten up. I denied it and said that everything was okay, it was just a bee sting.
Then she hinted that it was better for women in abusive marriages to walk out rather than stay. I casually agreed. However, Jackson’s close friend knew about the abuse. He confronted him but my hubby accused him of having sinister interests towards me.
Apparently, he wanted to have an affair with me. The more I kept quiet, the more things escalated. They became too rocky and I began to think that soon, the beatings would kill me.
I could no longer hide my misery. I confided in his parents about Jackson’s violent behaviour but shockingly, his mother did not believe me.
She said that her son was a well-disciplined and respected man in the civil society who would never harm a fly. Apparently, I must have either greatly provoked him, or he did not hit me like I said he did.
I left my husband several times and rented single rooms in Mombasa, but I would always go back to him. I wanted my children to grow up with a father. I wanted to make my marriage work.
I suppose I also could not handle the shame of failure. If I just held on for some time, I thought, maybe things would take a turn for the better. This cycle went on for about nine years until 2004 when I decided to walk out.
I relocated to Nairobi, secured a job and began my life afresh, something that my husband could not accept. For eight months, he sent one delegation after another in an attempt to woo me back.
Then gradually, my resolution to quit for good began to melt. I thought he had changed. I thought that perhaps there hope that we could still save our marriage, that the beatings would cease, and we would once again be as happy as we were back in our courtship days.
I missed him, in a way, and longed to be in his arms. After eight months, I decided to go back and give it another try.
From 2005, he treated me well even though I’d lost my job. My diminished pride in marriage began to rise again. However, there were always signs that the ugly monster was trying to rear its head again, especially when he became too angry and came close to hitting me or denied me money in order to punish me.
He had always been stingy, and we started getting into fights whenever he found out that I’d used his money to assist my relatives, or given out some of the household items we no longer used.
These signs bubbled underneath our marriage until the beginning of 2010 when the beatings began. This time, he installed CCTV cameras to make sure that I never left. I began to think that he was suffering from a psychiatric problem.
I thought I could help him. If he had stopped for five years, then he could certainly quit beating me up for good. In 2011, I confronted him and asked if he would be willing to see a psychiatrist. Shockingly, he got violent once again.
He set on me with kicks and blows, then grabbed a metal rod and hit me in the back. I sustained an injured spine. My chin was dislocated and my face looked like pulp.
Our neighbours heard the commotion and rushed me to the police station where we recorded a statement and took a P3 form for treatment. I knew, that day, that my marriage had hit rock bottom. I could not take it anymore. This was the final proof that the abuse would kill me.
After leaving the hospital, I left with my five children. I remember wondering how I would cope as I packed my bags. I didn’t have a job; would I be able to maintain my children alone? How would they cope without a father?
But my father, who lives in Mombasa, took me and my children in for three months, during which time I searched for a job and rented a house.
I do not have much to go by or provide my kids with the luxuries they were used to. I have also not held my current IT job for long, but I am not looking back. Currently, our divorce case is on-going at the High Court in Mombasa.
Having left my marriage, I have found that I don’t always do the right thing. At times, I make the wrong decisions. Sometimes I feel lonely, tired, and in need of spousal company and help. I speak to a counselor who helps me deal with my issues.
But I know that I made the right decision and that I am on the right path. Soon, I will be fully on my feet again. It may not be easy to rebuild my broken self-esteem again.
I may not have very good feelings towards men or love right now. Sometimes I wonder if I have healed at all. But I know that I’m not alone in this walk. There are many more women who are in deeply abusive marriages and relationships.
If you’re like me, do not be afraid. Let someone know what is going on – a trusted friend, a family member, or even better, a professional counselor. For me, walking away has been for the better.
I may not say the same for you but the most important thing is to be safe, because battering could be the source of your death. No woman deserves to be beaten, worst by the same person who claims to love her.
Once you spot any red flags, no matter how small, walk away without looking back. If I’d done so in 1996, I would not be where I am today. I kept quiet and people thought I’d changed due to my hubby’s wealth, not knowing of the pain I was enduring. Please, my sister, learn from my story.”
*Names has been changed to protect identity.
