I tried to stand up, but my whole body was weak. Tears poured nonstop as I examined the marks on my skin. I counted eight red welts from the belt. The moment I reached eight, I burst into tears again.
Earlier, Bolaji had stormed in with ropes and a belt. He grabbed me, tied my hands behind my back, sealed my mouth, and flogged me mercilessly. When he was done, he untied me and walked out, leaving me crumpled in pain.
I sat there, thinking about my life. Yes, my parents were poor, but they never beat me like this. In fact, the last time I was beaten was by my mother when I was about twelve. That day, she had given me money to cook dinner, but I lost it while hanging around watching movies on the street. Out of anger, she slapped me with her slippers. That was it. My father never raised a hand against us—he was always calm.
Now I began to wonder: Is this how I'm supposed to continue living my life? Was I wrong for standing my ground against disrespect?
We had only been married for a week, and already I had seen so many red flags. Now he had beaten me like a child.
"What have I gotten myself into?" I cried bitterly. "My parents caused this."
I told myself I couldn't continue like this. If I decided I was done with the marriage, my parents would have to return everything Bolaji had spent.
" let them return it," I whispered through tears. "It's better I leave and struggle on my own than stay with a wife beater."
I dragged myself up and searched for my phone. When I found it, I dialed my parents' number. My mum picked up, and the moment I heard her voice, I broke down crying.
She tried to calm me and asked what happened. After listening for a while, she said:
Mum: "He's wrong for beating you, but you too didn't do the right thing. At least you should have obeyed him. Since he commanded you to cook for her, you could have done it—then later explained that you only did it for his sake."
Sarah: "But the lady disrespected me."
Mum: "I understand. But I still insist you should have obeyed your husband. Dry your tears, clean up. We'll talk to him, but make sure you beg him and promise not to repeat such again."
Sarah: "What? Mum, I said he beat me because of her! I'm done with this marriage. I'm coming home. You'd better start returning everything you collected from him."
Mum: "God forbid! Sarah, God will not put you to shame. If you come back, don't you think people will mock us? Where will we see the money to refund him? Please, my dear… you're just getting to know your husband. Soon you'll understand him. Please, always keep quiet. Don't talk back."
Sarah: "Mum, you don't understand how I feel. What kind of man beats his wife barely a week after marriage? Is this how he'll keep beating me whenever we argue?"
Mum: "Just keep calm. Your father and I used to quarrel a lot when we first married. Look at us now—we're fine."
Sarah: "But he didn't beat you or disrespect you."
Mum: "Hmm… what do you know? Please, just focus on your marriage. Don't provoke your husband. I'll talk to you later."
She ended the call, leaving me alone with my pain.
I stayed in the room all day, not touching food or speaking to anyone. By nightfall, Bolaji came in. The smell of cigarette smoke followed him, even though he wasn't holding one. I pretended to be asleep.
He lay beside me and touched my wounds, but I didn't move. After a while, he left the bed and returned with a first aid box. As he began treating my wounds, I opened my eyes slightly and pulled away.
Bolaji: "I'm sorry. I'm not like that. I just can't stand disobedience."
I hissed and turned my face away, sobbing quietly.
Bolaji: "I don't know what came over me. I'm really sorry."
I said nothing. My tears were my only reply.
That afternoon after the beating, Bolaji had gone to the backyard to smoke. He had supposedly stopped smoking since returning to Nigeria, but the stress of the fight pushed him back to it.
Bolaji had always been a spoiled child—the only son and last born, pampered and adored. Handsome, wealthy, and reckless, girls threw themselves at him. He changed women like clothes, making them look cheap in his eyes. Marriage had never interested him.
But when his parents kept pestering him to settle down, he finally decided to return to Nigeria. The first time he saw her, he claimed to fall in love instantly. He saw her as innocent and gentle—the type of girl he could easily control.
After asking questions about me and learning about my family's poverty, he knew my parents would be willing. He showered them with gifts, and in no time, they agreed to give their daughter to him.
To be continued…