RIDE OR DIE

I stood dutifully at the door waiting for his arrival. That is what I do every night now; stand and wait for that strong stench of ogogoro to hit me first in the nose before his fists did. Amadi, my husband, could win the ultimate wrestling championship if only he directed his well delivered blows to a real wrestler's eyes and not mine. The dark pretty purple patch he gave me as our seven years anniversary gift, which however was well reverently received, was still evident. Mama Zikora's ice block could only reduce the swelling and her pieces of advice, however filled with foul words and insults, could not spurn my undying loyalty to my husband.
She was not the only one, really. All my female neighbors, both married and unmarried, gave me incessant pieces of advice and would tell me how "no yeye man fit touch me o because I fit cut that chwinkili sometin way him dey call penis".
They never knew. They never knew that Amadi was never like this; a drunk, tattered man with a broken spirit.
If only that company never sacked him. Fiam! Just like that with no explanation whatsoever. I was his sole companion, a shoulder to lean on until Amadi found solace in cheap wine and my husband was no longer my husband.
The sound of a broken bottle followed by curses were the first things to announce his arrival. The banging of the door and shouts of my name in the cold still night came later on. Then, with my left eye still purple in colour, I opened the door and the stench of cheap strong wine hit me in the nose. I never got to say the words "Welcome home, Adi" when his left palm, molded into a tight strong fist, greeted my right eye. Another beautiful decoration on my eye. Mama Zikora would go nuts with this one. Then came the abuses, followed by series of slaps, and accompanied by some kicks. The rape never came that night because blood flowed from between my legs and stained my faded hollandis. This was our third child that would never see this world since Amadi took to drinking.