PLEASE DON'T HIT ME

The pain

The rain started small that afternoon, like it was afraid to disturb anybody. The sky had been dark since morning, but nobody talked about it. In our house, even weather no dey matter when wahala dey.

I sat by the window, watching the first drops land on the dusty ground. The smell of wet sand entered the room, mixing with the faint odour of Dettol from the basin where Mama had washed my wound. She sat on the bed beside me, her wrapper tied loosely, her eyes swollen from too much crying. She didn’t say a word. She just stared at nothing, the kind of staring that means your mind don travel far.

“Mama,” I called softly. She blinked and turned to me like she just remembered I was there.

“Eh?”

“Why you never leave?” I asked again, this time my voice sharper than before. “You no dey tire? Na everyday like this. Me, I no wan grow like this o.”

Her lips trembled. “Christiana, life no dey as easy as you think. Where you want make I go? Who go carry me and you?”

“Anywhere wey peace dey, Mama. I no care if we sleep for floor, as long as Daddy no go dey beat you.”

She sighed, her shoulders dropping. “You too small to understand.”

I wanted to shout that I understood more than she knew. I understood how the sound of leather belt cutting through air could make your whole body stiff before it even land. I understood how it felt to sleep hungry because one man lock you and your mama inside a hot room till morning. I understood that the love they always talk about in church no suppose look like this.

The rain grew heavier, hitting the zinc roof with loud, angry slaps. Somewhere in the kitchen, a pot fell with a clang. Mama didn’t move.

“Christiana, sometimes woman go endure for her pikin sake,” she whispered, almost like she was talking to herself.

I shook my head. “No, Mama. Sometimes woman suppose run for her pikin sake.”

She looked at me then, really looked, like she was seeing me as more than her small girl. But before she could say anything, we heard the gate creak. Daddy’s voice followed, loud and sharp, talking to somebody outside.

Mama’s body tensed immediately. Her hands began to shake. She stood up, quickly adjusting her wrapper, and started wiping her face with the edge. “Abeg, no talk anyhow when he come inside,” she said.

I clenched my fists.

The front door opened, and Daddy stepped in, shaking water from his shirt. His eyes landed on me first, then Mama. He didn’t smile. “Food don ready?”

Mama nodded quickly and went to the kitchen. I sat still, my back straight, my eyes on the floor.

“Christiana,” his voice cut through the room. “You still dey vex for wetin happen yesterday?”

I looked up slowly. “No, sir.”

He studied me for a moment, then smirked. “Better. Because for this house, na me be the man. If I talk once, everybody go hear.”

Mama returned with his food and placed it gently on the table. The smell of egusi soup filled the room, but my stomach turned.

As he ate, he talked about his day like nothing had happened yesterday. Mama nodded at intervals, giving short responses. I could see the fear in every movement she made.

I sat there, watching both of them, and something inside me hardened. I didn’t know when or how, but I knew one thing this house no go be my prison forever.

The next morning, the house was too quiet. That kind of silence that makes your skin crawl. I could hear birds outside and the distant sound of a neighbour’s generator, but inside, everything felt heavy. Mama didn’t come out from her room. I knocked small-small.

“Mama…” I called. No answer.

I pushed the door gently and saw her sitting on the floor, back against the bed, wrapper tied carelessly around her chest. Her eyes were swollen—clearly she had cried all night.

I went in and sat beside her, my head leaning on her shoulder. “Mama, you never chop since morning?”

She shook her head. “Christiana, my pikin, I no get appetite. My heart dey heavy.”

I sighed. “Mama, you wan dey like this forever? You go dey here till Daddy kill you one day? E better make we just go.”

She gave me a tired look. “Go where? You think say e easy? I no get money, I no get work. Na this house we dey manage.”

I looked at her straight. “So na to suffer till you die? Mama, you get sister wey dey Port Harcourt, no be so? We fit go there.”

She rubbed her eyes and shook her head. “If I leave, you know say your daddy no go allow us rest. He go find us. That man… he no dey forgive.”

Her voice cracked on the last word and it cut me deep. The truth was, I was scared too. Daddy wasn’t the type you just pack your load and run from. He had this way of making everyone feel like they were trapped.

The sound of his slippers dragging on the corridor made both of us freeze. Mama wiped her eyes quickly and adjusted her wrapper. I could feel her heart beating faster. The door creaked open, and Daddy stood there, arms folded, looking at us.

“You still dey talk rubbish for your mama ear?” he said, eyes boring into me.

I swallowed hard. “No, sir.”

He stared for a while, then said, “Better. Make I no hear say you dey open mouth anyhow again.” He turned to Mama. “You, come. I wan talk to you.”

Mama glanced at me, her eyes saying a thousand things, then she followed him out.

I stayed there, fists clenched. I hated how powerless I felt. I hated how Mama couldn’t even breathe without asking Daddy first.

That evening, when the sun had almost set, I sat outside the gate, just watching people pass. I saw Mama’s friend, Aunty Rose, coming back from the market with a big nylon of tomatoes on her head. She stopped when she saw me.

“Christy, wetin happen to your shoulder?” she asked, eyes narrowing.

I tried to hide it with my hand. “Nothing, ma.”

She bent down, moved my hand away, and hissed. “Nothing? This na belt mark. Your papa again abi?”

I didn’t answer. My eyes were stinging.

She sighed. “I don tell your mama say make she no dey keep quiet. This one wey she dey endure… one day e go too late.”

That night, Mama didn’t eat again. I sat beside her, peeling groundnuts while she stared at nothing. Then she said in a low voice, “Christiana, if anything happen to me… you go take care of yourself.”

I stopped peeling. “Mama, abeg no talk like that.”

But deep down, I knew she was already thinking of the worst.