For Her Sake
909 Words
I wasn’t crazy.
I wasn’t imagining it.
It happened.
And now, I knew the truth.
I had to tell my mother. I had to set myself free.
I rehearsed it in my head over and over, every word carefully chosen. I would tell her everything. I would explain why I didn’t bleed, why it still hurt, why I had been so distant.
I was terrified, but I was ready.
Then the door opened.
And my father stepped inside.
His face was dark, unreadable.
And just like that, the fear came rushing back.
I remembered what he used to say—how any mistake made by one of my mother’s children would be her fault. How he wouldn’t take it easy on her.
I sat with my mother that day, for the first time in months, but the words got stuck in my throat. What if she told him? What if she forgot—just for a moment—what he was capable of? What if I ended up making things worse, not just for me, but for her?
The thoughts spiraled, drowning me, pulling me under. And this time, it was worse than before. I got up and left her side, locked myself away, hoping to escape it. But there was no escape.
I was going crazy.
Reading used to help, but not anymore.
I kept it all to myself, the weight of it pressing down on me until I could barely move, barely breathe. I stopped eating in the mornings before school, then stopped eating at school altogether, slipping my food to others just so I wouldn’t have to force it down.
I was scared. So, so scared.
Weak.
Trying to survive a war between my mind and myself.
No one understood why I hated my male classmates so much. No one knew why I lashed out at them, why I bullied them. I couldn’t concentrate in school. I didn’t care about my studies. I didn’t care about myself.
No one noticed.
Not until I got my report card.
I hadn’t studied for tests. Hadn’t written my exams with any hope of passing. I had given up on myself entirely—without even realizing it.
I didn’t even look at the result when they handed it to me.
I just took it home and gave it to my mom.
She was shocked.
I had always been at the top of my class. But now? Now she had no idea what to say.
And the worst part? She wasn’t worried about me.
She was worried about what my father would do.
She lashed out, demanding answers, pulling me close, pleading with me to tell her what was wrong.
But she never asked me if I was okay.
She never asked me if I was happy.
Night fell. My father came home. My mother hesitated to show him the report card, but then—
“Dad, we got our report cards today!”
My younger brother’s voice shattered the fragile silence.
I knew what was coming.
I heard my mother’s footsteps before she even reached me.
“Go and show your father your result,” she said.
Everyone else had done it. It would be suspicious if I didn’t.
I didn’t care.
Not until I stood in front of him.
He was laughing with my siblings, his face lit up with something I hardly recognized—something almost warm.
I hesitated.
He saw me.
“Come,” he said. “Let me see yours.”
I handed him the report card, turned away, already retreating into myself when—
The sound of something sharp. Flesh meeting flesh.
I turned.
And saw my mother on the floor.
He was hitting her.
Because of me.
The haze in my mind lifted in an instant, the trauma momentarily forgotten.
This wasn’t about me.
It had never been about me.
I screamed, pleaded, promised to do better.
He stopped, but his words cut deeper than his hands ever could.
“If you don’t,” he said, “you know what will happen to your mother.”
Everything became crystal clear.
This wasn’t about my pain.
Or my feelings.
This was about my mother’s survival.
I started reading again. Studying. Pushing myself like never before. Books became my refuge, my only escape. I hardly spoke, and when I did, my breath smelled stale from the gum I chewed to keep myself from breaking.
I climbed back to the top of my class. I chose my department, decided what I would study in college.
A year passed.
I took my junior secondary school exam and moved up to senior secondary school.
I became more serious, more determined.
My intelligence earned me a chance to take my WASSCE (West African Senior Secondary School Certificate Examination) a year early, in SS2 instead of SS3.
I was still battling the memories, still fighting the images that haunted me.
But then my father did something unexpected.
He promised to pay for my WASSCE. Even my JAMB (Joint Admissions and Matriculation Board) exams.
And if I passed?
He would send me to the university of my choice.
I was ecstatic.
I wanted to go to college so badly that, for a moment, I forgot who he was.
For a moment, I thought maybe things were finally getting better.
Little did I know…
My story was only just beginning.
And college?
College would bring more pain than I ever could have imagined.
- Writer
