Meka stood looking up at the window top, trying to figure out how to punch the holes to install the curtain rods at her new apartment. She’d brought a ladder to the room to reach the top of the window, but something still stood in the way. It was just herself and her daughter at her new apartment, so she stood looking at the window top, but something didn’t feel quite right.
You see, she was raised in a patriarchal culture, where the roles of men and women were clearly and indefatigably defined. A woman was to know her place, and while she could be ambitious and driven, it didn’t mean too much if that ambition and drive did not get her a husband or a family. Women were constantly reminded that without homes and families of their own, they shouldn’t be happy and fulfilled because these absences should leave a gaping, yawning emptiness inside that should eat up their souls.
Should not could!
Women are practically given no choice, but society dictates how they should feel. Growing up in a phallocentric society placed a stronghold on Meka’s mind as it did with the average young woman who was groomed in an Afrocentric culture. She was to be seen in the shadows of her husband and NEVER try to outshine him or risk being seen as the defiant and untoward wife who made her man look weak and incompetent. She was never to speak against him, at least not in public, but assent to his every decision and motive like she was stupid and without her own mind. She learnt quickly to dim her light so that he could shine. Like the frog in a pot of boiling water, she learnt to adjust and readjust in her toxic marriage until abuse became her friend. So, like a chameleon, she blended so well into the background and learned to paint the picture of marital bliss. At the same time, she was bleeding and shedding the essence and core of her personality just to conform to societal norms.
Some days, her man was kind with his words; he was considerate and passionate, and most days, his words were knives with which he carved her up, piece by piece, tearing her apart and conforming her into his ideal of docile submissiveness.
With each verbal assault, a part of her died. Her self-esteem took a chip with each cruel word and insensitive action. Her psyche mourned the loss of that little girl who once believed she could be everything and do anything she set her mind on.
Life had happened, and that little girl grew into a dispassionate woman, quickly realizing that the dominant male in her life had broken her and taught her to lose faith in herself. Life became a paradox – an entanglement where her father had taught her to think and dream, only to be shot down and damaged by a husband.
However, coming to Canada brought a fresh start. For her, it was a much-needed breath of air in a world surrounded by drowning waters. A place where she could just BREATHE and find herself. It was home; it was pure, unadulterated freedom.
And so she began climbing the ladder, one step at a time. Moving steadily but surely, having faith and believing for a better tomorrow. As she climbed, her confidence grew, and she picked up the drill and tools she needed to hang the rail until finally, she hung the first curtain and, eventually, all the curtains in her new home.
With time, she cocooned her space in love and warmth and was grateful for the lessons she learned and the woman she was becoming.
Statistics show that verbal abuse is the most common form of non-physical violence, and it is estimated that one in four women worldwide has experienced emotional abuse since their teenage years.
Dumebi writes her story from Saint John, New Brunswick.
