Before we married, I had “grilled” him on his expectations of me. I was never going to be a true African wife and I wanted him to clearly understand what I saw my role to be. He had given me all the right answers – “If I wanted an African wife, I would have married one! I want you and who you are – that's the kind of wife I want.” He actually wanted a perfectly silent, beautiful, rich, punching bag.
During the wee hours of the morning on my wedding night, my husband finally came home and beat me to a bloody pulp. I would come to find out later that he had left me at the hotel to “get ready” while he drove his sister home across town. He then met his mistress at the bar, drank his brains out, and impregnated her that very night. He came home to a wife who had cried herself to sleep and accused her of cheating on him while he beat her over the head with the champagne bottle that the hotel had sent up for the honeymoon toast.
Less than eight hours earlier, he had been standing on the pulpit telling the world how much he was blessed with the most amazing wife in the world. He was praising God for all of his dreams coming true and healing him of his past. Who was this man who just walked into the room? I married Dr. Jekyl, but here was Mr. Hyde.
I had never met Mr. Hyde. Looking back, along the way I think I glimpsed his shadow – which is why I asked for the help that we received. However, I never believed that he was actually real. A shadow is not “real.” A shadow is something blocking the LIGHT. It was like all of the light had disappeared and only the darkness remained. From that point forward, I only lived in shadow. I literally lived in darkness for the next two months trying to bring him back to the LIGHT. It felt as if I went into hell to reach him! The problem is that people CHOOSE hell and I couldn't persuade him to come back out with me.
Immediately our lives changed, we left the ministry that very day – got into a car to go off on our “honeymoon” and I became a hostage. I was under lock and key and guarded every second of every day. All communication had been monitored for a while before that, but now it was not allowed at all. I was not allowed to talk to anyone, even in person. I wasn't allowed to look at anyone, but him. I wasn't allowed to speak, even when we were alone, to him. I was to be silent, look pretty, and take every punch that was given.
His mistress showed up on our “honeymoon” and eventually came to live with us and I would be forced to take care of her as well. I especially took the beatings for every time that he was mad at her, because she was footing the bill. He then took us out of the country to show off his “wives” at his ministry centers all over Africa.
This is where my death occurred - Dar Es Salaam, Tanzania. Everything had escalated to the point that incidents were daily and I was not being let out of doors, even to see the sunshine. Finally, one day I was told that I was being taken to a beach club so I needed to get dressed. I dressed in my best outfit, so that I could be “shown off” to the public – the mzungu wife. I even put make-up on to conceal the bruises. I pulled my hair back into a bun so that no one would notice all of the bald spots. I wore my most form flattering outfit and practiced trying to smile without wincing.
He and his mistress got into a fight while on the ferry on the way over there and I knew it meant trouble for me. I was then accused of stealing money to buy food for her and was told that I was being left behind at the beach club. I was used to these outbursts by now, so I quietly walked out and stood next to the car. Apparently, the biggest mistake I could have made.
I will not go into graphic detail about the many ways I was dragged all over the parking lot. Because my death was not physical but emotional. It was the death of hope. I lost all faith in humanity. I saw person after person come out of that beach club and stand by the side of the road and watch me being assaulted by my husband as if they were watching entertainment. When I realized that no one was going to help me because “she is my wife,” I laid there and passed into the oblivion.
To be continued. . .
