I KILLED MY HUSBAND

“Oh, you are such a heartless mother, so selfish and an ignorant woman, you are a murderer, you don’t deserve to be part of our family!” That was one of my husband’s aunts shouting, clicking her tongue and spitting towards me while I was passing-by being handcuffed and escorted by the police officer into the police car.

My house has become a crime scene. Many people have surrounded the house, some gossiping, while others just stand outside silently, shaking their heads in disbelief every now and then. My husband’s body was carried out of the house by paramedics after they had confirmed his death. I could see my children from a distance crying while being held by my elder sister. “What have I done?”, I asked myself silently while crying and regretting it.

My husband was a friendly person to many people. He would always lead community protests, speak about how important it is to fight against children and women abuse. He always made sure to present himself as a good man. But inside our house, he was the complete opposite of what people saw in him. He was a monster. Outside the house, he wanted us to play "happy family" for people not to see the real monster he was.

I had tried reporting him to the police several times, but his money and connections always got in the way. Nothing was ever done about it. “Go home and fix it, women do need discipline when they are getting out of hand”, once said an officer when I reported my husband’s abuse of me. I also tried to report him to his family, but, as usual, they defended him and pushed the blame back to me. Over time, I accepted his abuse and made it a normal thing. After all the bruises and scars he gave me daily, I always created excuses and ways to cover them up. I was getting used to the abuse and felt that there was nothing I could do about it.

One day when I came back from work, I found the house unusually quiet. It felt like there was no one inside. I went to my daughter’s room, Lwazi, which is the first room I go to always when I come home. It was locked. It was all weird! She hardly locked her room. I knocked again and again, but still there was no answer. I went to my room, found my husband sleeping. I woke him up and asked where Lwazi was, but he was too drunk to respond.

I went to Lwazi’s room again and opened it with the spare key I kept with me. There she was on the bed, crying. I tried to comfort her and asked what the matter was. But when she opened her blanket, the bed was full of blood. “Dad raped me”, she whispered softly and teary.

When Sihle, my elder daughter, returned from her friend’s place, she found me and Lwazi still in the room. She also told me that her father also raped her many times before. He threatened her that if ever she told anyone, even me, he would kill her. He also blackmailed her, that if she talked, she was risking destroying the entire family.

I went back to our bedroom.  I was angry. My husband was still sleeping. I had to confront him about what Lwazi and Sihle had told me, but instead he fought me, defending himself. As the quarrel went on, he decided to physically attack me for confronting him. I was so angry and, without thinking, I took his gun where he usually put it and shot him on the chest, twice.

After an hour of trying to calm down, I called the police. It was later confirmed that he was dead. Even though I knew what I did was wrong in terms of the law, I was finally relieved that my kids were safe from the monster they called a father. I was also free from the abuse I was experiencing daily, though I was arrested.