I don't mind whatever you call me, but I cannot tolerate being called 'psycho'!
That should have been my first clue.
A few months down the line, I went out on a two-week long business trip. My ex had an insatiable sex drive. He called me every night to have phone sex. But just that wasn't enough. He wanted to "spice it up". At first, he sent me the choicest of porn and erotica to make me understand the setting. Then, he began talking about anal sex and nipple clamps. Would I be okay with having hot wax poured down my breasts? I would laugh, often nervously, and brush it off. He liked to call me his "whore".
On the 8th day, I could no longer bury my head in the sand. He called me up and told me that there was a "Brazilian chick". An old friend, he claimed, who was desperate to meet him. Would I be kind enough to oblige? I didn't know what to say. I told him that I couldn't stop him from making any choices and hung up. I cried till I was dizzy. All my sunshine was gone. The man I fell in love with seemed like a far away phantom.
I usually had dinner with my colleagues, but when I didn't show up that night, one of them came to check on me in my hotel room. It was a he.
By that time, I had forgotten what it was like to have a caring man place an arm around me. He only meant to be friendly, but the unexpected kindness sent shock-waves throughout my body. I longed to be loved tenderly and the ache in my heart made me reach to his face and kiss him.
He stopped me instantly and told me it wasn't right. He didn't know what was troubling me, but he assured me that he'd be there if I needed any help. He didn't make me feel guilty. Instead, he offered sympathy and a shoulder to cry on before he left.
Reeling under stress and not knowing where to vent, I made a status update on Facebook thanking my colleague for "making me feel loads better".
My ex read it and instantly assumed that I had sex with another man. He was furious. And that's when my nightmare officially began.
He claimed he had sensed that I was uncomfortable with the idea of the other woman and never brought her home in the first place. He ended our relationship immediately. I cried and begged and pleaded. I told him that I didn't do anything. It was just a kiss and it was an accident. But he kept saying that it took me no time to bring a man to my room. I was just a cheap slut who was horny and wanted to get laid as soon as possible.
He said that he never wanted to see me again. I didn't need to come by his place ever again and he would have my things sent to me. He said that he was so unbearably angry that other women would suffer for my fault. He would bring two, ten, a hundred women to our bed and use their bodies as he pleased. He would torture them and they would be more than willing. There were many women far better than me in bed and would satisfy him so much more.
Cold fear gripped me. I reached my breaking point and I pleaded with him not to hurt anyone. I told him that I was wrong, and if there was anybody he had to punish, it should be me. I would come back as soon as possible and we would "sort it out". He explicitly said that he didn't want me to come, but I couldn't bear the idea of another woman being hurt by him. I said that I would see him soon, and he made sure to emphasize that it was my "own decision" to do so.
I returned in time for Christmas- the season for loving and giving. It was the most ironic day of my life. He had especially taken the week off to punish me. Then began the days and nights of torture, of name-calling and shaming, of innocent paper clips turning into nipple clamps, aromatic candles oozing wax over my body, threats to harm my friends and family if I dared defy his word, painful anal sex, forced blow-jobs, a blunt refusal to use condoms. He refused to even kiss me on the lips, denying me the least kindness. And I had no defence because I had "chosen" to do this. Had I not?
Then came New Year's eve. He made me get into my prettiest dress. He did not let me wear any underwear because it would ruin the fun. He had invited friends over to have a party. All men.
As I poured whiskeys that evening, I saw the faces of all our friends. His colleagues from the office, his distant cousins, younger boys who called him "bhai" and teasingly called me "bhabhi". This was our family and friends. Since I was the only lady at the party it was only fair, he said, that I dance with everybody. All his friends shied away but for two- Those two boys who called him "bhai", the benevolent elder brother who never denied them anything.
Midnight struck and Happy New Year came. Sometime around 4 am, people started to leave. A couple of them were so drunk that they had crashed on the couch and in the other room. My ex took me and his two little brothers to our room to continue what was left of the party.
He held me close and caressed my ass. For a brief moment, I believed that we might make up.
"You love me, right?" he asked.
My heart was hammering. "Yes" I replied.
"You see, the problem is, I love you too," he said, "And that is why, no matter how much I punish you, I can't get over you. I could do so much worse, but I keep stopping myself because I love you."
when he asked me "You will help me get over you, right?" I agreed. "Good," he said "I want to see my brothers fuck you."It has been more than ten months from that day. Every day I'm haunted. When I think back, I have to stop myself from remembering the painful details. How I was undressed, how they were hard, how my "brother" was on top of me, how my ex said "Make sure he has fun. It's his first time.", how when the other "brother" climaxed, my ex screamed "Mother fucker! Did you have to come so soon!". Tears refused to leave my eyes. I could not cry and I could not scream. I was choking in ache and sadness and the sharp clarity of my sober state.And it would happen with half-unconscious audience on the other side of the door.That was when I saw the anger in his eyes. He looked murderous. In that spine-chilling moment, I remembered everything he had said about hurting other women and harming the ones I loved. I was scared.
He let me leave the next day, dazed and numbed. Over time, I have struggled with anger and hurt. I have trained my mind carefully to detach myself from my body. Sometimes, I am scared that my body might no longer be a channel for reaching my wounded heart.
Most of all, I have taught myself one very important thing. I have taught myself how to say "No", and it feels a little better every time I do.
He said: ''The Fulani herdsmen have now surrendered their guns and settled for peace''.
