Before I found out the meaning of the word ‘effeminate’, I was already aware of how much of a girl I was. Then, I would have given a finger to become a dancer in a pop video, painting my lips and wearing wigs that cascaded to my waist. It was there, in my voice, in the hours I spent preening at myself in front of the mirror, the lip gloss I wore under the guise of Harmattan. In school, I was called girl-boy because my classmates said my hips swayed when I walked, because I was told that I could fling my arms and gesture more dramatically than the girls in my class. Later, I became Canary or Nightingale because no matter how hard I tried, my voice never had that masculinity of the other boys; instead it maintained the delicate wavering of a song. Sometimes, I would force out the baritone, to hear how the male voice sounded coming from my vocal chords, but I knew, even as I produced the sounds, that they weren’t mine, that this was not what I wanted to be – a version that conforms to the society, that has to be because being is the only way of acceptance.

I knew I liked boys when I got an erection the day a young uncle took a bath with me and his penis grazed my back when he scrubbed my leg. I was seven and aware. But I had no name for it. I didn’t know that there was a tag, an identity for my kind of person. I did not know there were others like me, people who looked at naked uncles and felt a stirring in the deep of their bodies.

I was nine when the neighbor’s son kissed me. It was a simple thing and ought to be treated as such – just a touch of lips because we wanted to play and there was no one to imitate mother – but there was no simplicity in the response I felt in my penis, straining against the fabric of my yellow cotton panties with an elastic band. There were more kisses as often as we played and then the suggestion: “Let’s act like I’m sleeping on you.” The neighbours moved the year the Belleview plane crashed, even though I prayed they would not leave. The only memory I have of him is his slurred speech.

There were others after him: Mayowa, the one behind the fence when darkness had fallen; Chibuike, the pastor’s son who interpreted every Sunday and shouted like his father; Austin, the one with the penis that leaked with just one touch; and John with the body odor and a faded Arsenal jersey. I was eager to discover, hungrily taking in but not sure of when to give out. I found out, after each sweaty kiss, each slippery fumble, each touch of penis and bottom that being gay was not like being in a swimming pool that gave one the freedom of entrance and exit, or a shirt that one could pull off or on easily. Being gay was as personal as your own skin.

I met Ibrahim when I gained admission into the university. It was the year I opened the door of my life and really told myself to live, to stop conforming, to open my box and go free. At first, the university was nothing I had expected it to be. The lecture theatre had broken seats and dangerously twisted metal. The windows had too much dust and the boards were unclean. I had expected something different, a glaring awareness that I had indeed said goodbye to secondary school, to the years of childish behavior. But I realized quickly that there was an awareness in the university, but becoming aware truly lied in my hands. I could be childish or mature or a cross of the two. Maturity in the university was a commonly required commodity that was not commonly utilized.

On the day I met I Ibrahim, I was shouting at a taxi driver. The driver, illiterate and full of the I-too-know attitude of unlearned people, was shouting back. Ibrahim intervened and then offered me a ride in his car. He was privileged, being a two-hundred level student who owned a car and lived alone. He was different from me, whose parents carefully asked questions and calculated my pocket money and rationed my foodstuffs. That you are in the university does not give room for wastage, they often said. Remember the son of whom you are.

Ibrahim met my parents when we had a Christmas break. We had gone past the awkward stage of sexuality questions and what we really wanted. I wanted Ibrahim, and he wanted me. It did not matter how or why. Wanting someone, loving them meant you were comfortable with them, trusted them. And it was exactly how I felt with Ibrahim, like I could stand on a table with broken legs and never fall. He and my father bonded because my father was pleased that I had made friends with a fellow Muslim and an older person who could act as a guardian and make sure I never misbehaved. My mother called him respectful, laughed at his jokes and asked about his family. Would he like some Fura or did he prefer beske?  I sat demurely across from them in the living room, and watched them as though they were actors in a story I loved. This was happiness, never mind that some of it was built on pretense.

After their meeting, approval became something my parents gave freely. Yes, you can move in with him. Of course you can spend Sallah at their place. Give Alhaja this hijab for me. Tell her barka se sallah. It was too normal to attract questions.

The first time Ibrahim slapped me was on a Tuesday. I remember even now, how dusty that day was. Earlier that day, I had gone for a lecture that was canceled because the lecturer could not find fuel and since it would be a waste of money, I spent the afternoon with my friends, talking about forgiveness and how annoying it was that MTN had to make their subscribers register one SIM card a hundred times. When I got home, night had descended like a wrapper and shrouded everything.

“Babe, what’s up?” I said when I got in.

Ibrahim was reading a book. He liked to read in the evenings. An empty cup sat on the table like royalty.

“What were you doing in school that kept you so long?” he asked without looking up.

I put down my bag, reached for the cup, filled it with water and drank before I answered. “Just the normal now. You know our school,” I said. I flopped down on the mattress.

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

I turned to look at him. He dropped the book and now faced me. The air around us began to move slowly.

“What happened?” I asked, sitting up.

“I called someone in your department and she told me you guys had no lecture today. So what were you doing in school till this time?”

I exhaled and smiled. “I like it when you are jealous. It makes me feel special.”

I stood up to begin with dinner but he stood in my way. I stopped, taken aback. He had never acted that way before.

“Where. Are. You. Coming. From?” he asked with a deliberate slowness, seeming to put a distinctive stress on each word.

I frowned. “Where else –?”

The rest of my sentence was disrupted by the slap. I felt his palm land heavily on my cheek. I was dumbfounded. I gaped at him in shock. In all the months of our relationship, months of sex and gentle whispers, months when the dusty wind settled on clean pots and plates, he had never struck me.

I found my voice slowly. Even as I spoke, it felt like someone was borrowing my body, speaking with my voice, using my brain.

“Ibrahim,” I said and nothing else. The power to make coherent speech had eluded me, fled like a bird flees from the stones of a child’s catapult.

“You are no longer who you used to be,” he gritted out. Then he turned and stormed out, slamming the door behind him.

After he left, I touched my cheek again to be sure that what happened was real, that I had not imagined it or played it out in my head. The normalcy of the room surprised me, how the curtains fluttered insouciantly, how loudly someone from the next room laughed, how regally the cup sat on the table. Perhaps he was angry about something, I told myself, but even then the stupidity of my reason glared back at me. But I repeated it to myself, fed myself a truth that I needed to believe.

Ibrahim did not come home that night. He returned the next morning, when the noise of Morning Prayer call pushed against the windows.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

I stared at him. I did not know what to say or do.

He reached for my hands and held them in his.

“I’m sorry I acted that way. I’m really sorry. I don’t know what came over me, I swear.”

It became a mime, his voice saying sorry, his hands squeezing mine gently, then his lips on mine. It moved into a kiss and then there was the urgency of need binding us together, of unsaid apologies. It was there, in his thrusts, his moans in my ear, our muffled voices blending together. When he slipped out and unrolled the soiled condom, we showered and then went for the morning prayers.

The next time he hit me was a week after that day. A classmate had called; a male classmate whom Ibrahim said had the tendencies of being gay the first day they met, a classmate who could make even a stone statue laugh. Ibrahim and I had been cuddling when the phone rang and I disengaged from him so I could pick the call.

It was a simple question: “Did the lecturer for BCH 212 say he would come by two or not?” which got a direct “No”. And then the call moved on to how annoying the lecturers were and how tiring our school was and how it seemed like four hundred level and convocation was a lifetime away and why we needed to have a new course rep. A minute passed, and then two, then five, and we were still on the phone, laughing and exchanging annoying instances of mistreatment of students by lecturers. Ibrahim stood up, filled a glass, gulped it, parted the curtains, flipped through a textbook and closed it again, then finally snatched the phone from my ears and ended the call.

“What is the meaning of this one na, Ibrahim?” I asked. Outside the window, a pepper seller trudged by. Her wrapper was green colored, the light green of a beer bottle.

“Oh,” he said in the way that one does to draw attention to a ridiculous thing. “So it has now gotten to the point where your lover can call you at home, ehn?”

I laughed. “Lover indeed. Since when did you and I become married that I should have a lover?”

The phone began to ring again. I stood up and reached for it on the bed.

“Pick that call and I’ll show you what I can do,” he growled.

I laughed. He joked with things like that often, usually the things he could do ending up as kisses and probably sex. “You have taken something, I know. Hello jaré,” I said and placed the phone to my ear.

The force of the slap pushed the phone from my hand to the floor and dismembered it. I was stunned into silence.

“So I’ve taken weed, abi?” he asked. Without waiting for an answer, he pounced on me. His slaps descended on my face, the dryness of his palm sweeping across my mouth.

“Ibrahim!” I choked out

But he silenced me. A punch on my back, my face. He was speaking and hitting me at the same time. “You are nothing but a fucking slut, fucking guys when I am not around!” Punch! “You think I don’t know? You think I don’t?” Punch, punch!

I struggled but I could not be rid of him. I reached for his shirt and held the collar, slackened it. I wished I were as masculine as he, wished that I was not effeminate so I could match his punches with mine and draw blood. He stopped finally, breathing heavily. I knew I had to leave then, pack up every remainder of my dignity and never look back. But leaving was not an issue. I could move in with a friend till I was settled, but the real issue was how to leave, how to construct reasons for my leaving.

I was sore when I woke up the next morning. I had a cut on my lower lip and a throbbing headache. When I went into the bathroom to take my bath, Ibrahim was praying, the ends of his jellabiya grazed the floor. It seemed ironical – was ironical – that he could pray with such sanguine serenity after what happened. But then, it was more ironical that we, in the months of our relationship, could pray and then fuck thereafter.

Everyone wanted to know why I had a swollen lip.

“You will not believe,” I told them as we sat under a tree, “thieves came to our hostel yesterday o. In fact, my roommate had to go to the clinic to get bandage. He was badly beaten!”

“Thieves, in this area?” Amaka asked, surprised.

“I’m very sure it will be those new one hundred level students or those jobless guys in this town,” Deolu said.

Everyone laughed. I could not tell Deolu that it was his call that gave me a swollen lip and the soreness in my body.

“But you sef, you dull o! When you go dey do like woman,” Iyke said. He was the oldest in our department and had hairy chest and smooth arms. He always spoke Pidgin English. “Thief come your villa, you no fit attack them. Your matter tire me o. If na to talk who get nyash pass Beyoncé, na you go dey scream.”

I smiled, embarrassed. But there was no way I could stand up to Ibrahim. I could never match him. In secondary school, I carefully avoided fights with the guys and paired with the girls. It was easier to say “I don’t beat girls” or engage in a battle of slaps and clapping hands with them if the worst came to be.

When I returned home, Ibrahim was on the phone. I walked past him and laid on the bed.

“Your mum wants to speak with you,” he said and handed the phone to me.

I took it without looking at him. “Hello?”

“Ahmed, so you have started walking with bad boys, abi?” my mother screeched entirely in Yoruba. She did not reply my hello.

“Ma? Who told –” I began but was cut short.

“Shut up! Ibrahim is lying, abi? You have crossed to two hundred level and can now do what you want, abi beeko? Ika kan o wo e n’di mo!

I was angry. Since when did my mother start to value the opinion of others and not mine?

“But you should listen to me and hear my own side now, Mummy,” I complained.

“What is there to hear?”

I breathed heavily and glared at Ibrahim.

“Be careful, Ahmed. Be very careful. It is your gourd that will point where it will be tied to. Give the phone to Ibrahim.”

I knew then that I was fighting a lost battle, that I was trapped in an airless room. I wondered how long I could stay before I passed out.

I don’t blame people who go back to people who keep hurting them or stay in a hopeless place and never leave. You shouldn’t judge them too. We all have our reasons for going back to our vomit. For me, I stayed with Ibrahim because he had the same tag as I did: he was gay. I had no one to talk to about him, no friends who were gay and understood what it felt like to be restricted to only one option, nobody who wanted to hear you say you are gay without wanting to throw a tyre round your neck and burn you, or parade you naked with taunts of how you are a disgrace to manhood and how it was utterly senseless that one would leave soft and fleshy pussy for shit-hole. But now that I think about it, I think I stayed because nobody believed that abuse could happen in a gay relationship. My friend Amanda – whose sister had recently divorced her husband, who liked to hit her – had once said in her Ghanaian-accented English that it was only in straight relationships that such things are heard of. “I mean,” she’d said while brushing her hair out of face, “why would a guy even date a guy in first place? He deserves to have some sense beaten into him.”

I took her in words in silence, just as I took Ibrahim’s abuse in silence. The slap at the bus stop, the yank at the ear for talking to a guy at ShopRite, the seizing of the phone and damage to my sim card, the violent sex that left me sore and bleeding, the tears in the bathroom. I never told anyone and I never fought back. Once, he burnt my shirt because he said a guy bought it for me. Once, he flogged me with a belt because I refused to have sex with him. How could I be tired? Just how? I had gone to fuck another guy, right? I wanted to leave him, right? And afterwards, he would buy me medicine, cook me dinner or lunch, do the laundry and say Astagafurullahi. Then he would pray. He never missed any of the prayer hours.

I left him when I realized I couldn’t take it anymore. It was the third year of our relationship. I simply picked my school books and left. I left my phone and new Sim card in his place, left everything he bought me, which was almost everything I owned. I prayed that if God would kill me, then it should not be that way.

My mother was aghast. Why could I leave my best friend of all these years for no reason, she wanted to know. My father too. Ibrahim sent countless messages, got my new number from my mother and wouldn’t stop texting, asking what he did wrong and why I left. My mother would not hear of it. However I silenced her one night when I said to her, “If someone not from this household can make you lose trust in your child, then I wonder why you call me your child in first place.”

My father knew they were knocking on a closed door that night. “Leave him alone, Ummuani,” he said to her. “Can’t you hear?”

I took control of my own life when I realized the person I trusted it with was kicking it around like a ball. But it took me three years. Three years of being raped by a guy like me, three years of taunts and jeers, three years of silent tears, three years of chasing empty air, three years of everlasting scars. It took me that long. These things happen, but no one ever wants to talk about it because no one wants to listen, because if they even listen, it would be to mock and deride and condemn afterwards. Not everybody truly cares if your limp is from fashion or because you have a thorn underfoot.


There was a long silence after his monologue ended. He’d expected it. What he had not expected though was the lightness he felt in his soul after he unburdened himself to her. He watched her reach into her handbag to bring out a tissue.

“Here,” she said, handing the tissue to him.

“Oh.” He’d not been aware of the tears gliding down his own cheeks. But he was aware of the cool evening breeze on his arms. “Thank you.” He accepted the tissue.

“You know, my fiancé too was like that,” she said, licking her lips and studying her nails.

“He was?”

“Yes. But no one cared. My people were more interested in marrying me off.”

He glanced at her hands to see if there was a ring. He was not sure he saw one earlier. She caught his glance.

“Oh I left,” she said.

“You left?” He turned to look at her.

“Yes, I did. On the morning of my wedding. I had already dressed, standing in my wedding dress before the mirror, and looking at my future while married to him. I did not like what I saw. So I left. It was a major scandal though. I thought the world would end.”

“I’m sorry.”

She chuckled, a brave chuckle, the chuckle of people who have moved on from something and did not need sympathy anymore. “Don’t be. I realized I owned my own life. My parents severed all ties with me though. Yesterday, I ran into my mother at the mall and she simply walked past me and continued shopping.” Her voice began to quiver. “It hurt me though, because I thought she would understand. She is my mother after all.” She sniffed and reached for more tissue from her bag. She dabbed at her nose elegantly.

He moved closer and pulled her into his arms, into an embrace that understood. “My parents don’t know I’m gay yet and are expecting grandchildren. I wonder what will happen when they find out.”

“You can leave too, you know,” she said and then burst out laughing.

He stared at her first and then joined in the laughter. Their voices rose with their mirth.

“But it would never be the same,” she said, still laughing.

“No, it wouldn’t,” he agreed.

He did not know who began to cry first, but he was aware of passersby staring at them – the effeminate man with brightly coloured clothes and ankle-length boots, and the beautiful woman with sable-lined coat and elegant chignon, sitting on the park bench and crying together.


Written by La-Coozee

Previous LGBT Ugandans Are Ever So Bombastic

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  1. ambivalentone
    April 04, 07:23 Reply

    Beautiful story. A wonderful end, and it didn’t even seem anticlimatic. Walked past ur own child because she didn’t marry who and when you wanted her to??? She’s only doing herself
    Please what does ‘Ummuani’ mean? Is that Hausa or Yoruba?

    • Kenny
      April 04, 07:50 Reply

      The child too will simply carry face and walk past her now… It’s the same parents that will blame her when he starts beating her up in the marriage. They’ll say didn’t you notice it when you were courting

  2. Kenny
    April 04, 07:48 Reply

    Wow. Really nice story. Had some relatable parts. I might get burned for this but why will a man allow another man beat him up? Effeminate or not. Touch me and you die I swear!

  3. Mandy
    April 04, 08:17 Reply

    This story is quite scary. Sometimes, the thing that keeps a victim staying a victim is really the feeling of aloneness. When he or she feels like there’s no one who’d understand their pain.

  4. Dennis Macaulay
    April 04, 08:26 Reply

    I have a friend still stuck in this kind of relationship, in his own case sef he is the bread winner while the guy sits around the house doing nothing.

    He comes home late after a day of hustling and meeting with clients he gets a beating, food is too spicy he gets a beating. We sef have been banished from their house.

    I feel him slipping away each day but what can we do. We have tried everything short of outing him to his family to get them to evict the guy but that’s not an option.

    The day he poured my friend rice at portharcourt mall because he was looking at a guy left us in shock. The sad part is that even if you confront him you are making this worse for my friend because he will pounce on that one when they get home; beat him to pulp and then rape him. That’s is the usual drill, but my friend believe they are in love.

    I don’t even know where to start this morning, I would have doubted this story if I haven’t seen it play out before my eyes. Was it the day that we visited and we were chatting and laughing and the looser stormed out of the house, when we were ready to go all my tires were stabbed with a knife. I had to buy 4 tyres on the spot to go home and my friend insisted that it was not the boyfriend who did it, it must be those crazy eligbolo boys.

    My dear we got tired of fighting for someone who refused to fight for himself and we moved on. I still feel guilty that we abandoned him, but can you save someone who doesn’t want to be saved?

    • Kenny
      April 04, 08:33 Reply

      That your friend is beyond redemption. He should see a shrink if/when he’s tired of being abused. Nonsense.

    • ikhines
      April 04, 08:58 Reply

      Hmmmm. This your own version sounds like a twisted Charles Novia film.

      • Philips
        April 04, 17:23 Reply

        you definitely know your movies hun

      • bountyhunter
        April 05, 09:24 Reply

        thought it was just me. this twist from DM’s story ehn! fresh nollywood material!

    • Terra
      April 04, 09:35 Reply

      You may have to put him as a last resort, at this rate, your friend will get killed. One day the guy will hit him with a heavy object or push him a bit too hard and he will hit his head and stop moving.

    • Mandy
      April 04, 12:53 Reply

      At some point, when a victim won’t borrow sense and let him or herself be saved, then you have to wonder whether he’s getting what he deserves.

    • Francis
      April 04, 22:40 Reply

      @Dennis this your friend matter reach to find out how homophobic his family is or not and out him if there’s a chance they’ll rescue him. The day this guy die, your conscience fit never be the same again ?

  5. Dickson Clement
    April 04, 08:36 Reply

    Oh My God! This is a major topic. I won’t have guessed such things happen.

  6. Delle
    April 04, 08:41 Reply

    Is it just me or has this story been posted here before?

    Beautiful story. I can’t deal with an abusive relationship (or can I? Abeg, I don’t even know). Why would you hit someone you claim to love? I’m scared because I don’t know if it would have happened any different had I been the protagonist in this cos this is so relatable to me. Thank God you found the wits to leave. Thank God. A man that hits is a coward, hope they know that.

    • Kenny
      April 04, 08:45 Reply

      Think about it well now o. And decide that your story won’t be like this. A man that hits is a coward yes but so is the man that decides to stay in the abusive relationship for whatever reason

    • ambivalentone
      April 04, 09:08 Reply

      Me too Delle, me too. I know that once the apologies start rolling in, I prolly will forgive. I might even demand ‘make-up’ sex. And I could be a lioness and claw his eyes out. Geez!!! I guess I chose my pseudonym aptly

    • Mandy
      April 04, 12:56 Reply

      ‘Why would you hit someone you claim to love?’
      You’d be surprised how many distorted takes people have on love and how best to express it.

    • Delle
      April 04, 17:19 Reply

      Apparently, so many people have been in abusive relationships. It’s scary. The truth is you just wanna give him the benefit of doubt, ‘Maybe it’s just this once’. ‘I’m sure it’s cos he’s drunk’. ‘He’d surely come around’. All these reasons we make up in our minds just cos we love someone. Yes, love like someone said makes you soft and prolly gullible. But would you be faulted cos you loved? I used to think only straight relationships have this, but with two men? *shudders*

      • Kenny
        April 04, 17:30 Reply

        I’m guessing if you’re in love with a man and he hits you, you’ll make excuses for him judging from your comment. Rewire that your brain. Love can make you soft and gullible? Well a slap or two will hopefully make you ‘ungullible’.
        It hasn’t happened to you, great! Decide now that you will never allow it to happen whether you’re in love or not.

        • Delle
          April 04, 18:49 Reply

          Of course, I’d try to. I have to.

  7. Ruby
    April 04, 08:47 Reply

    This reminds me of a relationship I was in, good guy, good sex, *tho I doubt his faithfulness* but I walked out of his life so fast, I’m pretty sure his head spun the day he slapped me. The amusing part is that he was actually running after me in his boxers but the ship had left the harbor…
    Abuse in relationships are so wrong, It doesn’t matter how great the sex is, how happy he makes you, how safe he makes you feel…
    If he hits you “CONSISTENTLY” child…
    You’ll surely find someone who values you for you and not as a punching bag eventually.

  8. Queen Blue Fox
    April 04, 09:32 Reply

    my goodnese
    How can anyone deal with this? This is so heart breaking. Beating from a bf? I will fucking kill him

    • Dennis Macaulay
      April 04, 10:33 Reply

      Its easy to say but live can make us do horrible things.

      I mean he just lost his job, I shouldn’t have been rude to him

      He is under pressure at work, he still loves me

      And before you know it you have become another person entirely. Also abuse is not only physical, emotional abuse does the most damage and it is often very subtle and mostly missed.

  9. Khaleesi
    April 04, 11:18 Reply

    beautiful, surreal story …
    it’d be so tempting to judge the weakness of the writer, but i wont! not everyone is strong in everything … Very well written, beatifully rendered …

  10. mx
    April 04, 12:06 Reply

    if u r effeminate and nt strong pls try and strt working out. my bf was delicate bfre we strtd dating now he can push me around (playfully) evn tho I am bigger than him. work out and be strong enuf to beat hs ass bfre u leave him.

  11. bruno
    April 04, 12:34 Reply

    this story kinda sent chills up my spine.

    even if you love him more than life itself, you should not take any form of abuse from a lover be it physical, verbal or emotional.

    it’s really hard to leave someone you love but you have to find the courage and do it. it will hurt like a bitch but it’s the only way.

  12. Dickson Clement
    April 04, 13:12 Reply

    You see why I say: Love is an emotion that weakens our resolve! It takes ruggedness to let go when the love -drum is playing….. and for some of Us that are ruthless, this story may never happen to us.

  13. DI-NAVY
    April 04, 13:27 Reply

    La cooze, I can totally relate to your story. Domestic violence sure do exist, be it a straight or gay relationship. You suffered it for so long because you were scared your parents would know what you and Ibrahim share and you don’t want to be outed like that. You suffered it for so long because the friends you roll with doesn’t understand the real you so you had nobody to confide in, i totally relate.
    Yes Ibrahim might have been super jealous and excessively protective but he was so stupid and immature, You fell to see how violent he was to you because you loved him so much. Truth of the matter is, these kind pf abuse normally comes from people we truly love and trust.
    I don’t blame you really but I’m glad you ran away from such condition, If we were in a country where our parents were so open minded, it wouldn’t have gotten to this. Kpele, when next this happens even tho it might not happen again. Bite off his dick, don’t take chances, you would have died during the process abegy.

  14. Reed
    April 04, 14:03 Reply

    “Why would you hit someone you claim to love” I think they call it BLACK LOVE. At least that’s what I got when I did some digging about it. Hmmmmmmm
    Nice story, almost felt like it was mine. Only mine seemed to last a short while. I guess at some point u feel u have made your last stop and are ready to do whatever it takes to make it work. So wen d beating starts coming u tend to absurb. Cos truth be told I hardly see any relationship lasting this days. Its almost like we re out of guys ready for a steady relationship. Especially here in Ph. Dennis u shld know what I mean. They all seem like they just want the fun and they move on, or they are in search of a booty call.
    Getting the courage to move on especially when u feel your moving into a void is not easy. Am happy that the writer finally got himself together and did the needful. Nice story

  15. chuck
    April 04, 15:28 Reply

    It’s harder to break up with people when you have moved in with them.

  16. sucrescalada
    April 04, 15:44 Reply

    No words … Just no words… My heart broke into tiny pieces after reading this..

  17. Chandler B.
    April 04, 15:54 Reply

    It feels like a movie was just played in my head. Your writing is just too beautiful.
    I’m glad you left and I truly hope you have healed emotionally. One day you’d find love that would be healthy for you, La-CooZee.

  18. Peak
    April 04, 16:06 Reply

    Fiction or not, this is a very striking story.

    Love is one phenomenon that defies rationality and logic. People express and process emotions differently. It takes a mature person (mentally and emotionally) to realise that they are acting excessively crude in a relationship.

    Victims of DV usually stay for reasons ranging from love, to the feeling of hopelessness and helplessness, to trying to keep appearance cos outsiders see their relationship as a shinning example of what love is about, hence the need to keep up the charade. Some just have this erroneous believe that love is hard and stormy, so they condition their minds to ride it through. But whatever the case maybe, I personally don’t see DV victims as cowards. There is a certain level of torture you go through, that can make you lose ur identity and sight of who you ought or planned to be. Unless you have a good support system or miraculously wake up from the haze of mental and emotional imprisonment, most folks don’t make it out alive or whole when all is said and done.

    Just because we haven’t experienced it, doesn’t make it unreal, weak, stupid or less sensible. You never truly get the sense or grasp of some of life’s or human challenges until you experience them directly or through someone close to you. The human mind just has a weird way of adjusting to difficult situations.

    Well done La-coozee.

  19. Eddie
    April 04, 18:02 Reply

    hmmm rather chilling…i cant even imagine how being in La Coozee’s shoes must feel….uh Reed,talking about PH ‘hit and run’ dudes…i totally agree and its sooooo frustrating…i’m at a point where i’ve lost hope…they pretend to like you,fuck you and just dump you like broken china …always end up feeling used…not a nice feeling smh

  20. Tobee
    April 04, 18:17 Reply

    Nice story. Intimate partner violence is more recognised in straight relationships and even then it’s often difficult for women to leave; not to mention when the relationship is secret and socially condemned! I think it’s up to us to teach each other warning signs – jealousy, excessive possessiveness, verbal or emotional abuse…pick race. There’s some association with excessive use of alcohol and other psychoactive substances as well.
    @ Ambivalentone, I think ‘ummu’ is arabic for mother, so ‘ummuani’ may mean ‘mother of ani’.

    • ambivalentone
      April 05, 09:55 Reply

      Thanks hun. I initially thot it was Igbo and wondered what it was doing there but I realised it is ‘umu’ in Igbo. I guess I am not well versed in language basics as I thot.

  21. Sinnex
    April 04, 18:48 Reply

    La Coozee Ma Boozee… nice one ?

  22. Geeluv
    April 04, 19:39 Reply

    Are you fucking kidding me??? A man abusing a fellow man??? Being effeminate does not make you a weakling and assuming to be in love doesn’t make you completely stupid. I’m just pissed now… I swear!!!

  23. Francis
    April 04, 22:46 Reply

    The matter start emotionally then quickly escalated to physical one night and na so I find my exit even though a tiny part of me was making excuses for him. I’m grateful for the experience as now i know what to look out for in any relationship and when to up and leave STAT!

    Really gut-wrenching piece La-coozee. I had to see what FB pipul were raving about and I’m impressed. ????

  24. iamcoy
    April 05, 00:03 Reply

    I don’t know if its the subject that got me but this is the most immaculate written piece i have come across here in a long time. You are a good writer!

  25. Lorde
    April 05, 07:21 Reply

    Wow, a touching story… you see that’s why I try to be on my own, my penultimate ex, who I’d dated for 2wks, saw a text from one dude who’d bin bothering me, n who I OBVIOUSLY WASNT replying, n went ape-shit on me in d car, talking about “after all I’ve done for you, driving you to school n taking you out (n shit like that)” then nigga pauses n is like “I love you so much, enough to DISCIPLINE YOU, n teachh you how to love”!!!! I just turned n laffed n be like “the day you hit me, is the day you die, or we both die” I guess nigga saw d semi-crazy in my smiling face, cos he started withdrawing, n in like 2wks, we wer over.

    • Francis
      April 05, 07:58 Reply

      ??? Each time I’ve gotten in a fight this is actually what goes on in the mind just before shit goes down. It’s like I become suicidal sort of, given that my opponents tend to have a larger structure or are stronger than I am.

  26. Kester
    April 05, 07:37 Reply

    I am dumbstruck, I am overwhelmed, I am angry, I am………. why do people treat others like dirt?
    (easy gurl, deep breaths, we can’t have wrinkles can we?)
    This is the most amazing piece I have ever read here, everyone is asking why I am crying, can’t help myself. Thanks for sharing, thanks for the good ending cos it could have been worse.
    It’s just unfortunate that there are people who get to off on beating up others, oppressing others.
    Thanks for exposing a world many people are still living in I pray victims will find the courage and a way to leave before it gets too bad.

  27. Kester
    April 05, 07:50 Reply

    Haha haha haha haha haha @Lorde that was a good one.
    We all need a bit of crazy to stay sane

  28. Evil Empress
    June 18, 17:56 Reply

    And all I can do is….

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