Tolu and I were best friends. We did everything together, from schoolwork tasks, to body piercing, attending shows and concerts, stepping out in the same outfits and all. I guess the only thing left was matching tattoos, yet since I was a bit timid concerning that, it won’t ever work out.
Tragically, our relationship became alienated the day I found her shuddering body lying on the floor as her eyes moved back. Her abusive boyfriend had beaten her seriously enough to land her in a coma. I thought, this should be the end because I would never be made for this. Little did I know I was the next in line…
My parents owned a duplex in Lekki Lagos, Nigeria and chose to lease the upper half to Lade, a single parent who had quite recently won a guardianship fight for her two kids. Regardless of her unpleasant conditions, my parents decided to follow their hearts and chose to give Lade the opportunity. Sadly, this choice remains the one they will continually regret.
My parents’ thoughtful gesture welcomed crime right to our doorstep. Lade was an absent mother, and gang violence, drug trafficking and cop visits turned into our new standard. Following quite a while of keeping me shielded, my eighteenth birthday celebration marked the day my interest prompted a 3-year relationship that seemed like it could continue forever.
Malik, the most youthful of Lade’s kids, wore his indignation on his sleeves, credited to long stretches of maltreatment under the hands of a bad child care framework. I was drawn to his internal revolution, which tested my inner gut. I resembled a youngster who needed to feel the oven to check whether I’d get scorched. For his purposes, I was distant grounds; I was his landowner’s little girl. Like my mom would agree, “never poop where you lay,” yet as far as we might be concerned, it was a test we were unable to stand up to.
His terrible kid picture made a mutually dependent connection between us. I needed to fix him; all things considered, I was examining to turn into a therapist in school. I accepted that I had the apparatus to form him into the man he should have been with late-night “training sessions” to requests for employment to get him off the street. Tragically, things started missing — jewelry, cash and, at last, my mental health.
After questioning the strange disappearance of my property, I was welcomed with an adequate number of reasons to question my world. Am I sure that I lost these things? Was it one of my friends taking them? Or on the other hand, perhaps Malik required the cash more than I. The validity inside my voice gradually dwindled each time I would answer his call, as I covertly met him in secret places and overlooked that voice inside myself that yelled, “run!”
The more we hung out, the more I lost myself. Malik’s envy and hatred started to show up to wreak havoc, making me lose my personality and reason. He’d insult me and afterward toss in a comment to relax the blow. He’d offer playful comments and snicker to camouflage his analysis as “innocuous jokes.” In the long run, I dropped out of school, lost my friends and was sent away from my home, moving in with my sister in Ikeja. The brilliant future I envisioned became blurrier everyday and the psychological maltreatment was just the start.
Malik could inquire, “Do you have at least some idea of how it feels for your father to not care about you or what being destitute and living on the streets is like?” He proceeded, “Have you at any point gotten back home to an empty fridge and kitchen and needed to sell drugs since you’re famished?” Reluctantly, I’d say no and started feeling crippling disgrace about my “advantaged” life. My family unit was viewed as a benefit in our prevalently elite community. My dad returns home everyday with a briefcase wearing his suit and tie. My mom was a homemaker, because of my dad, who could bear to convey the monetary burden under a solitary pay. I was right here, the young lady nearby who had everything he wanted and all that he wasn’t.
While promising my parents I would cut off this friendship with Malik, they agreed to welcome me home assuming I returned to school. I attempted to leave by staying away from him, but how? How will I stay away from the kid who lives just above us? Sincerely, it wasn’t possible. I recollect the day we ran into one another as I got back after re-enrolling for school. He rode his bicycle as quickly as possible and immediately stopped before me. “You want to simply disregard me like that? I have a gun in my pocket and can shoot you at this moment.”
As I decided to look back at him, he grasped the side of his pocket to uncover the engraving of the firearm underneath his jean pocket. I pondered internally, “Is he truly going to shoot me in broad daylight?” I ran as quickly as possible and promptly went to report to the police. Nearly two hours later, they at last answered me, and the only security I got was a piece of paper. A form of guarantee of no contact. I thought about how this would help as my dad took a look at the cop and said, “that is all there is to it.” Unfortunately, they advised us that their options were limited, and there was nothing more they could do.
I left feeling crushed until I got a call that Malik was in prison for selling drugs. To celebrate my newly-found freedom, my friend and I met at our number one eatery until a shadow came behind me before an unexpected blow hit the side of my head. It was Malik… “You believe you’re smart, around here with another man, huh? You thought I won’t get out, right?” He loosened up his arm to hit me once more, breaking my left eardrum.
After a progression of ringing commotions, the sound totally stopped, and I lost hearing in my right ear. My friend had to go call the police, however they didn’t appear. This time I chose to appear for myself and retaliated more than ever. I took my satchel and hit him as hard as possible. I snatched his afro hair and pulled him down, using Taekwondo methods I recollected from five years of work during my youth. He snatched the side of his face in total silence, stunned by my unexpected hostility. As of now I knew — I’d reclaimed my power and I was prepared to battle for the three years of my life that I won’t ever get back.
He ran off and I could hear cheers from neighboring shops who saw and recorded our whole fight. I was at last justified and this time I knew that if he returned, he could never meet the young lady he once knew. He was left with a permanent scar on his face, and I prayed it would act as his wake up call to never harm any more lady in the future. This was the last time I needed to manage his maltreatment. And in some cases I wonder, as I remember my best friend Tolu, who was killed only a couple of months ago by her abusive partner.
What would’ve occurred if Malik had pulled the trigger? Could I have been simply one more face painted on a remembrance wall with candles perfectly lined across the walkway? Could I be another brief Facebook post that could rapidly vanish from everybody’s timeline since it’s not generally so trendy like BBN Housemates?