A dead woman, Ogochukwu Onuchukwu (she died last month) shares her
story and writes a letter to her husband from the grave. I culled the
letter from her WEBSITE and wanted to share it because it’s something we all need to read and hopefully someone will learn from it. Read it below…
My mum is crying. I can see her from here. She has aged since the
last time I saw her. Why does she look so old and why is she so thin?
Can someone console her? Can someone make her stop crying?
I try to get up but I can’t. I try to reach for her, but I’m stuck
where I am. It is very dark in here, and very cold, so very cold.
What am I doing here? Where is everybody? Where are my children? I
begin to panic, to struggle; I want to get out of this dark room.
I can hear Uzo calling. She’s calling my name. Then, I see mum
again. And I hear Uzo again. I don’t see my children. Where are my
children? I can’t see beyond the walls of this dark and cold room.
This just messed with my head…I hope you fair better. Continue reading…
Uzo calls again.
She sounds desperate to rouse me from my sleep. I am struggling to
wake but I can’t. I open my eyes and they shut of their own accord.
I am powerless to keep them from shutting. And I find as soon as I
stop struggling, my sleep becomes sweet repose. Suddenly I don’t want to
wake from it just yet. It is peaceful.
I see mum again, and I see Uzo. Uzo keeps calling. She won’t stop calling. She is crying too, just like mum.
Can someone bring Kamsi and Amanda to me? Can someone bring my
babies to me? I need to hug them, Kamsi, especially. Is he crying too
and calling out for me? Does he understand that I am gone? Kamsi will
miss me.
He is a special child, you know; Kamsiyochukwu – my son and my first child.
I prayed and longed for his birth. He was the blessing from above
that would seal Kevin’s love for me and give me some footing in his home
and some acceptance from his family.
Before Kamsi, I was a nobody in Kevin’s home. I was born the last
of nine children, the baby of the family. I was used to love and
affection. I was everyone’s baby. I grew up knowing that everyone had my
back, I grew up knowing the safety and security of being the baby of
the home. You may then understand my shock when I stepped out of my home
and into new territory with the man of my dreams only to find that I
was really not as special as I had been made to believe. I look back to
that day when Kevin took me home to introduce me to my new family. The
cold and rude shock of the welcome his brother’s wife gave me set off an
alarm in my head.
These people didn’t think I was special. In fact, her first words
were, ”Kevin, ebe kwa ka isi dute nka?” (Kevin, “Where on earth did you
bring this one from?) That would be the first time I would be addressed
as “this one” and from then on, I grappled with the realization that I
was not welcome in my new home.
I remember my first Christmas at Ihiala as a new bride. My
brother-in-law’s wife would sneer and clap and refer to me as “Ndi ji
ukwu azo akwu” (the people who process palm fruits with their bare
feet). I knew she meant my impoverished home town of Nsukka. She would
sing to me all day long telling me the only reason why their brother
married me was because of my beauty and complexion.
Now, I lie here and I wonder if I was in my right mind to ignore the several other alarms over my 12- year union with Kevin.
I had to ignore them, I told myself. I had already taken my vows to be with Kevin until death did us part.
They never really wanted me, I can now see. But I was too blinded
by love to realize that. I needed to do something to cement Kevin’s
heart with mine. I needed to remain Kevin’s wife and to prove to the
world that indeed Love would conquer all.
When after one year of marriage there were still no children, the
painful journey that sent me to my grave started. I went from specialist
to specialist, ingested every kind of pill that promised to boost my
fertility. As my desperation grew, so did pressure from Kevin’s family.
My horror-movie life story started playing out; the horror-movie life that has sent me to an early and cold grave from where I write this letter to my husband.
*********************************************************************************
My sweet Kevin,
We started to fight over little things. The fights were worse after
you visited home or attended any of your numerous family meetings. You
came home one evening and asked me to move out of the bedroom we both
shared and into the guestroom downstairs. The next time you returned
from the meeting, you tied me up with a rope and used your belt on me.
No one heard my screams.
I remember when you told me that your family had asked you to
remarry. You showed me documents of all your numerous landed property
including the house we lived in. Your brother was listed as next of kin.
When I asked you about it, your answer rocked the ground I was standing
on. You said, “What have you to show that entitles you to any stake in
this household?” You were referring to my barreness.
It is funny how to my family and friends, I was the beautiful and
loving Ogo, whilst to you and your family I was a worthless piece of
rag. You called me barren. I could have fled but your love and
acceptance was of more worth to me than the love and admiration of the
world outside our home. I desperately sought to be loved by you, Kevin.
In your family’s presence I felt unworthy, unloved and unwanted.
Yet, I stayed on. I would make you love me one way or the other and I
knew that one sure way would
be to produce a child, an heir for you. That was the most important thing to you.
I began the numerous procedures, painful procedures, including
surgery. I gave myself daily shots. At some point the needles could no
longer pierce my skin. My skin had toughened to the piercing pain of
needles.
After seven years of marriage, our prayers were answered. God
blessed us with our son Kamsiyochukwu, which means ‘’Just as I asked of
the Lord’’. God had intervened and miracles were about to start
happening because for the first time in seven years, my mother-in-law
called me. Finally I was home. I had been accepted. I was now a woman, a
wife and a mother. Finally there was peace. Kamsi will be four in
November.
The miracles stayed with me because 18 months later through another
procedure, Chimamanda was born. Her birth was bitter sweet for me.
Sweet because you Kevin, my husband, and my in-laws would love me more
for bearing a second child, but bitter because this particular birth
almost cost me my life. The doctors had become very concerned. You see, I
had developed too many complications from all the different procedures I
had undergone in the journey to have children and these were beginning
to get in the way of normal everyday living. I developed conditions that
had almost become life threatening. So the doctors sent me off with my
new bundle of joy and with a stern warning not to try for another child
as I may not be so lucky.
I chuckled, almost gleefully. Why would I want to try for a third
child? God had given me a boy and a girl, what more could I ask for. I
was only ever so thankful to God.
Kevin, you and I gave numerous and very generous donations to
different churches in thanksgiving to God. All was well. I was happy and
fulfilled. Kevin, you loved me again. Your family accepted me. Life was
good. And all was quiet again. …………………… For a while.
Then fate struck me a blow. As if to remind me that my stay in your
house was temporary and was never really going to be peaceful, Kamsi –
our son, our first fruit, my pride and joy and the child that gave me a
place in my husband’s home, began to show signs of slowed development;
the visits to the doctors resumed, this time on account of Kamsi.
We started seeing therapists. After we’d been from one doctor to
another I decided I had to resort to prayer. I was frightened. I was
terrified. I was threatened. I started to feel unwell. I had difficulty
breathing. I needed to see my doctors, Kamsi too. He wasn’t doing too
well either. He had difficulty with his speech. He was slow to
comprehend things. I did not know for sure what was wrong with him but I
knew all was not well. Not with him and not with me. We
were denied visas to the USA because we had overstayed on our last
trip on account of Kamsi’s treatments. So whilst we waited for a lawyer
to help us clear up the immigration issues with America, I applied for a
UK visa and sought help in London. But by then, trouble had reared its
head at home, again.
Kevin, you had again become very impatient with me. My fears were
fully alive again. The battles it seemed I had won were again in full
rage. My husband, in your irritable impatience and anger, you told me to
my face that our son, my Kamsi, was worthless to you. You said he was
abnormal. You said that our daughter, my Amanda, was a girl and that you
had no need for a girl child because she would someday be married off. I
remember, in pain, that you didn’t attend Amanda’s christening because
you were upset with me. You told me your mother was more important to
you than “THESE THINGS” I brought to your house. You were referring to
our children, were you not? “THESE THINGS”.
My heart bled. I wept bitterly. Then I quickly calmed my fears by
telling myself that you were under a lot of stress at work and that you
were also probably reacting to all the money that you had spent on my
treatments. Surely, all that was getting to you? Even when you
threatened me with a knife, twice you did that, I still felt unworthy of
you and very deserving of your hatred. Even when you would say: “I will
kill you and nothing will happen because you have no one to fight for
you”, I kept on struggling to get you to love me because, Kevin, your
validation was important to me
You had refused to give me money for my medical trip to London. I
knew then it was because you had your hands full with caring and
catering for everybody who was dear to you. Your finances were
stretched. I thought then that in time you would come around.
My health continued to get worse. Eventually, I made it to London.
After extensive consultations and tests, I was given a definitive
diagnosis. My condition was life threatening. It was from this time,
when it was clear that I required surgery to save me life that I came
face to face with a different kind of war from our home.
Kevin, you stopped speaking with me. I was in pain, in anguish and
in tears. I didn’t understand what was happening. I had stayed three
weeks in London and Kevin, you never called, sent a text or inquired how
I was faring. You stopped taking my calls. Instead I got a call from my
cousin in whose care I had left my children. She was frantic with worry
because there was no food in the house for the children to eat; Kevin
you had refused to provide food for our children. Kevin, you had also
refused to pay for Kamsi’s home schooling.
Then Kevin, I received that e-mail from you. The only communication from you for the entire period I was in London.
Do you remember? It was an angry email. You berated me for putting
your integrity at stake at your work place. Apparently your employers
had called a hospital in London to inquire about me and were told that
no one by my name was ever their patient. I later found out that you had
given the wrong hospital name to your employers. Do you remember,
Kevin?
For the first time in my 12 year marriage, the alarm bells in my
head began to sound real. For the first time in 12 years, I felt real
anger stir up in my heart. Kevin, I was angry because you paid no heed
to the hospital where your wife was at in London. You had no clue and
cared little about what I was going through. Yet you would berate me for
putting your INTEGRITY at work at stake. Your integrity was your
primary concern, not my health.
Then it hit me! All these years I was trying to be all I could be
for you, Kevin, to make you happy, to please you, Kevin, ……… you
actually hated me. You didn’t want me in your life. The signs were all
there. Your family had showed me from day one that they didn’t want me. I
was the object of a hatred that I could not explain. I
couldn’t understand why.
Then I saw the hand writing on the wall, all those many things that
went on. You even sold my car whilst I was still lying on a hospital
bed in London, with no word to me. I was not to learn of what you had
done until I returned to Nigeria. The doctors had allowed me to return
to prepare for surgery.
Kevin, do you remember that on my return I gave you a pair of shoes
I had bought for you? Kevin, my husband, do you remember hurling those
shoes at me? Kevin, do you remember me breaking down in tears? Kevin, do
you remember me asking you that night, many times over, why you hated
me so much, what I had done to make you hate me as much as you did?
“You are disturbing me, and if you continue, I`ll move out and
inform the company that I no longer live in the house. Then they will
come and drive you away”. Kevin, my husband, that was your response to
me. Did you know then I only had days to live? Is that why you told me
that would be the last time I would see you physically? Did you know it
would only be a few more hours?
I still had a surgery to go through. Kevin, since you wanted no
part in it, I had contacted the medical officer in your company directly
for referrals. I left Eket for Lagos on Saturday. That same day I
consulted with the specialist surgeon and surgery was scheduled for
Monday morning.
In those final hours, as I prepared for my surgery, I was alone, my
spirit was broken. I had lost all the fight in me. Kevin, I knew that
nothing I did or said would turn you heart toward me, and I had nobody
for whom you had any regards who would speak up for me.
In those final hours, Kevin, I called you. This was Sunday morning,
less than 24 hours to my death. Do you remember, Kevin? I called you to
share what the specialist surgeon had said. I was still shaking from
your screams on the phone when I got in here. You did not want me to
bother you, you screamed. I should go to my brothers and sisters, you
screamed. I should pay you back all the money you gave me for my
treatment in London, you screamed. Kevin, did you know that would be my
last conversation with you? My last conversation with you, my husband,
my love, my life, ended with you banging the phone on me.
Recalling the abusive words, the spitting, the beating, the
bruising, the knifing, and the promise that I would not live long for
daring to forget to buy garden eggs for your mother, an insult you vowed
I would pay for with my life ……., I knew then it was over for me. There
was no rationalizing needed any longer. Even the blind could see ……….
You did not want me in your life.
I went in for surgery on Monday morning, February 27, 2012, and after battling for several hours, I yielded my spirit.
Kevin, my husband, I lived my promise to God. The promise I made on the day I wedded you.
For better ………………………… For worse
For richer …………………………. For poorer
In Sickness ………………………. And in health
To love ………………………….. And to cherish
Till DEATH US DO PART!
And it has.
NOW I AM DEAD!!!!!!!
Just as your mum predicted ….. Her cold words follow me to morgue.
She swore to me that I would leave her son’s house dead or alive. I
couldn’t leave whilst I still breathed. It had to be through death, and
death it has become.
Kevin, you are FREE! And, so am I.
Your freedom is temporary. Mine is eternal.
Whilst you still have freedom, remember Kamsi and Chimamanda.
Lovingly yours until death,
Ogo.
I am gone. Gone forever. But if one woman, just one woman will learn from my story, then maybe I would not have gone in vain.
My heart weeps for my children, my mummy, my sisters and my
brothers, my extended family. These ones, I was a gift to. These ones,
they loved me. These ones, they wanted me. These ones, they needed me.
These ones, they wish I had spoken out earlier.
***
Written by someone who was part of her life and witnessed her struggles. RIP Ogo.
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