Truth is seen as a virtue, but when it morosely lacerate deep into your flesh with an avalanche of pains that calls for death, it becomes horrible and unbearable. My husband got our daughter pregnant.
Nineteen years I’ve been married to my husband. I had thought I had the marriage properly shielded from the Satan’s sword. My husband was loving and kind, the best any woman could ever wish for. He wanted me to be a full time housewife, but I hated the boring home chores. “I didn’t spend four years studying Economics, with Masters in Macro-Economics just to become a housewife.” I told him. He later saw reasons with me, and assisted me in getting a job in an oil firm. He wanted us to get a housemaid; I never liked the idea and was never going to allow a total stranger into my home. I’d heard a lot of stories about housemaids snatching husbands from their wives, while some enthralled such men with sex. I didn’t want that, so I made sure I prepared breakfast before leaving for work, and came back home early to make dinner. But all that changed when my daughter clocked fifteen years. She’d known how to prepare every meal. I didn’t have to wake so early to prepare breakfast, nor hurry home from work to make dinner.
After I’d gained much experience, I decided to establish my own private business. My husband initially did not give his consent, but later agreed and encouraged me. It did pay off when he lost his job. We lacked nothing in the house because my business is a lucrative one. That was how I became the breadwinner of the house, and I had to work extra-hard to ensure that my company gets to its peak of success. I came home late at nights. At first, my husband was very understanding. But he changed when making love became gruelling to me after a long day work, and most night I denied him sex. His patience was so ruffled one night that he asked me; “Vivian, are you having an affair with another man? Have you started imitating some of these career women who cheats on their husbands?” Astounded, I protested aggressively. He held me and said; “Honey, I want you to know that I’m human, with feelings flowing in my veins, you can’t keep denying me sex.” That quelled my furry, and I apologised. I allowed him have his way, but while in the act, he saw that I was truly tired. He got used to me and he wasn’t complaining anymore.
Lately, my husband had been wreathed in a melancholy that he sometimes wakes up brusquely at night__ Nightmares! But my trying to probe into him to know what was wrong yielded no result. At a point I got inured to his secrete sadness.
At exactly 10 a.m. last week, I received a disturbing call from Doctor Lucas. My husband was rushed to his hospital after he attempted suicide with a sharp knife. Luckily, my daughter, Lizzy was at home. Lizzy had heard him wailing and hurriedly ran to the scene, only to find her daddy exsanguinating and twisting in blood.
My husband has since been in coma in his hospital bed.
I’d thought his attempted suicide was bad enough to have my heart shattered; only five days ago I got the worst truth, still hoping I could wake up from this nightmare. My daughter could not bear it any longer; she’s been an ocean that’d been guided by walls, preventing it from flowing, for so long. I saw her weeping, so much in pain that I decided to hide my fears and encourage her.
“Lizzy, please stop, your daddy is going to be okay, he’ll live, okay?” I said ignorantly.
“Mummy, please forgive me, I’m sorry…”
“Oh come on! Lizzy, it’s not your fault.”
“Mum, daddy did what he did because of me…”
“What are you talking about?”
“Mummy, you were not always available to daddy.” She said, tears rode down her cheeks like the rains rushing down for refuge on earth.
“What do you mean?” I frowned at her comment.
Now, hear Lizzy out!
“One evening, I served daddy food. I noticed he was staring at me, especially my breast. He left the food on the table and went into his room. I over-heard him call my name, so I went to meet him. I met him putting on only boxer-short and bare-chested. He locked the door and put the key in his pocket. Then he asked me to sit on his lap which I did like he’d always done; only for him to start cuddling me and professing love to me. I felt his manhood on my buttock, so I jumped up. I tried to run away but he held me. And he took off his boxers and went stark naked. I cried. He didn’t care, but forced me to the bed and pulled off my dress, and forced himself into me. Daddy raped me. He deflowered me. He threatened to kill me and kill himself if I tell anyone. I got scared and couldn’t tell you. Ever since, daddy has been playing a ruse on me and sleeping with me. Few weeks ago, I was sick and daddy took me to the hospital and the doctor confirmed I’m four months pregnant. Daddy wanted the baby removed, but the doctor warned that by my nature, the abortion would damage my womb, and I might not survive the operation as well. Daddy and I have been in dilemma since.”
As she painfully narrated this ungodly act to me, I wished I could sink into the earth and not have to think or remember this bizarre news.
I’m totally devastated and panged. The thought that I never had any inkling of this crazed act wreathes me in unforgettable pains. Lizzy is just seventeen. I’m dying slowly of emotional trauma each day that greets my situation. My own daughter is pregnant for my husband, her own biological father. What else can be worse than this in life?
He is still in the hospital gradually recuperating while Lizzy cries all day and night. I’m so confused right now, not knowing what to do; I fear that my daughter might try to take her own life, but I hope and pray she doesn’t. Do I go against the doctor’s warning, abort this child in her womb and hope for a miracle?
