Of cycles and linear issues

The first time Jide saw his father beat his mum was when he was six. He remembered his father coming back home — from the workplace he had left for very early in the morning — by 8pm. He had entered their two-bedroom flat scowling darkly, and for some reason, a basic instinct Jide had never known he possessed before that time had made him shrink back in an innate, reflexive act of self-preservation.

He had been up that night, trying to finish his assignment. Mummy had promised to help him with them the day before, but she had been feeling very tired and had almost fallen over while making dinner. He had not known what was wrong, but one look at her face had told his young heart that she needed to rest. So, he told her he would do it on his own and had spent the past two hours battling with his multiplications.

His father had come in asking him for mummy, his voice gruff and very angry. He remembered his mother rushing into the sitting room — almost as if she had jumped up from the bed and hit the ground running, as soon as she heard his baritone voice echo through the house — and gently shooing him away into his room as quickly as possible, throwing a weak, wobbly smile in his direction.

He remembered hearing the indecipherable, muffled sounds of his father's furious voice and his mother's low, soothing one as he pressed his ear to the wooden door. He remembered how his father's voice had risen and risen until it drowned out his mother's and then felt more than heard something soft hit the door of his room with a thud, causing him to shift back in alarm and fall on his little rear.

He remembered opening it a crack, only to come face to face with his mother's wide eyes as she silently pleaded with them for him to close the door immediately. Her large, scared eyes had screamed out the warning in blatant alarm — "lock it and bolt it, Jide!", they seemed to say. "Do it now!". Afraid and very shocked to see his mother in such a state, his small, shaking fingers had gripped the door-knob tightly as he closed the door slowly. He remembered the relief in his mother's eyes as she saw him shutting the door — one that remained seared into his juvenile mind and he was sure would have left her face immediately she heard the tell-tale click of the lock.

She had looked relieved — whether it was because he would not see the rest of what would happen to her, or because she was then assured his father would not get to him, till today he still wasn't sure why.

She had not seen him open it minutes later though. Neither had she seen as he gazed at the wall opposite him, brightly illuminated by the fluorescent lamp, as shadows danced upon it — a burly one with its arms lifted, aggressively pounding on a slight, smaller one relentlessly.

They ran away when he was ten.

Jide remembered his mother rushing into the house that afternoon. He had just come back from school and was putting his shoes away when she had barged in, eyes wide, teary and bloodshot as she gently but shakily instructed him to go into his room and bring out the small box she had arranged for him two days prior. He had understood her reason for doing so then and why she had told him not to mention a word of it to his father, not even during dinner.

He remembered how he had rushed back into the sitting room with his brown, leather box in tow, his now taller frame allowing him navigate it with ease. A part of his mind was elated that they would finally be free even as another part — the only small part of his mind remaining that didn't completely loathe his father — ached guiltily as he thought of him. His mother continued to look back at the door, as if she was scared that her husband would appear out of thin air and stop their hasty retreat.

They had fled into the hot afternoon, never once looking back.

He had been nineteen when he was told his father had died. He remembered his mum telling him, her voice without inflection and her face devoid of emotion as she had shared the information with him – "Your father is dead, Jide. The neighbours said he died in his sleep.", she had stated dully. He remembered the feeling of reprieve that had soared in his chest, swiftly followed by crushing guilt at his feeling such blatant relief at the death of his sire. He could not hide it though, and he slept easier after that night, no more plagued with nightmares of his father strangling his mum or meeting both of them dead on the floor of their former house, faces contorted in rage and sorrow.

He was twenty-eight when he married Sharon. They had been dating since her final year in the University and were married two years after. There, on their wedding day — as his mother and hers danced to the songs being played at the celebration — he had promised himself silently that he would be nothing like his horrible patriarch.

He remembered the first time he raised his hands against her. He had been frustrated from work and had been shutting her out for a month. She had come to him, eyes full of worry and expressive concern. Emotions that had quickly turned to suppressed rage as he told her to mind her business – a statement to which she had swiftly replied, angrily shouting that he was 'her business' because they were married. He couldn't remember what happened few words after that, because the next thing he could recall was him breathing heavily and staring at his wife, his precious Sharon, on the floor as she held her left cheek — her eyes wide as saucers in shock — and stared at his right hand in disbelieving horror: a hand that was still raised and shaking in poorly contained anger.

He remembered how his insides had curled up in self-disgust. How he had felt so repulsed at his actions, at himself, that he had felt like throwing up. He remembered kneeling down and crawling to his wife's side, eyes leaking liquid pain and heartfelt sorrow as he apologised over and over again, holding her still shaking form tightly to himself. He remembered hearing himself promise that he'd never do it again, eyes tightly shut as his mind reminded him of a time years away from now, a time barely forgotten.

He hit her for the second time two weeks later, and this time he was too ashamed to apologise. Instead, he had walked into their bathroom and stared into the mirror, trying to search in the face of the man staring back at him for the boy who had seen his father do something similar to his mum. He punched his fists into the clear, unsullied mirror — breaking it over and over again into many unequal, crystal parts — till they bled in penance and his blood mixed with the fragmented crystals on the wall. Hanging his head dejectedly, he wept bitterly; again.

The third time he hit her, his mother had been visiting. He had exploded in a fit of rage, already punching her twice, before his head had cleared long enough to see his mother rush out of her room as fast as her aging body would allow and stare at him in shock, her face a mixture of rage, fear and deeply-felt sorrow as she yanked his wife away from within hitting range and pulled her behind her, her eyes filled with raw disbelief and… another emotion that looked a lot like dawning acceptance. Almost like as much as it hurt her to admit, her thoughts were screaming, "like father, like son."

It was the look in her eyes that had broken him. Seeing his beloved mother mirror the same expression she had used whenever she looked at his father during the occasions he had hit her in his presence as a young child, he knelt on the hard, cold tiles and wept.

It was that experience that had led him to his current state and resolve – he had decided he needed help, and he had agreed to get it. His mother had agreed to stay with him and his wife throughout the process of his "therapy", even though she argued at first that she did not want to cause the couple discomfort — an argument they had quickly countered by both conceding to the fact that they needed her with them, him especially.

He was scared to think about what he could have done to his wife had his mother not been around. What he might have done. And right now, sitting on a chair that felt a tad too soft for him, in the air-conditioned counselling room of a psychiatrist, he could not help but fidget in his seat as he recounted his past up till then to the shrink perched on the comfortable but professional chair just across from him, a mahogany table — so well-polished that he could almost see his reflection clearly on it — the only thing separating them in the brightly illuminated room.

The woman sitting across from him really reminded him of his mother. Her black, greying hair was cropped short and neatly styled, and he could not help but notice the tell-tale wrinkles around her eyes and deep-set laugh lines on her face. She wasn't laughing currently though, but sat opposite him, nodding once in a while and jotting things down in a huge, leather-bound notebook as he spoke. He had half a mind to ask her just what she was writing down so steadfastly into it, but remembered his mother's persistent plea to treat Dr. Abimbola as he would her. "She helped me by walking me through my grief and bitterness after the death of your father, and I was finally able to come to peace with myself and him." she had supplied when he'd asked how she knew and could vouch for her.

As he looked once more at her bobbing head as she wrote notes down from all he had shared, every part of him really hoped she would be able to help him. His mother had called her a "Christian therapist" — whatever that meant. He just wanted to be helped. He couldn't imagine himself turning out to be exactly like the man he had despised with all his being, and for most of his life. He knew he would rather die than turn out that way and bring more harm to Sharon.

The woman finally looked up at him — she was done writing now. Her dark-brown eyes seemed to share tales of other unspoken stories with him, even as they drew him in with compassion. He felt the stoic exterior he had been trying to put up as he shared his story fall apart like very brittle glass, as she continued to stare at him with understanding and something so warm it made his eyes water.

"Jide, I might be only meeting you physically for the first time, but I've known you for longer than that in my head. Ever since the time I assisted your mother years back and she mentioned having a son, I had hoped we would be able to meet and I could be of assistance before something like this occurred. Nevertheless, it is not too late. For the sake of legal practice, I'll try to make this as official and objective as possible. And at the same time, for your sake and your mum's, permit me to talk to you, and please heed my advice as you would a trusted friend." she stated, her voice soothing and comforting, washing over his aching soul.

He wasn't sure why, but the room suddenly seemed warmer and brighter at the same time. He felt something give way within him — deadening despair bowing down to hope. He stared at her, eager for salvation, and made a gesture, showing his interest and allowing her to continue.

"What you are going through now is something many others have faced — the result of a mental conditioning that has been subconsciously planted within your mind by previous experiences. From your explanations, it's clear you had abhorred the way your Father had treated your mother. But in spite of that, he had been the only tutor your younger self had unconsciously gained when it came to dealing with women, specifically, a wife.

Because of this, the knowledge you had gotten from your father's treatment of your mother had stuck against your wish, because it had never been replaced by anything else, something we can and will actively do from now on."

She looked at him and smiled slightly, an act to encourage him, it seemed. And it worked.

"Now, Jide, this therapy will only work if you are willing to accept your flaws and come to terms with the truth — that you have an issue that has arisen because of your past experiences with your father but are willing to be walked through it and come out a changed man." she said soberly, making sure to enunciate every word she spoke.

"It is going to take conscious effort on your part and consistent counselling on mine to work this out to the end. You must be resolute in your decision to come out from this a better man, with a reconditioned mind. It will be a long, gruelling process, as you will have to fight against already ingrained reactions, but it is possible. And if you are willing, as we progress, I will share with you a sure way to renew your mind and stay accountable before the one who sees all."

Pure relief flooded his soul and Jide felt the tears that had been trying to break free from behind his eyelids — something he had been fighting against since he started recounting his past, by sheer will alone — finally flow down his cheeks in rivulets. The fear he had been trying so hard to ignore had finally been faced, and now, he felt a dawning hope!

He wasn't doomed to end up like his father. "He could be helped", she had said. There was hope for him — were the thoughts that filled his head as he stared at Dr. Abimbola and silently vowed to himself, his mother and his wife that he would do all he could and then some, to make sure he would not trail the abusive path his father had.

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This week's shout-out goes to Efosa and Ruth — you guys make writing updates something to look forward to.

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Author's note:

Hello loved one, I wanted to share with you on something a lot of us do not intentionally deal with — subconscious, inherent misconceptions that we might have been taught or have been passed down unintentionally to us by those we have been influenced by unwittingly, unconsciously or consciously.

Now, there is a spiritual part to certain patterns you see happening in the lives of people from generation to generation, and there is also a mental/psychological aspect — the latter something I have tried to address today with this short story.

We must all realise this: no matter how much we may despise and abhor a particular way of treating issues or dealing with life, if we do not intentionally and consciously recondition ourselves to live and react differently, we would find ourselves years later in life, acting out the scripts of those who had partaken in the play before us. Reenacting within the universe, a seemingly never-ending chain of similar events, and wreaking upon all of nature, a continuous feeling of Deja Vu.

However, there is hope for us. Just as the Bible has clearly stated in Romans 12:2, there is an option that had been granted to us to renew our minds with the word of God, so we can not only live out, but show to others what God's good and perfect will is, and the power to effect this change within us. In Jide's case, as he progresses with Dr. Abimbola, he will come to learn to care for his wife and love her, as he would his own body: something scriptures support and validate.

I need us to realise that even for the most basic of issues, there are answers provided for us in Christ Jesus. Answers that are easily within reach if we could only stretch out our hands to Him and accept His help.

We are loved and very well cared for.