I Am A Domestic Violence Lawyer Because Of The Abuse I Witnessed

Mama lay on the ground, the front yard of our modest home. She rolled from one end to the other, crying and lamenting, “Manfred ekum me o, Manfred atu mese!” (Translates: “Manfred has killed me, Manfred knocked my teeth out.”)

 Neighbors began trickling in, they used to come quicker and in bigger numbers, but I guess they got tired of two stupid adults and decided not to bother much anymore. In the lead was Mr. Andam, a respected school teacher, he had had his fair share of separating many fights in our home and talking sense into my parents. He tried in vain to get my Mama to get off the floor. She insisted she wanted to die there.

When enough neighbors had gathered, Mama finally rose from the ground. Her face was puffed up, her lips were busted and her mouth was bloody. Her clothes were stained with a mixture of blood and dirt. And when she spoke, a big gap could be seen in her mouth where her teeth had vacated their position. 

Mr. Andam and a few other neighbors insisted on taking Mama to the hospital. But before she went, she made sure to scout the ground and retrieve the three sets of teeth that had flown out her mouth. Initially, she found two, and she made such a ruckus, until the neighbors pitched in and located the third. Whenever I remember that night, I think of that particular moment when mother had neighbors scouting the ground looking for her lost teeth. She kept insisting, “One more tooth, one more! Find my tooth! I want my tooth before I step foot out of this house.”

Finally, one neighbor found it. Mama collected it and tied all three in her handkerchief, God knows what she needed it for. She allowed herself to be taken to hospital.

I was no stranger to domestic violence, but that night was different. My father snapped in a way I had never seen him before, and it sent a wave of mixed feeling through my spine. My young brain couldn’t decide whether to hate him or be proud of him.

In the middle of that night, policemen came to our home and handcuffed my father. Then they took him away. It was the year 2000, Domestic Violence and Victims Support Unit (DOVVSU) was then named  Women and Juvenile Unit (WAJU), and they were not playing!

I spent the night at Mr. Andam’s house, and his wife helped me prepare for school the next morning. When I returned home from school that afternoon, Mama was home. Her face was still puffed up. I don’t know if the look on her face was sadness or anger. What I do know though was that she was subdued, and she, probably like me was very much shocked by the previous night’s happenings.

“Ato, don’t be like your father. Do not learn this behavior, it isn’t gentlemanly for a man to beat his wife or any woman for that matter. Be a better man than your father, that father of yours is a coward…” And on and on she went, complaining to me and further compounding my confusion.

That weekend the police paid a visit to our home, to talk to eye witnesses in order to put the story together. But really there were no eyewitnesses to the actual assault apart from me. Neighbors could only tell what they saw after the fact. I remember one policeman turning to me, squatting and making eye contact with me, “Did you see what happened son?” He asked.

My mother immediately intervened, ever the protective mother, she did not want me to have to deal with the guilt of testing for or against one parent. She told the police they did not have her consent to interrogate her underagage child. She whisked me into my room and said, “Stay out of adult business.”

She did not want me to tell.

My father stayed in jail through the weekend, and into the ensuing week. He had been charged with aggravated physical assault and any other charges related to domestic violence. I think they even added charges for traumatizing me when my mother dutifully informed them she had been hit in my presence.

Family members from both my maternal and paternal side began arriving to reason with my mother to drop the charges.They had always been involved in  bringing peace after a huge argument, but this time they were negotiating my father’s release from jail. Mama was adamant that Papa should stay in jail, the more they pleaded the louder she insisted. Part of me felt she was enjoying the attention and the power.

One of my uncles arrived on Thursday and he brought along my two older cousins whom I loved! While the adults talked, my cousins and I went outside to kick a ball. Of course they asked me what happened, and proud to know something they wanted to hear, told them all the truth, complete with examples and evidence.

“Mama has been beating Papa, whenever they have an argument, she bites him, claws at him, slaps him and sometimes spits at him. Most times she draws blood. But last time, Papa hit back and he hit hard!” I said.

My cousins stopped dead in their tracks. They looked at me and at each other. And then they asked me to repeat what I’d just said. So I did. Then they asked for evidence.

“See that kitchen stool over there,” I said pointing at the stool, “ It has my Papa’s blood stains all over it. He laid his head on it the day Mama bust his head open with a frying pan.”

My cousins went to get their father. And I was made to repeat what I’d said to the horror of my mother. She tried to deny and say I was a lair, but my innocent self kept giving example after example, till she went quiet with surprise.

That evening I saw my father. My uncle took me to his house to see him for the first time in almost a week. My Mama was never held accountable, and we never returned to our home. My parents’ marriage ended. And I must say life was peaceful for me, even after my father remarried and had more children.

I never knew the details of what happened, but as I got older, I managed to piece it together for myself. And the truth was, nobody believed my father when he claimed self defense, that is until I innocently corroborated his story.

When I was in law school, I asked my father, “Why didn’t you ever report her like she did you? For the busted lips, for the scratches to your face, for her breaking your skull? Why didn’t you have her held accountable?”

His answer was, “Fool. I should have gone to complain to the police that my wife was beating me? Do you know how they would have laughed at me?”

He laughed when he said that, but to me it was quite sad. In a society where men are taught to not cry, not complain, just endure, how will men thrive?

I have built a relationship with my mother, she is the sweetest woman, but she is also mentlly ill. Somebody should have seen it and done something. My father saw it, but probably thought he could cure her with love. It didn’t work. Mentally ill people need mental health care. Period.

The day I got married, I told my wife, “If you ever hit me, we are done!”

She thought it was quite a strange thing to say, until I explained the environment of domestic violence I was raised in, something which prompted me to specialize in and become a domestic violence lawyer.

I now defend men and women. But especially men who have credible stories, because I know not many are defending them. But I will.

Difficult childhood? Learn from people who have overcome childhood adversity.