By Shem Onderi
She abused him every time he came home,
intoxicated.
He often stopped by the brewer after work—
a place to cool his spirit.
The brewer welcomed him;
home did not.
Home was a brutal war ring.
Beating after beating,
and he could never speak,
for men suffer and die in silence.
Violence filled the night,
loud music masking the shame from neighbors.
He never fought back—
too drunk to lift a fist,
too weary to resist.
Most days she walked around with his bank card,
withdrawing and spending at will.
The loan he took was squandered,
yet he carried the burden of repayment.
Neighbors often dragged him home
in the cold of early morning.
His wife never bothered to look for him
the night before.
A civil servant with nothing to show for it.
Months after his burial,
his bank card turned useless—
his name struck off the payroll,
his desk replaced.
She drained all the benefits
the government deposited.
Now the children sit at home,
their school fees demanded,
their clothes torn.
She can no longer beat her chest.
She mourns now, remembering the heydays.
She misses the drunkard she neglected—
the one who once lay beside her.
Soap is scarce;
she watches other women
wash their husbands’ clothes
at the riverbank.
The roof leaks,
the family car was seized by insurance.
The village mourns its own.
Violence at home
took him a few feet under.