Have you seen Mr. Rotimi? That man with sturdy biceps, broad shoulders, and fleshy chest, that visits the gym and pool weekly. That man you fantasized about wanting the rippling effect of his hands on you. Yeah. That man that’s blessed with a handsome face. It’s been three days since I last saw him.
Who’s Mr. Rotimi?
You don’t know Mr. Rotimi again. I mean the man that lives next door, the man you had bumped into a couple of times on the stairs. That his smiles melted your heart and his voice resonates within every time. The man that is married to that woman who you know as Mama Wale.
Oh! Do you mean Baba Wale? That one? The man that I stopped fantasizing about, the day his wife’s mouth let out screams of pain. My room is close to theirs, remember? It was 11 pm or so when I heard a thud, and as a curious person, I neared the wall only to hear more sounds of things falling and moving from their position.
I ran out to the living room and got myself a glass. Placing the glass on the wall. My heart thumped, the pictures my dirty heart captured were that of sexual activity. I paused to suppress the intense hunger that my body craved. Relaxing for a bit, the next I heard were stormy breaths, fearful whimpers, subdued cries, and muffled screams. I couldn’t make out whether it was domestic violence or abusive sex styles until the warning from his baritone voice.
“If you tell anybody about this, I’ll kill you.”
The next morning, his wife covered up herself leaving out her eyes. She forgot that the eyes are a mirror to the soul. And the eyes were loyal in revealing all that transpired. Beating and battering.
He had turned her to his gym equipment. Had tried every possible style with his hand, head, and legs. The punching bag, the bicycle, the push-ups machine and et al. After a series of different episodes and apologies passed, with no change forthcoming, Mama Wale resorted to her pastor. She knew fear enveloped him at the mention of the man of God.
The pastor frequented their house, not twice nor thrice. He never judged him rather he conducted several prayers, gave several unsolicited advice, and endeared him to jettison the ungodly attitude.
At every interval of the pastor’s visit, Mr. Rotimi wears an angelic smile but returns to being a devil.
That Baba Wale is who you’re asking after?
Long minutes of laughter ensued to the astonishment of the passersby.
His cup filled to the brim on Thursday morning. He would have been out for business if not for the compulsory sanitation.
After the dose of beatings; punches, jabs, kicks, and slaps, that had become regular for his wife. He spread out himself on the couch while his wife locked herself in the bathroom and called the pastor.
“Pastor” she sobbed.
“I’ve lost another tooth, the pain is too much, I can’t take it anymore. I’ll kill him this night. I’ll wait no longer.” She managed to keep her voice low.
“No, sister Abidemi. Don’t worry. After today, He’d never touch you talk more of hitting you again. Trust me on this. Just make sure he doesn’t leave the house.” The pastor replied.
“Okay, pastor!” She hung up and left the bathroom.
Thirty minutes later, Pastor arrived decked in a blue suit, his signatory smile seated on his face. He didn’t come alone as always. He had five companions. Three were heavily built men who had an impression of predators raring to pounce. The other two had lesser flesh, their faces marked with confidence.
“Good morning pastor” Wale greeted as he sighted the man of God.
“Good morning Wale. Is your Daddy in?”
“Call him for me.”
Wale walked in. Out he came with his father who had no clothes on save for a short. His smile widened as he saw the pastor.
“Pastor Good mo……” he was cut off by the pastor’s sharp voice.
“Over to you Gentlemen, that’s the man. Teach him some lesson.”
Some lessons he was taught. Because by the time I had feasted my eyes enough from the window and decided to open my curtains. The three hefty men were on him. Baba Wale was having a taste of his own medicine. His face was a disfigured entity. One of his eyes was punched shut. His jaw shifted from its normal position. His nose was a running tap of blood while his lips were like that of a cooked “Pomo”
People scurried out and succeeded in halting the assault after several attempts. He was dragged to his feet and just as he tried to Walk back into his apartment. Confident voices stopped him in his tracks.
“Not so fast, young man. You’re under arrest for domestic violence. You have the right to remain silent as anything you say or do will be used against you in court.”
Those were the words of the lanky men that accompanied the pastor. I watched as they pulled out their cuffs and gagged his hands amidst the pain and deep heaves.
© Stephen Toochi