Justice comes in many forms, sometimes
it can be a court hearing, a well deserved arrest of a criminal or merely your
story being heard and written by a struggling freelance writer. Growing up in a
world where justice is too expensive and unattainable by the minority groups, I realize that it’s my mandate as a young writer to offer it in its cheapest and most
pure form; poetic justice. What every victim longs for in the tiresome and pathetic
strife for justice is to simply be heard by someone.
Oppressive crime takes many forms but my
pen, notebook, and ears have of recent got a particular inkling for domestic
violence. In my world of literature and diction, I have assumed the position of
a lawyer and the story I am about to tell to you; the jury, is my client’s.
NOWHERE TO RUN
Car rides on late Sunday nights in
Kampala were once a beautiful experience we shared as family. Now, the good old
days are long gone. One unforgettable Sunday night the atmosphere was tense and
everyone was staring out the car windows hoping to get distracted by the passing
trees and the moon closely following behind. The unoccupied seat in the car was
a strong reminder of the mayhem that happened the night before.
The awkward silence was broken by a
question posed by my youngest sister. In that moment I envied her youth because
of the bravery that came along with it.
“Daddy,
why did you hit mummy with a stick last night?”
The tension in
the air was now visible and all of us were anxiously waiting to see how he would
react to this innocent child and her innocent question. The elephant in the room
had multiplied in size and could not be ignored any longer. To our surprise he
burst into laughter and casually replied,
“She
did something that I don’t like and I got angry.”
It’s been a year since our mother left and
I am genuinely happy that she liberated herself from the chains of a toxic
marriage. I only wish that she had been in the position to help us escape as
well. If you were to look at our deranged family through the lens of an outsider,
one wouldn’t be able to see the chaos; ours is a nightmare you have to live
through in order to believe.
For a long time I was under the false
impression that domestic violence can only be physical, after all you know what
they say, “Sticks and bones may break my bones but words can’t do a thing.” Quite
the contrary to this saying, our ‘father’ was able to not only break his
marriage but also his children with words. He liked to call himself ‘Simba’; I
guess it was another way to boost his ego. What I learnt about my father was
that there was nothing he loved more than control and an ice-cold beer. The
thing with controlling men in any society be it African or Western is that they
mistake fear for respect forgetting that as much as people fear lions they
wouldn’t hesitate to kill them if they wanted to.
For many years we were constantly living
in fear even when our mother was around and so you can only imagine the atmosphere
when she left. Things only got worse and the only highlight of the week was
getting to our mother on Sundays for a couple of hours.
My sisters and I, after intentional
monitoring of his character and a little research online had diagnosed our ‘father’
with extreme Bipolar Mental Disorder. One second he would be sharing a joke
with us and the next he would be charging at us with a club in one hand - and I
say this with no exaggeration at all. What this toxic behavior manifested in
our home was constant anxiety. My sisters and I found ourselves walking on
eggshells in our so called ‘home’ but at least there was hope. Our mom had
landed a well paying job and had even bought her own house and car; the prospect
of living with her in a peaceful ‘Simba’ free environment was becoming more
real and that was all we needed to stay sane in the company of our ‘father’.
Things were looking brighter until
corona happened. We weren’t able to visit our mom weekly because of the
transport restrictions set by the government so we were literally locked up in the
house with a mentally ill animal. At first, we distracted ourselves with home
work or assignments and relied on our tolerance to keep us sane, but there’s
only so much a human being can take at a time. It reached a point where the
fate of our sanity and general psychological and emotional well being was
bigger than a worldwide pandemic. Our small world comprising of five young
girls was soon to crack under pressure.
After much persuasion from us, our mom
walked thirty kilometres to the police station closest to our area of residence
to file a child endangerment case against our ‘father’. Now, I won’t go into
the details of our inefficient and ineffective police family units and child
support centers but in the end not much changed.
My sisters and I took matters into our
own hands and prepared to run away from home. We packed our books and few
essential clothes and geared up to walk all the way to our mother’s home.
Unfortunately we were caught in the act by yours truly; ‘Simba’ the tyrant and
all doors to the house were reinforced with double-locks henceforth.
A few days later I was contacted by a
social worker who claimed to have vital information for me as the eldest child
in the house. The lady explained that she had had a conversation with our ‘father’
and told me that he said we were very happy and as a matter of fact enjoyed
staying with him. I burst into laughter, utterly amused by such profanity but
when I realized that I was the only one laughing I asked the lady,
“You
don’t believe him, do you?”
I was replied
with a long speech about how amiable and well respected a man our ‘father’ was
and if any custody was to be given to my mother substantial evidence needed to
be presented in the courts of law. Did I mention that because of the preventive
measures put in place to fight the pandemic, courts had been partially closed? With
all due respect to whoever may be insulted by this statement, law enforcement
systems in Uganda are highly unreliable.
So there we were, five young girls
slapped across the face by the callous way of the world. The lock-down implemented
by the government was extended for a year and indeed for that full year we did
not see our mom nor hear from the police about our case. I kept in close
contact with the social worker who only repeated that I needed evidence. We were
living with a ticking time bomb disguised as a human being, and when we
reported to the law enforcers they said they would intervene when the bomb
exploded. And since there is hardly any ‘substantial’ or physical evidence for psychological
abuse, we were forced to endure the presence and tyranny of the great ‘Simba’.
The years went by and we each
graduated from school and were able to leave the prison cell we had been locked
up in by our ‘father’ never to return again. Then when the evening of his life
had finally approached, he called for us and none of us answered.
It
is for this reason that my client today chooses to file a case of Negligence of
Duty against the Uganda Police Family Unit with that I, Kabera Angel; the
applicant’s lawyer, rest my case.
Interesting. ...lawyer
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