Sunday 25 March 2012

Ogochukwu Onuchukwu- A Dead Woman shares her story

A dead woman, Ogochukwu Onuchukwu (she died

last month) shares her story and writes a letter to

her husband from the grave. I culled the letter

from her WEBSITE and wanted to share it because

it’s something we all need to read and hopefully

someone will learn from it. Read it below…

My mum is crying. I can see her from here. She

has aged since the last time I saw her. Why does

she look so old and why is she so thin? Can

someone console her? Can someone make her

stop crying?

I try to get up but I can’t. I try to reach for her, but

I’m stuck where I am. It is very dark in here, and

very cold, so very cold.

What am I doing here? Where is everybody?

Where are my children? I begin to panic, to

struggle; I want to get out of this dark room.

I can hear Uzo calling. She’s calling my name.

Then, I see mum again. And I hear Uzo again. I

don’t see my children. Where are my children? I

can’t see beyond the walls of this dark and cold

room.

This just messed with my head…I hope you fair

better. Continue reading…

Uzo calls again.

She sounds desperate to rouse me from my sleep.

I am struggling to wake but I can’t. I open my eyes

and they shut of their own accord.

I am powerless to keep them from shutting. And I

find as soon as I stop struggling, my sleep

becomes sweet repose. Suddenly I don’t want to

wake from it just yet. It is peaceful.

I see mum again, and I see Uzo. Uzo keeps calling.

She won’t stop calling. She is crying too, just like

mum.

Can someone bring Kamsi and Amanda to me?

Can someone bring my babies to me? I need to

hug them, Kamsi, especially. Is he crying too and

calling out for me? Does he understand that I am

gone? Kamsi will miss me.

He is a special child, you know; Kamsiyochukwu –

my son and my first child.

I prayed and longed for his birth. He was the

blessing from above that would seal Kevin’s love

for me and give me some footing in his home and

some acceptance from his family.

Before Kamsi, I was a nobody in Kevin’s home. I

was born the last of nine children, the baby of the

family. I was used to love and affection. I was

everyone’s baby. I grew up knowing that everyone

had my back, I grew up knowing the safety and

security of being the baby of the home. You may

then understand my shock when I stepped out of

my home and into new territory with the man of

my dreams only to find that I was really not as

special as I had been made to believe. I look back

to that day when Kevin took me home to introduce

me to my new family. The cold and rude shock of

the welcome his brother’s wife gave me set off an

alarm in my head.

These people didn’t think I was special. In fact, her

first words were, ”Kevin, ebe kwa ka isi dute

nka?” (Kevin, “Where on earth did you bring this

one from?) That would be the first time I would be

addressed as “this one” and from then on, I

grappled with the realization that I was not

welcome in my new home.

I remember my first Christmas at Ihiala as a new

bride. My brother-in-law’s wife would sneer and

clap and refer to me as “Ndi ji ukwu azo

akwu” (the people who process palm fruits with

their bare feet). I knew she meant my

impoverished home town of Nsukka. She would

sing to me all day long telling me the only reason

why their brother married me was because of my

beauty and complexion.


Now, I lie here and I wonder if I was in my right

mind to ignore the several other alarms over my

12- year union with Kevin.

I had to ignore them, I told myself. I had already

taken my vows to be with Kevin until death did us

part.

They never really wanted me, I can now see. But I

was too blinded by love to realize that. I needed to

do something to cement Kevin’s heart with mine. I

needed to remain Kevin’s wife and to prove to the

world that indeed Love would conquer all.

When after one year of marriage there were still no

children, the painful journey that sent me to my

grave started. I went from specialist to specialist,

ingested every kind of pill that promised to boost

my fertility. As my desperation grew, so did

pressure from Kevin’s family. My horror- movie life

story started playing out; the horror- movie life that

has sent me to an early and cold grave from where

I write this letter to my husband.

********************************************

*************************************

My sweet Kevin,

We started to fight over little things. The fights were

worse after you visited home or attended any of

your numerous family meetings. You came home

one evening and asked me to move out of the

bedroom we both shared and into the guestroom

downstairs. The next time you returned from the

meeting, you tied me up with a rope and used

your belt on me. No one heard my screams.

I remember when you told me that your family had

asked you to remarry. You showed me documents

of all your numerous landed property including

the house we lived in. Your brother was listed as

next of kin. When I asked you about it, your

answer rocked the ground I was standing on. You

said, “What have you to show that entitles you to

any stake in this household?” You were referring

to my barreness.

It is funny how to my family and friends, I was the

beautiful and loving Ogo, whilst to you and your

family I was a worthless piece of rag. You called me

barren. I could have fled but your love and

acceptance was of more worth to me than the love

and admiration of the world outside our home. I

desperately sought to be loved by you, Kevin.

In your family’s presence I felt unworthy, unloved

and unwanted. Yet, I stayed on. I would make you

love me one way or the other and I knew that one

sure way would

be to produce a child, an heir for you. That was

the most important thing to you.

I began the numerous procedures, painful

procedures, including surgery. I gave myself daily

shots. At some point the needles could no longer

pierce my skin. My skin had toughened to the

piercing pain of needles.

After seven years of marriage, our prayers were

answered. God blessed us with our son

Kamsiyochukwu, which means ‘’Just as I asked of

the Lord’’. God had intervened and miracles were

about to start happening because for the first time

in seven years, my mother-in-law called me. Finally

I was home. I had been accepted. I was now a

woman, a wife and a mother. Finally there was

peace. Kamsi will be four in November.

The miracles stayed with me because 18 months

later through another procedure, Chimamanda

was born. Her birth was bitter sweet for me. Sweet

because you Kevin, my husband, and my in-laws

would love me more for bearing a second child,

but bitter because this particular birth almost cost

me my life. The doctors had become very

concerned. You see, I had developed too many

complications from all the different procedures I

had undergone in the journey to have children and

these were beginning to get in the way of normal

everyday living. I developed conditions that had

almost become life threatening. So the doctors

sent me off with my new bundle of joy and with a

stern warning not to try for another child as I may

not be so lucky.

I chuckled, almost gleefully. Why would I want to

try for a third child? God had given me a boy and a

girl, what more could I ask for. I was only ever so

thankful to God.

Kevin, you and I gave numerous and very

generous donations to different churches in

thanksgiving to God. All was well. I was happy and

fulfilled. Kevin, you loved me again. Your family

accepted me. Life was good. And all was quiet

again. …………………… For a while.

Then fate struck me a blow. As if to remind me that

my stay in your house was temporary and was

never really going to be peaceful, Kamsi – our son,

our first fruit, my pride and joy and the child that

gave me a place in my husband’s home, began to

show signs of slowed development; the visits to

the doctors resumed, this time on account of

Kamsi.

We started seeing therapists. After we’d been from

one doctor to another I decided I had to resort to

prayer. I was frightened. I was terrified. I was

threatened. I started to feel unwell. I had difficulty

breathing. I needed to see my doctors, Kamsi too.

He wasn’t doing too well either. He had difficulty

with his speech. He was slow to comprehend

things. I did not know for sure what was wrong

with him but I knew all was not well. Not with him

and not with me. We

were denied visas to the USA because we had

overstayed on our last trip on account of Kamsi’s

treatments. So whilst we waited for a lawyer to

help us clear up the immigration issues with

America, I applied for a UK visa and sought help in

London. But by then, trouble had reared its head

at home, again.

Kevin, you had again become very impatient with

me. My fears were fully alive again. The battles it

seemed I had won were again in full rage. My

husband, in your irritable impatience and anger,

you told me to my face that our son, my Kamsi, was

worthless to you. You said he was abnormal. You

said that our daughter, my Amanda, was a girl and

that you had no need for a girl child because she

would someday be married off. I remember, in

pain, that you didn’t attend Amanda’s christening

because you were upset with me. You told me your

mother was more important to you than “THESE

THINGS” I brought to your house. You were

referring to our children, were you not? “THESE

THINGS”.

My heart bled. I wept bitterly. Then I quickly

calmed my fears by telling myself that you were

under a lot of stress at work and that you were

also probably reacting to all the money that you

had spent on my treatments. Surely, all that was

getting to you? Even when you threatened me with

a knife, twice you did that, I still felt unworthy of

you and very deserving of your hatred. Even when

you would say: “I will kill you and nothing will

happen because you have no one to fight for you”,

I kept on struggling to get you to love me because,

Kevin, your validation was important to me

You had refused to give me money for my medical

trip to London. I knew then it was because you

had your hands full with caring and catering for

everybody who was dear to you. Your finances

were stretched. I thought then that in time you

would come around.

My health continued to get worse. Eventually, I

made it to London. After extensive consultations

and tests, I was given a definitive diagnosis. My

condition was life threatening. It was from this

time, when it was clear that I required surgery to

save me life that I came face to face with a different

kind of war from our home.

Kevin, you stopped speaking with me. I was in

pain, in anguish and in tears. I didn’t understand

what was happening. I had stayed three weeks in

London and Kevin, you never called, sent a text or

inquired how I was faring. You stopped taking my

calls. Instead I got a call from my cousin in whose

care I had left my children. She was frantic with

worry because there was no food in the house for

the children to eat; Kevin you had refused to

provide food for our children. Kevin, you had also

refused to pay for Kamsi’s home schooling.

Then Kevin, I received that e-mail from you. The

only communication from you for the entire period

I was in London.

Do you remember? It was an angry email. You

berated me for putting your integrity at stake at

your work place. Apparently your employers had

called a hospital in London to inquire about me

and were told that no one by my name was ever

their patient. I later found out that you had given

the wrong hospital name to your employers. Do

you remember, Kevin?

For the first time in my 12 year marriage, the alarm

bells in my head began to sound real. For the first

time in 12 years, I felt real anger stir up in my

heart. Kevin, I was angry because you paid no

heed to the hospital where your wife was at in

London. You had no clue and cared little about

what I was going through. Yet you would berate

me for putting your INTEGRITY at work at stake.

Your integrity was your primary concern, not my

health.

Then it hit me! All these years I was trying to be all

I could be for you, Kevin, to make you happy, to

please you, Kevin, ……… you actually hated me. You

didn’t want me in your life. The signs were all

there. Your family had showed me from day one

that they didn’t want me. I was the object of a

hatred that I could not explain. I

couldn’t understand why.

Then I saw the hand writing on the wall, all those

many things that went on. You even sold my car

whilst I was still lying on a hospital bed in London,

with no word to me. I was not to learn of what you

had done until I returned to Nigeria. The doctors

had allowed me to return to prepare for surgery.

Kevin, do you remember that on my return I gave

you a pair of shoes I had bought for you? Kevin,

my husband, do you remember hurling those

shoes at me? Kevin, do you remember me

breaking down in tears? Kevin, do you remember

me asking you that night, many times over, why

you hated me so much, what I had done to make

you hate me as much as you did?

“You are disturbing me, and if you continue, I`ll

move out and inform the company that I no

longer live in the house. Then they will come and

drive you away”. Kevin, my husband, that was your

response to me. Did you know then I only had

days to live? Is that why you told me that would be

the last time I would see you physically? Did you

know it would only be a few more hours?

I still had a surgery to go through. Kevin, since you

wanted no part in it, I had contacted the medical

officer in your company directly for referrals. I left

Eket for Lagos on Saturday. That same day I

consulted with the specialist surgeon and surgery

was scheduled for Monday morning.

In those final hours, as I prepared for my surgery,

I was alone, my spirit was broken. I had lost all the

fight in me. Kevin, I knew that nothing I did or said

would turn you heart toward me, and I had

nobody for whom you had any regards who would

speak up for me.

In those final hours, Kevin, I called you. This was

Sunday morning, less than 24 hours to my death.

Do you remember, Kevin? I called you to share

what the specialist surgeon had said. I was still

shaking from your screams on the phone when I

got in here. You did not want me to bother you,

you screamed. I should go to my brothers and

sisters, you screamed. I should pay you back all

the money you gave me for my treatment in

London, you screamed. Kevin, did you know that

would be my last conversation with you? My last

conversation with you, my husband, my love, my

life, ended with you banging the phone on me.

Recalling the abusive words, the spitting, the

beating, the bruising, the knifing, and the promise

that I would not live long for daring to forget to

buy garden eggs for your mother, an insult you

vowed I would pay for with my life ……., I knew

then it was over for me. There was no rationalizing

needed any longer. Even the blind could see ……….

You did not want me in your life.

I went in for surgery on Monday morning,

February 27, 2012, and after battling for several

hours, I yielded my spirit.

Kevin, my husband, I lived my promise to God. The

promise I made on the day I wedded you.

For better ………………………… For worse

For richer …………………………. For poorer

In Sickness ………………………. And in health

To love ………………………….. And to cherish

Till DEATH US DO PART!

And it has.

NOW I AM DEAD!!!!!!!

Just as your mum predicted ….. Her cold words

follow me to morgue. She swore to me that I

would leave her son’s house dead or alive. I

couldn’t leave whilst I still breathed. It had to be

through death, and death it has become.

Kevin, you are FREE! And, so am I.

Your freedom is temporary. Mine is eternal.

Whilst you still have freedom, remember Kamsi and

Chimamanda.

Lovingly yours until death,

Ogo.

I am gone. Gone forever. But if one woman, just

one woman will learn from my story, then maybe I

would not have gone in vain.

My heart weeps for my children, my mummy, my

sisters and my brothers, my extended family. These

ones, I was a gift to. These ones, they loved me.

These ones, they wanted me. These ones, they

needed me. These ones, they wish I had spoken

out earlier.

***

Written by someone who was part of her life and

witnessed her struggles. RIP Ogo.


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