My horror story lacks the finesse of Hollywood
of haunted music, jagged by screaming edges.
Mine is the sound of breaking plates,
the bleating of unfed goats late in the afternoon,
even when my stomach grumbles for food.
My horror story is as thick as the palm oil I spill by mistake;
the crunch of dirt beneath the feet in rooms I already swept.
I am haunted, not by a quivering ghost,
but by a man thrice my size with a swaying koboko* in his grip.
He lashes at my back, stopped only by the fatigue of his hands
not by the sight of the whimpering whelp huddled on the floor.
When I am fortunate to escape his tantrums, his wife takes his place.
My body proudly bears the mark of a survivor,
against flying jets of hot water,
bullets of spoons, and sporadic bombs of swear words.
And I never get respite, as my demons are always at my back,
ready to draw blood.
In my horror story, the lights do not flicker.
Instead, the intense fervour of my tearful eyes
serve to dim and undim the lights.
And unlike Hollywood, where the hero finally rests and gains sleep,
my eyes remain open as my two demons
are legally bound to me forever.
