The Hands I Trusted [Episode 4]

Lagos rain. The type that floods Ogba and takes light.

We were fighting. Again. About Bisi.

I was crying. Chest tight and my Asthma episode began.

Inhaler in my bag by the door.

“Stop shouting!”

“You lied to me!”

Then his hands were on my neck.

Not hard. But enough that I couldn’t breathe which was life threatening for me.

The same hands that rubbed Vicks on me in 400L.

The same hands that held mine during prayer all of a sudden wanted to strangulate me and make me keep shut because of a fight.

5 seconds. Silence. I fell to the ground unconscious not knowing what's happening around my environment.

He was scared and took me immediately to the hopsital.

My lungs burning. Doctor at LUTH’s voice in my head: “Protect your lungs, Amara.”

He let go. I fell, gasping.

He went to the kitchen. Poured water.

“See what you made me do.”

I took Uber home. Turtleneck up.

Told my mom I slipped.

That night: door locked, pepper spray, phone on charge.

You knew I had asthma.

You promised: “I’ll never hurt you.”

And you did.

That was the night I knew:

This wasn’t love. This was survival.