On the 21st of April, at 5am, I went to report my brother to the police for beating me up. This was the scariest day of my life, worse than the night before, when I almost got hit in the head with a hoe. That night I saw my life flash before my eyes; but reporting it the next day was scarier.
You might ask, “Why?” Well, because I live in a society where a man is the head of everything, and in such a society I’m supposed to be voiceless. Reporting my brother to the police would mean I get disowned and would forever not fit in this community.
My hands shook as the constable asked what the problem was. My neck was injured and my throat was swollen so I couldn’t speak well. “I came to report an act of domestic violence,” I said.
“Wewe… can you speak up? We don’t have time for all your dramatics,” he yelled back at me. My body shuddered. His yell took me back to the previous night where there was so much yelling and insults aimed at me.
“I came to report a domestic violence incident,” I said again.
“Enhe! What happened? Who was beaten?” The constable was skeptical.
“I was, sir!” I replied, with shock on my face. This man clearly saw my bloody body and injuries, and yet he acted like he did not see. I felt unseen, but this is the society I was born into and I had to deal with it.
“So what did you do to get beaten? You know, these days young girls like defying their elders. I’m sure you did something to have made them beat you.” He spoke with a smirk on his face. Tears rolled down my cheeks. Although I knew this might happen, I actually didn’t think he would immediately blame me without hearing my side of the story… that is, without hearing any sides of the story.
“Here, follow me and let someone take your statement, I am too busy for this.” The constable walked to another room where he found a female constable. I breathed a sigh of relief.
“Come in, are you here to write your statement?” she asked. I nodded. “Sit here and tell me what happened.” I sat down, and all I could do was cry for almost an hour. Then, after I composed myself, I narrated what happened. She gave me a police form to take to the hospital so I could get checked. “Once the doctor has checked you, you’ll have to come back here. Then we can find a way to arrest this man,” she said. I nodded as I stood up to leave.
As soon as I left the police station I felt completely alone. No one escorted me to the hospital; no one came with me from the police station. But I knew that if I didn’t report it then I might lose my life the next time. I convinced myself it was okay for me to have reported it.
With a thousand thoughts spinning in my mind, I found I had already reached the hospital. Once again I was made to repeat my statement and then I got a medical check. I remember the silence in that room, it felt so cold. The doctor didn’t speak much. I remember seeing him write down “aggravated assault,” as the tears rolled down my eyes.
“Who did you say did this to you?” he asked in a calm voice.
“My brother,” I answered.
“When you say ‘brother,’ do you mean you share the same parents?” he asked.
“We share the same mother but different fathers,” I answered.
“Has he ever done this before?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did you report any of the times before?”
“No, sir.”
“Why?”
“Because he is my brother.”
“Hmm… a brother should never cause a sister this kind of injury, I’m glad you reported this time.”
“I don’t know if it was a good idea though,” I said under my breath; but he heard me. He shook his head as he put the papers in an envelope for me to take to the police station. “Be safe,” he said, as I walked out. For once that day I felt someone cared enough to ask, to understand, to be mindful of me, and somehow that fueled me. I headed back to the police station and handed over the medical file to the lady constable who took it to the male constable who, after an hour or more, called for me in his office.
“Now, we are going to arrest this man but we don’t have fuel in the police car, and we haven’t eaten our lunch yet,” he said as he piled some papers on his table. I was shocked.
“When will they put some fuel in the car and go arrest him, sir?” I asked.
“When you are ready.”
“I’m ready, sir.”
“So where do you live again?”
“Ewuata, sir.”
“Fuel there in this new car will cost around 100,000 shillings, and my lunch with the female constable will cost… mmmmm, I think we can do 50,000 shillings. Will you be sending that via mobile money or do you have the cash?”
I sat there, hungry, in pain, and dumbfounded, as I came to the realization that I not only had to deal with a society where men are meant to be superior, but I also had to deal with corruption if I was going to maneuver through this. I had no money on me. I hadn’t eaten for days. I had walked many kilometers to be here; but they would not help me until I paid them money that I didn’t have. I stood up and told him I was going. I walked home like a mad person speaking to myself on the road, still wearing bloody clothes, wondering where I’d get the money. I didn’t know anyone who would give me that money.
I reached home and looked for what to sell. Nothing I owned was worth that much. I sorted through clothes in vain. “Ooh I can actually sell my phone instead,” I said to myself. A phone isn’t worth much, but it could get me some money and I could try and convince the constable to take what I had. So I sold the phone and went back to the police station.
“Sir, I could only raise 80,000 shillings. Please help me.” I knelt and made my plea. After a long time he finally accepted. He went with me to get my brother and arrest him. Nothing prepared me for the backlash I’d get after news got around that I’d had my brother arrested, and he was going to be taken to court.
“Are you happy now that you’ve put your brother in jail?”
“It’s not right for you to have gone to the police.”
“Tell the judge you have forgiven him and let your brother come back home.”
“Leave this home and let our son come back where he belongs.”
“Even if he tried to kill you, forgive him, after all you are not dead!”
“That is your brother, how dare you!”
Not once did they ask how I felt or what my injuries were. Not once did they come check how I was doing, nor did they ask if I needed help paying the hospital bill. How insignificant is my life? Just because I was born in a patriarchal society that believes a girl is less than a boy!
Even if he causes “grievous harm” to her, he won’t be punished because he was “teaching her a lesson!” They’d rather she leave her home so they can have peace! Who does the girl child turn to? Where does she run to? To whom does she speak?
If everyone around her believes she is merely property… If she can’t find solace in her mother’s home just because by tradition she does not belong until she is married off to another man in exchange for a dowry that is used to fund the lifestyle of the boy child. She is still property to her husband, the only difference is she is now in a different household. He is allowed not to work, it’s okay for him to abuse, beat, and insult his sisters whenever he feels like it. But God forbid if the girl tries to defend herself. Then she is the problem—a disobedient person. It’s okay for him to come home at 2 am and undress and go to his sisters’ room; but if she reports him to the family, then she is lying or trying to damage the family name and image.
If one of his friends is interested in her, she is obviously a slut and prostitute. If she doesn’t buy food, cook, and clean while he is drinking about the village, he has the right to beat and insult her. No one sees the emotional and physical trauma except another woman who has gone through the same thing. I live in a world where it is okay for him to harm her, she has no one in her corner. Her mother can’t say anything, even if she runs to her. “You know he is a boy, just let it be,” her mother says.
Do I have to be six feet in the ground for them to see my worth? I didn’t choose to be a girl! But I’d never choose to be a boy if I’d have to treat a girl that way.
