I, Villain

Idhil was woken up by a dark-skinned woman tapping her cheek. At first, she mistook her for a househelp—someone under her husband’s employ. But this woman was different. She looked more confident, more brazen than any regular maid. Older than Idhil, yes—but stronger, more muscularly built. Her accent betrayed her origins: the coastal region.

“Mwanamke, chukua vitu zako utoke,” she said in plain Kiswahili.

It was a direct verbal assault: Woman, pack your things and leave.

I was shocked. I boiled with rage. By the time my kids came home from school, my eyes were red from the constant tears I had shed. We cried together. When my husband came home later that evening, I cried again—over his shoulder.

We had to give Idhil refuge. A shelter. Somewhere safe.

I had an extra room I wasn’t using. My husband was skeptical. Ali—always reserved and avoidant of conflict—feared that Idhil’s presence in our home would be the beginning of chaos. And though a part of me begrudgingly agreed with him, I knew, deep down, I was damn right: I was doing the right thing.

Idhil became our guest. We hosted her well. Gave her a room. I shared a few of my clothes with her. We ate together. We made stories. The bruises—albeit slow to fade—were disappearing from her face, and her natural soft, light complexion gradually returned. She was a natural wonder. A woman and a half in beauty—and even more so in love. She was likable. My kids adored her. She was warm, sweet. I marveled at how powerful a change of environment could be for someone tormented by strife.

Then, Samir showed up.

…………………..

I don’t know how he found my house. Could she have secretly texted him her whereabouts? But still—would it make sense to tell the man who chased you like a dog from his home? Who divorced you in the most inhumane way? Who treated you like a rug to be walked on, beaten, and humiliated at his own discretion? Would you let someone like that know about your new beginnings?

It turns out Idhil had texted Samir. And he’d come for her.

Four days later, a sudden, ghoulish cry greeted us from outside. At first, I thought it was one of those drunk men who occasionally caused chaos. But no—it was Samir.

“I want my wife! Idhil, come out! I want my wife! Idhil! Idhil!” he kept screaming at the top of his lungs.

I was in the living room. It was early morning, on a weekend. My husband was off duty, still asleep. Idhil sat beside me. The louder Samir shouted, the more afraid I became.

Idhil stood and moved toward the door.

“No,” I said quickly, standing up. “Please don’t open the door,” I pleaded.

Samir’s cries woke up my husband. He came out immediately, rushing to the door, squinting from the morning light.

“Excuse me,” my husband began, “why are you shouting?”

Seeing him—his face tense with irritation—Samir calmed down instantly and muttered a soft apology.

“You’re not going to scream again. Agreed?” my husband said. “Or else, you’re not coming in.”

Samir stepped into the living room. My husband tightened his kikoi, rubbed his eyes, then motioned for him to sit. The air was thick with tension.

Idhil, standing nearby, walked straight to Samir—and then, like a scene from a horror movie, she rushed to him. Like a woman who’d been starved of love for years. And to my utter disbelief—she hugged him.

I stepped out from behind the corridor door, stunned. My blood boiled. My hands trembled with rage. My head grew heavy, hot. My face burned, as if a smoldering candle had been placed under my skin. How could she?