House 48

There was a commotion in House 48, a level above the ground. At first, I heard a woman’s sharp cry—then the shatter of glass. It was early morning; most people were still asleep. I saw things flying—shadows flickering behind the curtains—and for a moment, I thought, This must be some drama. Let me go witness it.

House 48 was right next to the lift. Just a few steps, and I was there. Luckily, the door was ajar. As I approached, the deafening cries of a woman pierced my ears. I leaned forward and nudged the door open ever so slightly to see what was going on.

Then I saw it.

He was holding her by the hair—gripping it like a rope—as she crouched before him. Then he struck her. Real blows. Fists, clenched and brutal. Horror flooded me. The woman screamed. I froze. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t help. Panic took over. I turned and bolted toward the stairwell, hoping to find someone—anyone—to come help.

No one.

I rushed back. This time, as I peered in again, a glass flew across the room and shattered against the door. I flinched and stepped back, heart pounding.

When I looked again, she was on the floor, gasping for air. Blood.

“Bitch!” the man yelled. His vest was soaked in blood, his fists slick and shaking with rage. He unfastened his belt and began whipping her. The leather cracked again and again across her back.

She cried out, until her voice cracked—and then faded.

She lay limp, curled on the cold floor.

“How many men have you slept with, huh?” he shouted. “Is that how you humiliate me? Bitch!”

He kicked her in the stomach.

She stopped moving.

And for a moment—I thought she was dead.

But he kept whipping her. Again. And again.

“You get out of your house and go into another man’s house? Disguised as seeking refuge with a friend? You’re a disgrace! A disgrace! The only good woman is a dead woman! Do you hear me?!”

He broke into an outrageous monologue. Could she even hear him? I guessed not. She was out cold. And then—a faint gasp. A weak groan followed, and then she whispered:

“You… are… killing…”

“Die!” the man screamed.

I stumbled backward down the stairs. I needed help. Emergency help. I was witnessing a murder. Unrestrained, he could do anything to her. I feared the worst. I feared he’d stab or kill her outright.

They lived on the first floor, so I managed to reach the compound quickly, screaming for help from the guard at the gate.

No sooner had I reached the compound than I heard a thunderous crash—then saw the body of a woman falling from the window and landing on a car. The car alarm went off. Metal caved in. Glass exploded.

The woman—half-naked—limped toward the gate. I rushed to her.

“Take me anywhere,” she said.

Behind us, the man came barreling down with a machete. The woman screamed—a guttural, soul-wrenching shriek that woke the entire compound. Men came rushing, some barefoot, some shirtless. A frenzy erupted. Three of them managed to pin the man down.

“Bitch,” he hissed. “Let me finish her.”

I had a car. I took her.

We drove in silence. She kept spitting blood out the window. My seat was already stained red. I didn’t mind. She cried—deep sobs, mixed with gasps for air. For a moment, I thought she might collapse from the bleeding.

I changed route. We headed to the hospital.

At casualty, an emergency trauma team kicked into gear. Large venous access lines were inserted. Fluids were initiated. Labs were drawn. Pain meds given. Several bedside scans were done to rule out life-threatening bleeding. A head CT was requested.

“What happened?” someone asked me.

“Domestic violence,” I said, quickly.

“Mom! Mom… what’s your name?” A young doctor was by her side. “Mom, I need you to stay with me. Can you hear me?”

The patient nodded.

“What’s your name?”

“Idhil.”

“Last name?”

“Mahdi.”

“Do you know where you are?”

“In a hospital,” Idhil whispered.

“GCS 15/15,” the doctor muttered.

“He wants me dead. He wants me dead,” she kept repeating, sobbing.

“Mom, calm down, okay,” the doctor said gently. Porters had already arrived to take her for scans.

The doctor turned to me, pen in hand.

“Who are you to her? Next of kin?”

“No. Just someone who happened to be there.”

“Anyone we can contact?”

“Amina… Amina…” Idhil murmured.

“Can you give me her number?”

Idhil recited it slowly.

“Who is she to you?” the doctor asked.

“A friend.”

“Any relatives nearby?”

Silence.

She didn’t answer.

They wheeled her away.

I was left standing with the doctor. I walked out.

I needed air.