I saw her die. Her soul, at least. But her body lived, patched carelessly to her soul with a faint string. She howled in pain as the nurse attended to her wounds. She had seen this before- the nurse. More than she cared to admit. The wounds were a tad deeper every visit and she longed to put a cork on it.
Against her ethical values, she wished death on her, but I was too close.
Domestic violence has become fashionable in a very absurd sense. Characterised by the victims’ inability or blunt refusal to report offenders, the country is a long way off from finding a permanent solution to it.
As she moaned in pained, I watched in great fascination as the health worker pressed harder. As though the harder she pressed, the quicker the wounds would heal, leaving her with scars that would stay on longer than the one before it. The sores cut deep.
I watched, attentively, hoping this would be my last assignment.
In Ghana, as in many other developing countries, violence at home is considered a ‘family affair’. However, that should never be the case. Whether the victim is a defenceless child or an able bodied spouse, the constitution of Ghana makes it clear what should be done when an abusive pattern is formed or a single act occurs. No single act should be considered minor or trivial.
As was her wont, the nurse asked her a few questions as to how she sustained her injuries. Without a hint of honesty, she poured out her rehearsed lines of how she accidentally fell as she walked in the darkness of the home she shared with her husband for over a decade. The health worker took notes, expunging every ounce of sympathy she had accumulated for these patients over the years. Her pity had ran scarce.
In her past experience, the more she encouraged them to report the incidents to the police, the more tall tales they invented to excuse the actions of the offenders. This sickened her to the core.
I realised how trapped they both were. The healer and the victim. The former in an unending cycle of treating patients whose wounds ran deeper than the gaping holes of visible sores and the latter, wrangled in a salad of lies while her perpetrator ran free like the wind. I grinned at the irony.
The domestic violence act 732 of Ghana’s constitution not only encourages the victims to file complaints to the police, it also requires the police to (a) interview the parties and witnesses to the domestic violence including children. (g) Inform the victim of his or her rights and any services which may be available.
After the doctor prescribed the medication for her, she walked hurriedly towards the pharmacy to take her drugs, albeit in pain. The only disturbance on her mind being her inability to make it home in time to prepare supper for him. That only meant she would be back to this familiar place sooner than she expected. Nowhere in this same mind did she harbour a thought of going to the police. She dared not dream it.
The most common excuse of domestically abused spouses, especially women, is ‘the children.’
The welfare of their children superimposes their need for good health, conveniently ignoring the future of these children in the event of their death.
 The more studies conducted on the topic, the more gruesome truths are discovered. The motif that ran through all of these literature is the gospel of admitting to the violence and taking the next step towards the police to report it. Hundreds of women will never admit to violence because of shame and a hundred more live in denial because they have no other source of livelihood.
The nurse saw her leave and she longed to call her back and drag her by her broken arm to the police.
She reached the gates and stared for a brief moment at the sign that read ‘hospital’ and knew she’d be back by the morrow. Her soul remained on the hospital bed. Tonight she was going home with only a body that had numbed to the constant bludgeoning.
I stood there with her, rather disappointed that I had nothing to show for a day’s work.
The next time I’m pulled out of hades to escort another soul, I hope it is his.