“Think of your children.” I thought I heard my mother say.

Had I heard I right? Perhaps, the igbati from the previous night had obstructed my hearing.

My husband is good at those, you might even say they are his specialty. It had become a routine: eat, get beaten, sleep, repeat. He hits me at the slightest provocation, his anger is seemingly boundless. Everything annoyed him, and this vicious slap I received, the igbati, reminds me of my turmoil.