How I suffered the fight, flight, or freeze syndrome in the face of violence

It was a few minutes after midnight. Suddenly, there were some shuffling and hissing sounds on the street, below my window. Then, some low voices: “You must kill me today!” “You better die, you whore!” The first was a woman’s voice, followed by a man’s voice. Tiptoeing to the window, I took a peep, but it was difficult to make out the figures; electric power had failed again. The shuffling and hissing continued. I followed the sounds and the shadows and, then, saw the silhouettes of a fighting couple. Indeed, two people, man and woman, were fighting in the open street. I could see them better from the dull torch held by a child who had appeared from the uncompleted building from the other side of the street, opposite my window. Another child, a girl of about 5 years of age, hastily ran out of that building and joined her sister, the one with the torch, but they dared not get closer to the fighting couple.

As the fists continued to land on the woman’s body, like pestle on mortar, the two children still standing a little distance away from the fighting could be heard, obviously addressing the man.

“Brother, bikozia nu…” “Brother, please we beg you….” They chorused, in listless desperation. “Are they husband and wife, lovers, friends, neighbours, business partners, probably a prostitute and her customer, disagreeing? Whatever be the case, it was a clear case of violence against the woman. The pounding was too much.

“What do I do, now?” I asked myself. “Call out from my windows, step down to the streets, call the police, or just pray quietly in my room for a peaceful resolution of whatever the issue was?” I was troubled. We had not lived up to one month in that neighbourhood which had very many undeveloped plots. So, going outside by that time of night might be risky. “Worst still, the whole thing might be some sort of bait by the fighters to draw out unsuspecting victims to rob them?” I was restless.

Calling the police might not be welcomed, even by the lady. “But would I allow a life to be snuffed out right under my window?” Mercifully, gradually, the fighting stopped and everywhere became quiet once more. I remained unsettled throughout the night, wondering at the state of the thoroughly battered woman.

I got up early, at day break, to go for morning mass. Morning mass was not a habit for me, but that morning I knew I had to go. I wanted to find a way of stopping over at that uncompleted house and somehow checking on the people staying there. When I stopped over at the house by 7am, after morning mass that day, luckily for me, there was one woman sitting in the front yard looking at the street. I called her and asked her if there were any problems with them, and she said “No”. They had no problems, according to her. I did not know how to start asking them about the fight I saw from my window. From the little I had been seeing of them from my house and while passing their building, I knew it was only one family living in that uncompleted building. What I did not know was whether it was her or her sister or mother or auntie that was involved in the fight that early morning, after midnight. Anyway, I gave money to the woman sitting in that front yard, and told her to use it to get whatever she might need. She was surprised. She smiled and thanked me profusely, taking the money. I became a bit relieved after making that visit. Many women suffer such batteries and silently treat themselves after. Say No to violence against women and men.