"I and my children were beaten and kicked out of our house by the
brothers-in-law. We live by begging, in continual fear"
Widow's Stories
In many countries in Africa, it is considered a ‘crime’ for a woman to lose her husband, and she is blamed for his death. Because of this, widows are humiliated, deprived of their homes and children and punished for the death of their husband... Women are subjected to inhumane, obscene and heinous treatments because they committed the ‘crime’ of allowing death to take their husbands. These stories demonstrate that in these societies it is the duty of the wives to ensure that their husbands do not fall ill, are not attacked by armed robbers or do not get killed by motor accidents.
Arit's Story ( from WIDEN)
Arit, a full-time housewife and a 30 year old widow of three years, tells how
she survived the ordeals of widowhood.
I was 18 years old when my husband, a rich man of 40 years, married me. The marriage lasted for 9 years and we have 4 children to show for it. My husband was very loving and caring and did not want me to do anything but stay at home and take care of his children. By every standard, I was blessed and the envy of most women. I was a happy and contended woman and my in-laws held me in high esteem, or so I thought.
On my 26th birthday, my husband bought a duplex and a Honda Accord for me and the rolling hills of the Jos Plateau bore testimony to the love that we shared. Eight years of marriage did not dent the love we had for each other. Six months after this, he died in his sleep!
He was an early riser so when he did not come out by 7.00 am I was worried,
and when the knocks at his bedroom door yielded no response, I alerted his
20 year old brother, who broke open the door to meet John stiff with rigor
mortis. I fainted and as I fell, I hit my head on the ground and became unconscious.
The reality was too hard to face, that a man who went to bed hale and hearty
the previous night, could be a corpse in the morning. I woke up in the hospital
with a very big cut on my head.
I was in the hospital for one week and on getting home, everything was gone. His relations accused me of killing him by witchcraft; they did not allow the children and me to attend his burial and warned us that if we ventured into the village, we would be dead.
My elder brother took us home and I did not know how to start putting my life back in shape because my husband made all the plans, down to the minutest details of my life. I almost turned myself into a vegetable, but for my sister in-law, who proved a trusted friend. She was by my side most of the time until I was able to come out of my sorrows.
My husband’s relations were kind enough not to touch my boxes, and I
thank God that the documents for the duplex - my birthday gift - were inside
my box. My car, however, was gone. We moved into the servants’ quarters
and leased the main building. It was from this money that I got a shed in the
market and started selling Baby clothes.
It is now three years since the unfortunate incident and I am recovering slowly from the trauma. I realize that I have to be strong for the sake of my children. The other painful side to this story is that all my friends, who used to wine and dine with me, have all deserted me. They now treat me as an outcast and some openly warn me not to come to their houses because they would not trust a ‘single woman’ being around their husbands.
Well, such is life. When you laugh, there are people to laugh with you, but when you, but when you mourn, you mourn alone. The sun has set, but it will surely rise again, for as long as there is life, there is hope.