Editorial

Dear Mac- My Father Slept With My Wife

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Dear Mac- My Father Slept With My Wife

Dear Mac- My Father Slept With My Wife

Dear Mac- My Father Slept With My Wife – I am pained. How can my father sleep with my wife? How?! No matter the apologies, the pleading, the elders coming to my house to make me see reason, I just don’t get it. I don’t even know who I should be angrier at.

I am Yaw and it is from Kumasi that I write. Everybody makes fun of me. They say that I am a weakling because I am dumb. But I see, and I hear, and before I lost my speech, I could talk. And see with more than one eye, too.

At seven years of age, I suddenly stopped talking. We went to every doctor and the story was the same. He has got an injury to Broca’s area of the brain and so he would not be able to talk.

The trauma also affected my left eye, and now, instead of the black eyeball that characterises my right eye, my left eye seems to be clouded by a green misty sheen, that has left that eye almost blind. Almost, because I can still recognise sensations of light with it.

My parents, as at the time, were distraught. I was an only child and my parents felt really bad. It was not the way they felt that annoyed me, but their pity. The way they started to look at me as someone incomplete.

So I made it my personal vendetta, to make something out of myself despite my disabilities. I topped every class, and now, I am a successful somebody.

Still, my soldier dad looks at me like I am not enough. He is a top personnel with the Ghanaian army, and when his peers come over, he grimaces when he has to introduce me.

I am an embarrassment to him. I didn’t want to get married. I felt like what woman would want a guy like me. Till I met Riona.

In some ways, she showed me she loved me. She didn’t look at me as if I was incapable but she looked at me as a person.

To communicate, we wrote to each other. She would talk and I would nod, things like that. I would give anything to talk again. Would have given anything to respond, “I do”, at the altar rather than just nodding.

Dear Mac,

I imagined it was happening but the reality came so fast that my mind was unprepared for it. At age fifty-one my father can pass for forty, I think because of his military training but I never imagined my own wife would lay with him.

When I first heard the whispers, from a faithful neighbour friend, that someone always came around in the afternoons when I wasn’t in, I was curious.

I tried to ask Riona but something made me refrain. Who could this “somebody” be? So after much consideration, thinking what I should do, I told Riona I was travelling and that she should expect me in two weeks. Packed a box, gave her enough money, and left.

I didn’t go anywhere, hung around and then around 1pm, proceeded back home. I saw the car outside, very familiar but my heart won’t let me believe it.

I put a finger to my mouth to ensure the maid remained shushed and then I tiptoed upstairs. What I saw, upon peeping through the slightly open door (they couldn’t even wait to properly close the door)almost broke me.

My wife, riding, her full body bouncing about upon a figure that was curling his toes. My box fell to the ground.
And the riding stopped. Who’s there?!

I broke again. It was my father’s voice. Slowly, I opened the door. The white lights of my room shining against their n*ked sweaty bodies.

I let them see me. Riona started to scream, my father just lay there and watched me, idly. I walked away. Riona ran after me, still n*ked, but I pushed her away. And I kept walking.

I write from this hotel. I have been here a month. I might kill her, or him if we see again. She’s been calling, begging, her parents, everyone. He has called, once, and he said a dull sorry.

I want you to use our real names Mac, let the world see.

(Dear Reader; All Dear Mac stories are based on true life events. Names are changed, venues are changed,stories are re-written but the message is the same. They are shared with consent because we believe your comments can help, too. If you want to be heard as well, or need a listening ear, forward your own story to Mac @ demesughnelson@gmail.com)

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