Beat me like a man

Naked photos. Receipts I thought I’d deleted.

⚠️ 18+ Content Warning

This story contains mature themes, including explicit language, violence and adult situations. Reader discretion is advised. By continuing, you confirm that you are 18 years or older.

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My father used to say “A woman who talks too much needs to taste silence.”

That’s what he called it. Not beating. Not abuse.

Correction.

“You’re not a man if your woman or any woman talks back,” he’d add, usually while tightening his belt, rolling up his sleeves, or picking up the nearest thing within reach.

It was never just talk. He always followed it with action.

That was my earliest memory of manhood: watching him slap my mother in the mouth until she stopped speaking mid-sentence. Watching him grab my stepmother by the neck like a thief in the market. Watching him lash his daughters across the back with a cable wire because one of them refused to kneel when serving his food.

I was five when I saw the first slap. I was six when I saw the first beating. By eight, it didn’t shock me anymore. By ten, I stopped looking away.

By twelve, I thought that’s what men did.

That’s where I got it from.

That’s where the audacity came from.

It was a Friday night, and I didn’t want love.

I wanted something fast. Numb. Loud. Easy.

Something I could grip, use, and forget.

That’s what Loveth was.

I picked her up from the street near Iyana Ipaja.

She was wearing a red bra top. short black skirt. Heels she could barely walk in. Skin like roasted copper. No makeup, just lip gloss. She looked wild, like she wasn’t scared of anything.

She leaned into the window and said, “You dey alone?”

I said, “Enter. I’ll pay double if you behave.”

She smiled. “You go tire”

In the hotel room, she undressed slowly. No shame. No rush.

Her breasts were full and heavy, the kind that moved when she walked. Nipples dark and round. Her waist curved in like a Coca-Cola bottle, and her thighs looked like they could strangle a man to death.

“Remove your trouser,” she said.

She got on her knees and started sucking.

I gripped her braids. She didn’t complain. She moaned. Took everything in. Sloppy. Spit dripping down her chin. She gagged a few times but didn’t stop. Looked up at me while her mouth worked like she was daring me to cum.

We went four rounds.

First round, she rode me till I begged.

Second round, I bent her over and watched her ass jiggle with each thrust.

Third round, she sat on my face and told me to shut up.

Fourth round, we did it on the floor, bodies sticky, sweat dripping, moaning like animals.

Loveth was sweet. Street sweet. The kind of girl who didn’t ask for cuddles after. Just lay there with her legs open, catching her breath like she’d finished a race.

“I will pay you double,” I said. “You deserve it”

She grinned. “I know.”

I opened one of my bank apps and sent her the money as I had promised.

We both slept off after having bottles of tequila.

It was 11:02 p.m. when I asked for it. I was awake and I woke her up by rubbing my penis on her stomach. I wanted  anal sex.

“Turn around,” I said. “I want your ass this time.”

She sat up. “You dey mad?”

I blinked. “I paid. I can do anything I want.”

She frowned. “Who tell you say I dey do back?”

“I just paid you one sixty k”

“And so? You go use am fuck sense join? You wan put am for my anus… you dey craze?”

I grabbed her wrist. “I said turn around.”

She snatched herself away.

“You get luck say I even give you head. Ashawo no mean slave.”

Her tone slapped me harder than any hand could.

I got up. Slapped her across the face. Hard.

She stumbled back, hand on her cheek.

Then—without warning—she slapped me back.

Fast. Hot. Precise.

I froze.

“Do you want to die?” I barked.

“Stand up and beat me like a man na!” she shouted, chest heaving.

“You think say you fit mess with ashawo and go free?”

I punched her jaw.

She staggered. Blood at the corner of her lips.

I slapped her again. And again. And again.

“You don’t tell me no,” I growled. “I bought this night!”

She was bleeding now, panting, cornered.

Then—

Smash!

She broke a bottle on the ground, picked the neck, and slammed it into the side of my head.

Pain. Cold. Metal ringing in my skull. Blood everywhere.

I fell. Dizzy. Hands shaking.

“Idiot,” she spat. “Try am again.

Na your dead body dem go pack.”

The noise had reached the corridor. Footsteps. Knocking. Someone shouting, “What’s happening there?”

Loveth stood over me, blood on her cheek, her chest rising and falling like she just finished battle.

“You dey craze,” she said. “I no be your pikin, I no be your mama, I no be your sister. I no be your babe. You no go use me do practice. Fucking bastard.”

She didn’t run.

She stayed.

Like she wanted them to find her like that—with blood on her hand and victory on her face…

Bisola was different from Loveth, she wasn’t a sex worker, she was my first girlfriend when I got to University

The first slap shocked both of us.

We were in the car. She had posted a photo of herself on Instagram, a mirror selfie in a short gown. The caption was “Soft and booked.”

I asked her why she didn’t tell me she was posting it.

She laughed like I was joking.

“You now take permission before posting?” she asked.

I didn’t even think. The slap came from somewhere old. From my blood. From everything I watched Papa do.

She froze.

I froze too.

I remember my ears ringing with silence. No traffic, no honks, nothing.

She touched her cheek slowly. Then looked out the window.

“I think we should go back to your place,” she said.

“Bisola…”

“I’m fine. Let’s just go.”

And I knew right then: she wasn’t going anywhere.

Because even after the slap, she still wanted to protect my ego.

I apologized.

Flowers. Credit alert. A handwritten note that said “I’m still learning love.”

She forgave me.

But something shifted.

After that, I didn’t hide my temper anymore.

If she smiled too long at another guy, I reminded her who paid her rent. If she raised her voice, I lowered mine and ‘correct’ her with my belts.

If she stayed out too late, I made sure she never did it again.

Beatings. Corrections.

I controlled her wardrobe. Her tone. Her silence.

But in public, we smiled like we were planning our wedding.

People envied her. Envied us.

Even her friends said, “Bisola, you’re lucky oh. This your man is giving.”

She would smile and say, “God did.”

I was God. I gave and took.

I was drawn to Amaka because she wasn’t desperate for money. She smiled with half her mouth. Danced like she didn’t care who was watching. I liked that kind of control.

We started dating soon after. I moved fast—gifted her a new iPhone in the second week, sent lunch to her and cleared her Amazon cart. I was used to love being transactional. So I assumed she’d fold.

Amaka didn’t.

“You can’t buy my silence,” she said once after an argument. I had punched her stomach first because she was nagging about the nudes of a lady she saw on my phone.

I scoffed. “I’m not trying to buy it. I’m just saying you talk too much.”

Then I slapped her.

She looked me dead in the eye, and touched her cheek

“Kelechi, please—”

Pa!

She gasped. Her hand flew to her cheek.

“You listen to me!” I shouted.

Pa!

Another slap. Harder. Angrier.

“Okay??”

“I’m a man. You listen!”

“Please, stop—please—”

But I wasn’t listening.

I was spiraling.

I was twelve again, watching my father’s belt raise dust off my mother’s body.

I was seventeen again, beating Uju till her twin threatened to kill me.

I was twenty-one again, dragging Bisola by her wig.

I was Kelechi again.

And Kelechi only knew how to win with fists.

The punches came faster now.

Her body crumbled under them.

She cried and cried for hours in the bathroom.

I said I was sorry.

And then I did it again.

And again.

And again.

One time, she found my old phone and saw the chats. Girls I’d been seeing. Naked photos. Receipts I thought I’d deleted.

She didn’t shout.

She just waited for me to come out of the bathroom and said, “I know you’re cheating. But that’s not the problem.”

“What’s the problem?” I asked.

“You don’t even respect the lies you tell anymore.”

I backhanded her across the face so hard her earring snapped.

She staggered. Fell.

When she got up, she didn’t cry.

She just walked out.

But she came back.

Because her mother told her to.

When Amaka told her mum, I thought it was over.

But the woman came to my house with rice, stew, and a smile.

“Amaka’s father beat me too,” she said, sitting on my sofa like she belonged there. “It’s a phase. What matters is that you’re a man with a future. Marriage is not sweet every day.”

Amaka stood behind her, arms folded.

“She told me to endure,” Amaka said later. “That the beginning of marriage is always war.”

“War?” I repeated, scoffing. “You make it sound like I’m the enemy.”

She didn’t reply.

Just turned and walked into the room.

I followed her.

And that night, I made love to her with the same hands I’d used to hurt her.

And afterward, I told myself it meant we were fine.

The wedding was planned in less than four months. Her people rushed it. I had the money. It made sense.

She looked like a bride even during fittings—elegant, quiet, present but somewhere far.

I didn’t notice the distance at first.

But I did notice George.

Her best friend. A pretty boy type, pink lips, dreads, too many rings on his fingers. She called him “my twin soul.”

I didn’t like that.

I told her.

She said, “He’s my best friend. We’ve known each other since uni. I’m not dropping him just because your ego is delicate.”

I slapped her again.

This time, she screamed.

But she still didn’t leave.

Or so I thought.

The plan was clean.

She and George had arranged it behind my back.

I didn’t know until the priest said, “Do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

And Amaka said—

“No.”

Amaka escaped.

And she was the only one who did…

I’ve loved women. Touched them. Lied to them. Hit them. Ruined them.

Thirtheen women.

Including my own sisters.

I need to tell you about the women.

The ones who held me. The ones who broke me. The ones I broke in return.

Maybe then, it’ll make sense. Maybe then, you’ll ask the question that won’t stop echoing in my head:

Who raised me like this?

Read full book here: 👉Who raised me like this?