WARNING: This piece contains descriptions of abuse and violence.

My boyfriend and I woke up to loud screams. A woman was crying, begging a man not to hit her with a gardening spade. We came out of our little shack wearing nothing but our underwear. It was a rainy September day, and just as we looked to understand what was going on, the man broke into a house with the spade and threw her on the floor. Dragging and punching her, he said he would kill her.

We contemplated what to do when suddenly, the woman passed by us at full speed as if carried by the wind. She wore nothing but a bra. The man followed in pursuit. All was quiet thereafter.

“We will kill each other”, we both exclaimed. No one had come out when this was happening. Not a single person in this squatter camp. We were quite a happy couple, but tomorrow, this could be us. It bothered us to no end that if it came to this, our neighbours would ignore us. We sat and cried because we come from abusive backgrounds, and this triggered our trauma. Later, we watched Nigerian movies and forgot about this, like we always do every other weekend. Rumours spread that her family had fetched her from a family that had housed her when she ran and promised to kill the boyfriend. Life went on.