Rashid went out in the night not knowing where to go exactly. The bandage had started to wear off and the outdoor wind stung at the hurt knuckle. He kept shaking it, wished to get back inside the house. There was no way he’d go back there. Rashid always found it daunting to face his wife after hitting her. A demon would control him in those moments of hitting her, then it would leave him back to his self of being clouded by shame and guilt. He’d be dispossessed off himself and the next thing he knows Nikiwe is crying on the floor again–he’d laid a finger on her. How he hated it. How he hated being deemed as abnormal. No crazy person appreciates being called crazy. He’d make means to hold himself, or at least walk out of the room the next time they argue but it all never worked. In every argument she was always right, plus her voice would be louder than his so he’d find himself standing there like an idiot. And for someone like Nikiwe, she’d never stop talking to get her point through, and he would find he has silenced her the only way he ever could.
Unable to withstand the cold awakening the pain in his hand, Rashid rushed to a nearby pub. It was warm inside there, not as crowded as it usually was on Fridays. He actually found it shocking. Owethu’s Pub is always packed when the weekend kicks off. Business going bad, maybe? He suspected so when saw that there was a new bartender now.
“What happened to Melly?” He asked.
The bored scraggy bartender may not have heard him. He kept drying a glass, obsessively so. Once he was satisfied with it, he faced Rashid with eyes of one who has just woken up. Rashid forgot about his initial question and just made his order. The bartender gave him his drink and asked: “got into a fight?” His glare at his bandage hand.
“Yeah,” Rashid agreed. In each sip he took, he kept thinking about Nikiwe and his marriage. When did they get so fucked up? When did he get so fucked up? He couldn’t remember having any problems when he was younger. Yes he was eccentric but not to a point of raising his hand to a female. Maybe she was right, he does have anger issues. Mental issues, anger issues, he wondered how much worse could it get.
Rashid drank the whole bottle and ordered some more. A couple of bottles later (he couldn’t recall how much.) the barman refused to give him more.
“You’ve had way more than enough now. Time to go home, champ,” said the barman.
Rashid growled, demanded more beer, smacked the tab. The blonde girl seated next to him grabbed her glass and left.
“I’m gonna need you to calm down, dude,” said the barman, he himself looked calm and unfazed by Rashid’s yell; proof that he’s experienced in such situations. Fortunately for him Rashid wasn’t drunk, just tipsy.
And now Rashid was taking out his wallet, pulled it wide all the notes and coins fell out. “Look, look,” he snatched three hundred and waved it to the barman’s bored face. “Just give me my beer!” Nothing happened. “Oh, you think you too good for my money now, huh?” That was higher than the last yell.