Beat Her to Submission.

The argument started like many others, with raised voices, wounded pride, and words spoken in anger. But this time, it ended differently.

Ikechukwu stormed out of the house, his face tight with frustration, his heart burning with wounded ego. He drove straight to the neighbourhood bar, where his usual circle of friends gathered every evening to drink, laugh, and exchange “life advice.”

When they noticed his gloomy mood, one of them asked,  

“What happened to you, my guy? You look like someone just stole your peace.”

He took a long gulp of his drink and began to narrate everything—how his wife had challenged him, how she refused to agree with him, how she spoke back instead of submitting quietly.

The bar fell silent for a moment. Then the advice came, thick and heavy like smoke in the room.

“You're too soft,” one of them scoffed. “That’s why she dey talk to you anyhow.”

“Beat her to submission. That’s how I trained my wife. Today, she doesn’t open her mouth when I’m talking. She knows who the boss is.” Another boasted proudly.

A third laughed and added,  “Women don’t need soft hands. If a woman is stubborn, reset her mentality with a hot slap.”

“Try it,” someone concluded. “She’ll respect you. You need to show her you’re the man in that house.”

Ikechukwu listened quietly, nodding. These were the same friends he trusted—men who shared their struggles, their secrets, and their so-called wisdom over bottles of beer. Their words sank into his heart like poison disguised as medicine.

A week later another issue came up. His wife, calm but firm, tried to explain her side. She wasn’t shouting. She wasn’t insulting him. She was simply speaking her mind.

But to him, it felt like disrespect.

Suddenly, two slaps landed on her cheeks.

The room went silent.

His wife froze, shock written all over her face. In their four years of marriage, he had never laid a hand on her. Never.

Her eyes filled with tears, but none fell. She said nothing. She simply turned and walked out of the room.

Ikechukwu felt victorious.  His friends were right, he thought.  The slap had shut her up.

What he didn’t know was that long before she became his wife, she had made a promise to herself: “The day any man raises his hand against me is the day the marriage ends.”

The next evening, he returned from work to an empty house.  

No wife.  

No children.  

No explanations.

Only silence.

Confused and angry, he rushed back to the bar.

“Don’t worry,” his friends said casually. “She’ll come back. When she gets tired of staying in her father’s house, she’ll come begging.”

So he waited.

One month.  

Two months.  

Three.  

Four.

No calls.  

No messages.  

No word from her family.

That was when fear replaced pride.

He went searching for them. After several attempts, her family finally allowed him to see his wife. But the woman standing before him was no longer the same.

She was calm. Firm. Unshaken.

“I’m done,” she told him.  “I have moved on with my life. I advised you do the same.”

His pleading and apology failed to move her. She was resolute with her decision.

The slap he gave her lasted only a second.

The consequences took him two years to fix.

—-

The bottom line.

Violence doesn’t build respect.  

It destroys trust.  

And once trust is broken, some things can never be repaired.

What works for others might not work for you.