In Eswatini, another woman’s bruises have made their way to the public eye — not because she was rescued, not because justice was served, but because her abuser was arrogant enough to boast: “Even if you report me, I will never spend a day in a jail cell.”
Let’s be clear: This was not just a threat. It was a declaration of war against every woman who has ever been told that her pain doesn’t matter. It was a chilling reminder of how patriarchy functions in plain sight; how some men wield their education, money or social connections as a shield against accountability.
He might be right, at least for now. Too often, men like him are right, the system moves slowly, the police shrug and victims are left to piece themselves back together in silence. But we must talk about this story not just with outrage, but with urgency.
The problem is not that the laws don’t exist. Eswatini has laws against assault and frameworks for protection orders. The problem is that enforcement is selective and women are often expected to produce perfect evidence under perfect conditions, as if abuse happens neatly on schedule, in front of witnesses.
Men like this alleged ‘lawyer’ know exactly how to manipulate that gap. They count on a woman’s economic dependence, her fear of retaliation and her isolation to keep her silent. Additionally, society, by doing nothing, helps him.
Yes, leaving an abusive man is the right goal, but it’s also the most dangerous step. We cannot tell women to ‘just leave’ without also dismantling the financial traps, the threats and the cultural shaming that make escape nearly impossible. Instead, we need a conversation about preparation. About arming women with the knowledge, networks and resources to leave safely and permanently. This is not weakness, it’s strategy.
If you are in a situation like the woman in this story, here’s the truth: the law may fail you, but you can still outthink your abuser. For instance, you can name the abuse early. If he yells, belittles, controls your movements or finances — that’s already abuse. You don’t need a bruise to validate your pain.
It is also important to tell someone and keep telling. Pick people who will not pressure you into silence. Record incidents, take photos, write down dates. Even if the police drag their feet, this evidence is power. You can also find allies outside your circle. Contact organisations like SWAGAA or Women and Law in Southern Africa. They have seen every trick abusers pull and can help you navigate the system.
The most important way to navigate abuse is to create an exit plan quietly. Secure copies of important documents. Identify a safe location, even if it’s a friend’s spare couch. Hide emergency cash if you can. And then stop believing his apologies. The violence will come again. It always does. His remorse is not love, it’s a pause in control tactics.
Let’s be brutally honest: An abuser’s power does not come from his fists alone — it comes from the people and systems that enable him. It comes from the friends who tell the woman to be patient. It comes from the family who says ‘Don’t ruin his career.’ It comes from police officers who tell her to ‘go talk it out.’ It comes from our collective tolerance for women’s suffering as just ‘how things are.’
This is not just her fight. It is ours. Because for every one woman whose story makes headlines, there are dozens whose pain never reaches a camera.
To the woman whose story sparked this outrage: You are not alone. His arrogance is not proof of his power — it is proof of his fear that one day you will rise, speak and shatter the silence he depends on. To every woman reading this who is in pain: The most radical act you can take is to survive, to plan, to escape and to make sure the world knows exactly what he did.
Because the day women stop believing abusers’ threats is the day those threats lose their teeth. Until then, we will keep speaking, keep fighting, and keep reminding the world: a man’s status will not protect him from our collective truth.
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