When love turns sour (3)


Uba Group

Uba Group


I reconciled with my husband again because I thought that was the best thing to do, in view of the fact that we had four children and I did not think there could be anything like starting all over again for me. So, we started living together again.

I told him why two of our children were not with me, and instead of him saying that I should go and get them back from my relatives, he kept quiet as if it did not even matter. But he was calm and would always seek to know how I got money to execute most of the projects that I was involved in, especially my building project.

I told him how I had been lucky with my clothes business and how tips from my regular local government work supported what I earned. Yes, I had male admirers, but I was planning to get close to one of them, who had shown integrity, when my husband surfaced again.

It was a relief when my husband volunteered to oversee the building project for me even if I did not want him to handle money. Though I trusted him because of love, I still preferred to do many of the purchases for accountability; I only parted with labour fees and some unavoidable expenses. I had, however, noticed that ever since he came back, he had been glued to his phone. He would not drop it carelessly for a million dollars.

He was not like that before, which made me think that he had some things he was hiding. But, knowing the kind of man he was, I decided to, again, let sleeping dogs be, so that I would not in anyway arouse the animal in him again. Then, he started keeping late nights.

He would go with friends to joints after the day’s job at the site and come back home very late. Sometimes, he would return the next day and take off immediately for his football club’s training sessions.

When this behaviour assumed an alarming dimension, I called his friend, who had accompanied him to our house to beg, to wade in before things would degenerate into a hopeless situation again. But this friend kept assuring me that all was well; all I needed to do was take my eyes off those things that could continue to give me concern. At that point, I told myself that they were birds of the same feather.

I resorted to prayer and told my children to do the same. Occasionally, it would seem as if he had regained his senses, but if I tried to complain about the tiniest thing in the house, he would almost pull down the roof.

To worsen matters, he started beating me again. The children, including the ones, who came once in awhile for holidays, were already getting tired of his peculiar behaviour, to the point that the eldest said she did not understand why I should remain married to someone who had no regard for me as a woman. But I always told her that every marriage had challenges, that we were facing ours and that we would overcome by the grace of God.

Of course, I knew that this explanation did not do much to change her perception of the whole situation, but that was all I could do to prevent her from hating her dad.

Then one day, my shop girl said her uncle had travelled out of the country and that she would like to put up with us for one week until she could find another place to stay. I did not object to it, because she had been with me for a while. I did not want her second option to take a week off to look for a place. So, she came in and was sharing a room with my daughter and the baby of the house.

Since I had to report early at work, I usually dropped my children at school and encouraged her to stay back a bit to tidy up the house before going to the shop to open for the day.

On the third day, we had barely left the house when I noticed that I had left the key to my office in my room. Usually, we left the keys with the security guys, but I forgot it in my bag when I closed the previous day. So, I left the children in the car and rushed back into the house.

I was shocked beyond imagination when I met my shop girl under my husband, who was hurriedly kissing every part of her body in a way that suggested that it had been happening for long. This was not even up to two minutes when I left the house. Could her coming to stay briefly with us have been masterminded by my husband? I couldn’t find answers. I just walked into the room, while the girl was shaking and cursing herself, took the key and left for work.

Where the courage not to shout or create a scene came from, I wouldn’t know. But I got into the car, did not mention a thing to my daughter or her little brother and went off to work. Before I got back home, the girl had left; and she also did not report at work, that is, she never opened the shop. She was also good enough not to have stolen any of my things.

Those around the shop then started telling me about how my husband had been a regular visitor at the shop, and how they had caught him taking her to a hotel on several occasions.


That day, when I got home, I met a calabash half-filled with blood, in my room, with a dead cock stuck in the middle of the coagulated blood. I screamed and fell on the floor. Beside the calabash was a note in my husband’s writing, which said, “You ritualist, I have paid you back in your own coin. You and your mother have been using my star. I have just started snatching it back.

“For your information, if you have seen this calabash, then you dare not step into the house you built with what should have been my own money, or you will continue to grow lean till you die within seven days.”

I must have passed out immediately after reading the note, because the next thing I saw was my mother and some family members beside me on the hospital bed.
When I recovered a bit, and after fervent prayers by my mother’s prayer group and pastors, I went into my new house, which we were to move into before the incidence, forcefully.

He had locked up everywhere and had taken all the documents away. You would not believe that when I went back to where I would sleep that night, I noticed that my skin began to peel and it seemed like my bones could not carry my body. I couldn’t stand on my feet. My mother took me everywhere, from pastors, to Imams, when hospital medications were not helping matters. And everyone kept on saying that I must never go back to my house again; a house I built with my sweat!

I am well now, after one year, but I have not set my eyes on this evil man since the day I caught him with my shop girl. But should I just fold my arms and watch this cruel man take what belongs to me away because I don’t want to die?

Can’t I handle this legally even if I won’t enter the house again? Some people have advised that I should not expose him and take him to court because of the children I have for him. What then should I do?
Readers please respond.