When Ismatu*, 40, married her husband in 2007, he was the neighbourhood sweetheart — steady job, his own apartment, and big dreams for the future. She gave him her heart, bridal gold, and over a decade of loyalty.
But when his job disappeared, something darker took its place. In this story, Ismatu shares how the man she once adored became a stranger and how she clawed her way back from love, loss, and violence.
Trigger warning: This article contains sensitive topics like domestic abuse, which some readers may find distressing. Reader discretion is advised.
As told to Aisha Bello
I married Timi* when I was 22, fresh out of polytechnic. He was 28, already working at Chanchangi Airlines, and one of those neighbourhood “chill boys” that girls noticed and mothers raised their eyebrows at.
But he wasn’t reckless. He had a steady job, an apartment just down the street from ours, and a sense of humour that softened even my mother. We’d been dating since my first year at the polytechnic. So, once I graduated in 2006, wedding plans came quickly. He was Yoruba like us, born and raised in the North like us, and he looked like someone who’d care for me, build a home and keep it steady.
We got married in early 2007.
In those early months, it felt like the right choice. We had a small, sweet life. We shared meals, made jokes, and fell asleep watching TV. He worked a 9–5 as a printer for the airline, and life, although not extravagant, was calm, predictable, and smooth sailing.
Until it wasn’t.
When a Job Collapses, Sometimes a Marriage Collapses With It.
The trouble at Chanchangi Airlines didn’t start loudly. It began as whispers: delayed flights, grounding orders and mounting maintenance debts. Once one of Nigeria’s top domestic carriers, the airline was struggling. Safety incidents piled up — a fire in the cockpit, planes aborting mid-flight, hydraulic failures, and near-misses that made the news.
By 2010, the Nigerian Civil Aviation Authority grounded the airline for operating with only one working aircraft. Salaries stopped, and the airline put staff on indefinite leave.
My husband, who used to joke in bed and bring home suya, suddenly became quieter and distant. He’d sit in the dark for hours, downing bottles of stout.
He stopped talking to me unless he had to. When I asked questions, he barked back or ignored me completely. I didn’t know how much he earned or how he managed his money, but things got so tight that I quietly started collecting foodstuff from my mother just so we could eat.
I missed the version of him I married. The boyish laughter, the lightness, that man was gone. What was left was someone I didn’t recognise.
I Pawned My Bridal Gold to Save Us.
One morning, after another silent dinner and another night lying awake beside a stranger, I decided to save what we had.
I reached for the only backup I had — the set of gold jewellery my mother gave me on our wedding day. She had whispered, “This is for your rainy day.” It was raining now.
I took the set to a mallam and got ₦300,000. I gave all of it to Timi and told him, “Use this. Start a printing press. You’re too experienced to be idle.”
He didn’t hesitate. Within weeks, he rented a small space and leased a printing machine. It wasn’t everything he needed, but it was enough to start. By early 2011, his press was up and running, and business picked up quickly.
He Got Rich. But He Grew Poor in Spirit.
By 2012, Chanchangi had officially shut down. The airline could no longer finance a ₦14 million debt for aircraft maintenance overseas — just one more blow in a long list of safety issues, unpaid salaries, and operational failures that eventually grounded the airline for good.
But it didn’t matter. Timi’s printing press was thriving. Election season came, and his phone never stopped ringing. Posters. Flyers. Banners. Campaign materials.
Government contracts rolled in, followed by branding deals with big FMCG companies and an office that buzzed with activity. By 2016, his business had exploded. He’d paid off the leased machine, bought several more, moved to a larger operating facility, and hired staff to manage it all.
It looked like we had made it from the outside, but our marriage was falling apart.
The more successful he became, the colder our home grew.
He stopped treating me like a partner. He never gave me a proper allowance, but periodically bought food and covered the kids’ school fees. I had my poultry business and a job as an operations officer at an environmental agency, earning ₦120,000, so I could hold my own.
But the marriage? It felt like living in a palace with no windows. Fancy but suffocating.
We stopped laughing. We stopped talking, and then he started hitting.
He Asked Me to Kneel Every Morning. Then, One Day, I Didn’t Get Up.
By 2018, we were sleeping in separate rooms. Timi demanded I kneel every morning to greet him and whenever I served food because I’d grown too proud. I lived in fear of his moods, silence, and the way he’d look through me like I didn’t exist.
Sometimes, I said the wrong thing, and he slapped me. Sometimes, I said nothing, and he still did. I started walking on eggshells around him.
One night, I tried to fight back. He beat me so severely that I blacked out. The children were screaming. Neighbours broke down the door. They rushed me to the hospital.
He didn’t call. He didn’t come.
When the hospital discharged me, I returned to our house to talk — to beg, even. But Timi had changed the locks. I called. No answer. I finally accepted what I didn’t want to: he didn’t want me anymore.
I moved in with my mum, heartbroken, with three small children who still asked when Daddy was coming to take us home.
He Left Us. Then Married the Girl I Used to Send on Errands.
Three months later, scrolling through Facebook, I saw a wedding flyer.
Timi had remarried.
The girl in the picture? His mother’s best friend’s daughter, a girl I used to send on errands during family gatherings. That broke me in a way the beatings never could.
That day, I filed for divorce. I was done.
He Left Me With The Children. I Raised Them With Fire in My Bones.
His family had never liked me. They always said I was the reason he wasn’t “helping” them financially. They finally had their perfect daughter-in-law, and he completely abandoned me and his children.
I was 33, alone, angry, and broke.
I had resigned from my 9-5 job because I couldn’t cope. I was emotionally drained and grieving my marriage. But after our divorce in 2018, I locked in.
I scaled my poultry business, and by 2021, I was earning ₦500,000 every 8 weeks. I paid school fees, put food on the table, and returned to school myself. I completed a top-up degree to earn a bachelor’s in Human Resources, then a Master’s in Public Administration, a postgraduate diploma in Management, and an MPhil in Leadership, all while running the business.
I got a job as an admin officer at a private school, earning ₦80,000. Between that and my business, we lived comfortably. I didn’t need him. Timi never paid child support. I didn’t take it up legally. I was tired of fighting.
In 2024, He Called. I Let The Phone Ring.
It started with a message from his sister: “Timi wants to talk.” “We want you back.”
I told her, “If he wants to talk, let him call me himself.”
Apparently, the new wife was showing him shege. Now, his family remembered I existed — the quiet, obedient “wife material” they had pushed aside.
Then the man himself called. After six years, I heard Timi’s voice again. He said his family wanted me back. I asked, “Do you want me, or does your family want me?”
He said he was ready to come back if I took him. I told him I’d consider it only if he started supporting his children.
I said, “Prove it. Be a father first.” He sent ₦100,000, called consistently for about two weeks, and spoke to the kids. Then he vanished again.
I haven’t heard from him since.
I Don’t Want Him Back. I Just Want Him to Be a Father.
My poultry business is struggling these days. We moved to a new city, and the market here is declining. Some nights, I lie awake wondering how to stretch my income until month-end.
But I remind myself: I’ve done this before. I can do it again.
I sometimes wish Timi would show up for the children. Single parenting is hard — it’s like lifting a truck with one hand. But I don’t beg anymore.
He taught me how to live without him. Now, I do. If he ever returns, he’ll be knocking on a door I no longer live behind.
Names* have been changed for anonymity.
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