This article is part of Had I Known, Zikoko’s theme for September 2025, where we explore Nigerian stories of regret and the lessons learnt. Read more Had I Known stories here.
Gender-based violence is a terrifyingly dangerous reality for many women in Nigeria. In 2019, the National Bureau of Statistics estimated that 30% of Nigerian women aged 15-49 had experienced physical violence, while 68% had faced emotional, economic, or sexual abuse.
Yet, domestic violence remains one of the most underreported crimes in Nigeria, with many victims citing a lack of confidence in the legal system. Funmi is one of those women.
Funmi* (64) fell in love with a man who became the greatest danger to her life and career. In this story, she shares how she endured years of torment at the hands of her husband, whom she finally left after one life-threatening encounter.
This is Funmi’s story, As Told To Margaret
I remember pulling up the zipper of my oversized white blouse, which looked as ugly as the long skirt I paired it with. The dry lace fabric scratched my skin, leaving red patches behind. Still, I smiled because that day wasn’t just a random Friday in 2005; it was the day Badmus decided to make our union official. It was a day of honour, even though we were too poor to afford a proper wedding dress.
I didn’t think much about what to do with my hair, so when my oldest friend and maid of honour showed up with a white hat big enough to hide the shame I was determined to keep from my fourth and last child, I was beyond grateful. My youngest, born two years before our wedding and as curious as a cat, wanted to know why I was dressed in white and why her father was impatiently pacing the living room in an oversized suit. I didn’t know how to explain to her, or my three older children, that their father would only become my husband that day.
Even now that she’s old enough to understand the story, I’ve realised that some things are better left unsaid. I was 45 on our wedding day, and our oldest child was 15. We fell in love in 1988, and everything moved quickly. Things were different then; meeting a man’s family and being accepted by them was enough to take on the role of a wife. We didn’t have an official wedding day until 2005, but I had been his wife in all the ways that mattered long before then.
I was sitting in the reception of the radio station where my uncle had helped me get a job when Badmus first looked at me. Gratitude and disbelief made my chest tight. He was a university graduate; I only had a secondary school certificate. All the women in the radio station looked at him with melting eyes, yet he chose me. Maybe that’s why I agreed so easily when he asked me to be the mother of his children — a title that, at the time, felt like the ultimate proof of my womanhood.
When we first started our relationship, he was a good man. He washed my clothes without hesitation and haggled in the market better than I did. He did it all happily until the day another man from the radio station saw him carrying sacks of tomatoes.
Badmus told me how the man laughed and asked if I had given him “efo,” the traditional way of suggesting a woman had used charms to control a man. I could tell Badmus hated me for it. He didn’t say those words out loud, but his frown lines told me everything I needed to know.
The very next day, he became a different man, determined to be as manly as possible. He insisted I eat one piece of meat while he eats two; he refused to be seen in “feminine” places like the market; he ordered me to quit my job and start calling him “sir.”
By then, I was already pregnant with our first child. When I asked if he expected me to frequent the market with my protruding stomach, he threw a 25kg keg at me. My eyes widened in disbelief, and my stomach turned in fear. I think my visible fear made him feel like a man, because he inched even closer and slapped me across the face. Then, without a word, he walked out of the house, leaving me writhing in pain on the floor.
I called my younger sister, who lived 10 minutes away. Even though she got there as fast as she could, I felt like I’d been on the floor for hours. The first thing she checked for was blood or any sign that the baby was hurt. Thankfully, there was nothing.
I told her what Badmus had done and asked if I should leave him. She sighed and said nothing. At the time, she was a single mother of two who idolised my relationship with Badmus. In her eyes, it was better for a woman to have a violent husband than none at all. So, I stayed and bore him three more children.
I took the “for worse” part of our wedding vows to heart and hid my pain from the outside world. But in 2011, life suddenly became brighter. I converted from Islam to Christianity, answering what felt like a call from Jesus and a promise that He would make me smile again. I became a born-again Christian and, eventually, an ordained pastor.
Badmus remained irreligious, but he was respectful of the Christian God. Something about my new role as a woman of God made him stop beating me. It felt like my prayers had finally been answered. And it wasn’t just my personal prayers. My intercessory prayers were getting answered, too. Barren women, sick people, even the mentally unstable — all of them came back with testimonies. Even though I was still forbidden from working, I started making more money than Badmus. The people I prayed for would often insist on blessing me financially, often in pounds, as many of them lived in the United Kingdom.
Eventually, I saved enough money to start my own church. It was glorious, and people, especially women, started flocking in. In addition to the usual Sunday service, I began offering marriage counselling. Women were the only ones who used to come for these sessions. Their marital problems were always similar — cheating or domestic violence.
I’m not proud to admit this now, but I would usually tell the ones with cheating husbands to pray about it and keep their homes. Badmus never cheated to my face, but we stopped having sex in 2013, and even though I couldn’t prove it, I knew there was another woman. It was easier to ask a woman to stay with a cheating husband than a violent one. So, every time a woman came to me with a story of domestic violence, I made sure she found a way out.
While the country has policies like the 2015 Violence Against Persons (Prohibition) Act to protect victims, they still face serious barriers. As of March this year, the VAPP Act was at risk of being annulled by the National Assembly, despite repeated criticism from stakeholders. Without laws and policies that are duly implemented against violence, women will be subjected to more danger in the hands of intimate partners.
My maid of honour, Mommy Ayo, was one of those women. In 2016, her husband, an alcoholic and impulsive man, beat her so badly that the tissues of her breast became visible. I had never seen a sight as disturbing as that. I gathered ₦150,000 and took her to the police station to make a statement.
The police men knew me well. The first time I took one of the women from my church there to make a complaint against her husband, they told us to “go and settle it at home.” But when I slid a bundle of naira under their counter, they asked for the man’s address and threw him in a cell that night. I can’t say I’m proud of the bribery, but it felt like the only option at the time.
The police never kept the husbands in custody for long, but that brief window was enough for me to help the women steady themselves. It cost me dearly — most had children and no jobs. But God works in mysterious ways. The church helped them find work, and with tithes and special offerings, we covered what we could. Altogether, we were able to stand by seven women.
If you or anyone you know is suffering violence at the hands of an intimate partner, please reach out to any of these helplines.
Everything was going well until Badmus retired in 2021. The government made big promises about gratuity and pension, but they still haven’t paid either since then. I became the breadwinner. I paid rent and school fees for our children. One of the people I pray for in the UK came visiting, and insisted that I move to a bigger building, with all expenses on her. I proposed the idea to Badmus, and if looks could kill, I would have died that day. He already hated that I paid the rent of the house we were living in, so moving to somewhere more expensive felt like an insult to him and his masculinity.
After that day, he became more aggressive. He would remind me that he was still the man of the house, and no matter how much money I thought I had, he would still be the head. Little expenses, like buying turkey instead of Titus fish, would make him angry. He would say I was trying to prove that I was richer than him.
Finally, Badmus lost the little fear of God that made him stop hitting me and started again. It happened gradually. First came the new rules.
“You’re no longer allowed to leave the house without permission.”
“You must be back home before 7 p.m., no matter where you go.”
He would bark silly orders, and I obeyed, desperate to keep the peace. But it was never enough. One day in 2023, I mistakenly got home later than 7 p.m., making Badmus feel disrespected. I didn’t expect him to hit me since it had been so long since the last beating, but he did.
This time, it was worse. He looked at me with disgust and yelled, “You are nothing. Your family is nothing.” Then he moved closer, wrapped his two hands around my throat and squeezed hard until my second son came to help. I saw my son threaten to beat his own father if he didn’t release me, and that was the day I knew I had to leave. I had been so worried about what people would say if I, a woman of God, left my husband at such an old age. But, I’d rather have people talk about me while I’m alive than wait until the day my husband snaps and kills me.
I finally left in 2024 and moved in with my oldest son, who has built a life for himself in the UK. My only regret is not leaving sooner. Badmus and I still talk, but the children can’t even stand to look at him. For years, I hid the violence from them, but that day, they saw it for themselves. He still hasn’t received his gratuity, so I occasionally send him money. These days, I feel more pity than anger toward him. After all, he can’t hurt me anymore.
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