Onimisi* (62) has been married for more than two decades, but has never truly felt love. What began as a relationship born of heartbreak and family pressure has left them struggling to find the connection they always hoped marriage would bring. Now, as Esther considers moving closer to him, Onimisi is unsure he wants to close the distance between them.

This is Onimisi’s  story, as told to Mofiyin

The first time my wife screamed at me, she had tears in her eyes. Her hands shook as she pointed at me and said she believed I hated her. I couldn’t stop thinking about how we’d got there. How could two people spend 24 years together and still feel like strangers?

I never wanted to marry my wife. The greatest heartbreak of my life, along with a series of decisions I’ve regretted, pushed me into it. Before her, there was Salama*, the first woman I’d ever truly loved.

I was 36 when I met Salama in 1999. I was still unmarried, but I wasn’t worried. My parents, however, were riddled with concerns because I was their only son. I had dated before, and hadn’t met anyone I wanted to settle down with. I was comfortable with my freedom.

Salama and I met at an engineering conference. We were sitting close to each other but hadn’t spoken until she turned and asked if I was bored. I tried to deny it, but she kept teasing me. Before long, we were joking and laughing. I remember her sweet accent and how effortlessly she carried a conversation. She wasn’t trying to impress me, but I found myself wanting to listen to her.

At some point, she excused herself to use the bathroom. 15 minutes passed, and she still hadn’t returned. Then I noticed her bag was gone too. I panicked. I thought I’d lost my chance to see her again.

When she finally returned, I made the most of the opportunity. I asked questions to get to know her better. I found out she worked in the petroleum sector and, more importantly, was unmarried. We arranged to see each other a few more times, and eventually, we started dating.

Salama was two years older, but I didn’t care, even though I knew my family wouldn’t approve. In those days, a man was expected to marry someone much younger, preferably in her early 20s. But I was happy with her, and that mattered more to me.

I kept her age from my family until my sisters found out. When my parents eventually heard, they made little effort to hide their disapproval of our relationship. Things weren’t any better when our families eventually met to discuss our marriage plans. My father made a comment about Salama’s age that offended her parents, and the meeting ended in an argument.  Afterwards, Salama told me her family didn’t approve of me either. They looked down on my job as a lecturer, especially because the university where I worked had just come out of a notoriously long strike. Salama was doing well in her career, so her family questioned what I could offer her. They wanted her to find someone more established.

At one point, Salama and I thought that having a child might change both families’ minds. So for about one year, we tried to conceive while continuing to seek our parents’ blessing. Every month, we hoped for good news, but Salama never missed her period. Eventually, the uncertainty began to weigh on both of us. She worried that we could get married and still struggle to have children.

Thankfully, before the uncertainty put any more strain on our relationship, our families finally agreed that we could start making wedding plans. I thought the worst was behind us. Then we disagreed over the wedding date.

Salama’s family chose a date in August, in keeping with their custom, but my father objected. He was a chief in our hometown and had an important meeting that same week.

Salama’s family didn’t believe him. They thought he was making excuses and refused to change the date. They insisted that if we truly valued their daughter, we should be willing to compromise. Then one of her uncles remarked that they were already bending over backwards by allowing their daughter to marry the son of a poor man.

My father took that comment as a slap in the face and refused to reconsider his position. I initially thought we’d resolve the disagreement, but Salama began having second thoughts. She questioned whether we should go ahead with the marriage when my family was so hostile towards her. She felt my father’s refusal was proof that my family would never accept her.

I tried everything to find a compromise. I sent family members to plead with her parents, then begged my father to reconsider. I even cried, but he wouldn’t budge. Eventually, the wedding preparations came to a halt.

The last time I saw Salama, she was cold and distant. She told me that if I couldn’t make the date work, she would never marry me. I’ll never forget how much those words hurt. I’d fought so hard to be with her, and it felt as if she was giving up on me.

By May 2001, it was clear there would be no wedding. I couldn’t face the disappointment, so I travelled to visit a friend. On the day we were supposed to get married, I got very drunk and spent most of the day drifting in and out of sleep. I didn’t want to feel anything. It was one of the lowest points of my life.

When I returned, I still wanted us to fix things and choose another wedding date. But Salama was so hurt that she no longer wanted to marry me. I struggled to move on and spent months keeping to myself, unable to get past what had happened.

***

After my relationship with Salama ended, I met Esther*. She attended the same church as my younger sister and sometimes accompanied her to visit me. 

I barely noticed Esther until my sister began encouraging me to take an interest. She said Esther was a nice girl and that she liked me.

I was reluctant. Esther always was shy and could barely look me in the eye, so we struggled to communicate. She was also nearly half my age. But after months of dwelling on Salama, having someone around felt like a welcome distraction.  Eventually, I  went along with my sister’s suggestion.

After a few visits, Esther and I started having sex. It continued for a few weeks, but I kept waiting to feel some sort of connection. It never happened. I was mostly consumed with thoughts of Salama. I eventually decided to end things.

Esther was upset. She said she’d thought I would marry her, but I never promised her that. As far as I was concerned, we were friends who had become physically involved.

Weeks later, my sister turned up at my door with burning questions about Esther’s pregnancy. I was confused. We’d only been together for a few weeks, and pregnancy was the last thing I expected.

When I spoke to Esther, she told me she’d decided to keep the baby because abortion was a sin. I got angry, begged her and even offered her money. I made it clear that I had no intention of marrying her.

For weeks, I heard nothing, and I assumed that Esther had changed her mind. Then I found out that she and my sister had informed my father about the pregnancy.

He wanted me to marry Esther, but I refused. For the first time in my life, I stood up to him. But nobody seemed interested in what I wanted. Esther’s family got involved, and before long, everyone was telling me I had to do the right thing.

I thought I’d rather die than marry someone I didn’t love. But when I eventually confided in some friends, one of them,  a professor I respected greatly, said I didn’t have to be head over heels in love to have a successful marriage. What mattered, he said, was whether two people could build a good life together.

He used his own marriage as an example. His family had arranged it, and he hadn’t even known his wife before they got married. Yet, they had built a comfortable life and raised five children together. He told me that if Esther had good character, perhaps love would come with time.

I wasn’t convinced. Still, his advice made me reconsider what I thought marriage required. I also remembered my uncle, who had two children outside marriage before eventually settling down. The situation had caused so much trouble in his marriage that he never seemed to have peace. I didn’t want to end up in the same position.

With Esther determined to keep the baby and both families insisting I marry her, I felt I had run out of options. I could refuse and have a child outside marriage, or accept the situation and try to make the marriage work. In the end, I gave in. We got married in March 2002, when Esther was five months pregnant.

Whenever I look at our wedding pictures, I remember how I felt that day. It was very hot, which partly explains my frown, but it also showed how I felt about the marriage. I looked like a goat being led to slaughter. I wasn’t happy or excited about the life ahead of me.

It also hurt to hear that Salama was glad we hadn’t married. People who knew us both would sometimes tell me things she had said about me. It was painful, but in a way, it helped me accept that our relationship was over. Perhaps we would never have made it work.

***

Life with Esther wasn’t as easy as I had expected.

The first few months after our son was born were the closest we’ve ever felt. I loved my son and wanted to make things work, despite the circumstances that had brought us together. 

I thought expanding our family would bring us closer, but my feelings for Esther never changed. We had a second child, then a third, and I kept waiting for that connection to develop. Esther is a good wife. She takes care of the home and family and does everything she can to make me comfortable. I’ve never had reason to fault her in that regard. Still, something is missing between us.

We’ve never been particularly affectionate, and even simple conversations can feel like a task. She acts as though we’re not speaking the same language. 

For years, I thought she had accepted things as they were. Then, in 2017, she confided in my sister that I had become distant. She was worried about our sex life, and suspected I was seeing someone else because we were barely intimate.

By then, we’d decided not to have any more children, and I no longer felt the same sense of obligation to have sex. We eventually went almost seven months without it. During that period, I had some casual sexual encounters outside the marriage, but that wasn’t what caused our problems.

The truth is, sex with Esther had always felt mechanical. I never got the sense that she was interested. She would lie there without initiating anything or showing much enthusiasm. I had always believed sex should be something both people enjoyed, but we never had that.

My sister thought I was too Westernised in my thinking and had adopted ideas about relationships that didn’t reflect the reality of most African marriages. But what bothered me was that Esther would rather discuss our sex life with my sister than speak to me directly. It was another reminder of just how distant we’d become.

Later that year, I got an opportunity to transfer to a school outside the city. I accepted partly because I wanted to be on my own. I didn’t think much about how the distance would affect my relationship with the children until I began noticing how close they had become to Esther.

Whenever I visited home and walked into a room where they were chatting and laughing, the conversation would suddenly go quiet. I never quite knew how to handle those moments.

It hurt even more when our first son enrolled at the university where I teach. Whenever he fell ill, he called his mother first, even when I was right there. They rarely came to me directly with their problems or the details about their lives.

That made me realise how much effort I needed to put into building a closer relationship with them. My first son and daughter have since moved in with me for school. Having them around has given us more time together, and I’m only just beginning to feel that we’re getting closer.

But earlier this year, Esther started talking about moving her business to the city so that we wouldn’t have to keep travelling back and forth. I avoided the conversation, but she brought it up again during my last visit. When I told her I didn’t think she should move yet, she took it badly.

She burst out, saying I didn’t want her around. She said I treated her like a burden, that I could be warm and cheerful with other people but hardly showed her the same affection. I was taken aback. I hadn’t expected her to say it so plainly, and I didn’t know what to tell her.

I don’t think it’s fair to put all the blame on me when this was never the life I wanted either. But her words are stuck in my mind. I’ve spent the weeks since thinking about how we got here.

Even so, I’m still reluctant to have her move closer. I’m afraid it might undo some of the progress I’ve made with the children. The distance between Esther and me has always affected how they relate to us, and I’m not sure bringing us all under one roof again would be the best decision.