I like to think of the institution of marriage the same way I think about the multiverse. For every story about a shitty marriage, there is a marriage out there flourishing and being enjoyed so much by its participants that they can’t believe how lucky they’ve gotten. Whether it’s because they realised they don’t have to conform to society’s definition of marriage or they got to a point where they don’t have to perform for each other, the reason doesn’t matter. All that matters is that they’re happy.
We asked a couple of Nigerians to share the moments that made them pause and realise that this marriage thing sweet die.
“I realised my husband doesn’t need me to cook” — Fimi*, 28, F
After being married for a year, one of Fimi’s favourite moments was realising that her husband doesn’t need her to stress herself cooking.
“I grew up doing all the chores, and grew to hate them, especially cooking. When I started my career, I leaned into paying for convenience. During our courtship, I told him I’d easily resent him if I were required to cook, and he said he didn’t need me to cook because life is not that hard.
We got married, and I was cooking fairly regularly. I just felt like I wasn’t being a good wife if we ate out most of the time. One day, we were talking about our feeding budget, and I got defensive because it was higher than if I had cooked more. He looked at me confused, and at the end of that conversation, I realised that the confusion was not from a ‘man-no-dey-enter-kitchen’ side but more that he genuinely doesn’t care if I don’t cook. As far as he’s concerned, I lose time cooking anyway.
When I realised that I don’t have to feel bad because I don’t cook often, I felt a relief I can’t describe. When he feels like cooking, he cooks, and he always makes enough for two, even when I’m not hungry. Plus, he’s really good at it. Marriage sweet die when you’re married to someone who treats you like a peer.”
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“My wife taught me that I could relax around her” — Chike*, 37, M
Chike has been married for four years, but one of his favourite moments came after a particularly hard day of work in the first year.
“I grew up in a home where the men were always ‘on’. The role of the man was to hustle and provide. When my wife and I started dating, I presented myself as the guy who could handle everything.
Eight months into our marriage, I came home from work one day exhausted. I had a lot on my plate and still planned to work into the night. My wife took one look at me and said, ‘Babe, go and sleep. Everything else can wait.’ She literally closed my laptop, dragged me to bed, spoon-fed me dinner and covered me with a duvet. I slept like a baby that night. By the time I woke up the next morning, she’d made breakfast and even laid out what I would wear to work that day.
That’s still one of my favourite moments to date. It was when I realised I didn’t have to perform for my wife, I could lean on her when things got tough for me. Since then, I just keep thinking, ‘Ah, I really married well.’”
“The way he responded to our first big fight let me know he was my forever person” — Dara*, 31, F
For Dara, even though she’s been married for three years, the moment she realised she genuinely enjoyed marriage came on the heels of their first big fight.
“We were barely six months in, and we had this huge argument over our finances. I was already shutting down emotionally, waiting for the kind of flippant responses I’d gotten used to hearing in my past relationships.
Instead, that night as we were prepping for bed, my husband sat me down and said, ‘I don’t want us to sleep until we resolve this.’ I didn’t even know how to argue again because no one had ever tried to actually talk things through with me so intentionally.
That day, something inside me softened. I realised I was married to a man who saw disagreements as problems we solved together, not something to be won by either party. I knew right then that we were going to last forever.”
“My husband assured me he’ll say ‘no’ for me if it gets too hard to handle” — Bimbo*, 42, F
In her eighteen years of experience as a wife, Bimbo is constantly reminded that marriage is sweet when she remembers that her husband will also help her say no.
“During the early years of my marriage, I ran myself ragged trying to accommodate everyone from my own family to my in-laws. It made me especially irritable during the holidays or when we had events. This was because I would make sure that we housed some of the guests, and I made myself the catering supervisor, so I hardly enjoyed any family parties.
When I was pregnant with my second child in 2011, we had to travel to Ondo State for a family event. I was sorting out catering over the phone, and I got so frustrated that I burst into tears. When my husband asked why, I told him how stressful it was for me to oversee the catering at the events, and I didn’t want his family to see me as lazy or uninvolved. He told me I didn’t have to do anything I didn’t want to do, and right there, he called one of his younger cousins to sort out the catering. He also said if I was afraid of turning anyone down, I should send them to him, and he’d take the job of saying ‘no’ from me.
Since then, he has made sure I only do the lightest work possible at family events, and I enjoy myself to the max at every event. I feel that joy every time I find myself relaxing at an event that would usually have left me feeling tired and exhausted.”
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“People like my wife so much that they give me special treatment” – James*, 62, M
In his twenty-nine years of marriage, James has experienced the benefits of being married to someone with a great personality.
“There are many moments in my time as a married man that made me know that marriage is sweet. My wife is a woman of excellent character, and she has an amazing, accommodating personality that makes people treat me well as a result.
Once, in 2005, I was negotiating with a provisions seller over some goods I wanted to buy. I felt like I wasn’t getting a reasonable price, so I called my wife to find out how much she thought I should pay for them. When I said her name, the seller immediately perked up, ‘Is that Sewa* you’re talking to?’ I said ‘Yes, she’s my wife’ and the entire tone of the negotiations changed. Apparently, my wife had helped her pay her sibling’s school fees a few years back. She raved about how nice my wife was and gave me a fantastic price on all the things I bought.
That wasn’t the last time. There have been several more occasions where I have gone to a place with my wife and gotten preferential treatment because she had helped people in the past or because they are drawn to her warm personality. She’s like a mini celebrity in our neighbourhood. Each time I get a freebie because of my relationship with her, I feel so lucky, and it makes me happy to be her husband.”
There are a myriad of reasons women leave or pause their careers. From love to children, marriage, relocation, a partner’s request, or circumstances that feel entirely out of their control, the paths that lead women away from their professional lives are as varied as they are complex.
Sometimes, it is entirely their decision. Other times, it’s one shaped by pressure, expectation, or systems that offer no real alternatives.
We spoke to six women about their experiences leaving their careers for love, whether for a partner, for children, or for the family they were building. Here are their stories.
1. “Being a mum is my greatest calling in life. Motherhood before law.”— Starr*, 40s, Abuja
For ten years, I was a litigator. Law was everything I knew and did. I didn’t think there was any life out there for me except in litigation. It was my whole identity. I used to judge women who left their professions because of marriage or motherhood, until it happened to me.
Crazy enough, leaving was my idea. My husband didn’t even want me to quit. But at that time, I’d outgrown my workplace. I was planning our wedding, and my fiancé lived two states away. I was constantly travelling there to spend time with him and build a relationship. We’d been friends for years but had never dated. We loved each other enough that when he asked me to marry him, I said yes without that dating stage. So, I told myself I was using that period to really get to know us as a couple.
Finding a new firm wasn’t going well. The legal industry where he lived didn’t align with my ambitions. Still, I decided to move, for us. That was the beginning of everything changing.
I hadn’t been broke since 2011, but suddenly, I tasted poverty. True-true poverty. I’d always been independent, never relying on a man for anything, especially money. So it was hard to ask my husband for help. When we were friends, he used to tease me about being “too strong-willed.” I never collected gifts, even when he offered to buy me a car. So when we got married, he assumed I was still that woman: financially stable and handling things. He didn’t realise I was completely broke because I never told him. I was too proud. I thought asking for help would make me look weak.
Emotionally, I felt lost. I’d always struggled with imposter syndrome, and quitting the only career I’d ever known felt like proof that I wasn’t as capable as people thought. Everyone believed I was this brilliant lawyer, but inside, I doubted myself.
Then came the loneliness. I used to be a co-breadwinner in my parents’ home, but once I stopped earning, people treated me differently. I became invisible: left out of family decisions and ignored during discussions. It was a painful realisation: your value can shrink quickly when your income disappears.
Every day reminded me of what I’d given up: my low account balance, my inability to buy what I wanted, and the silence of not contributing. I felt useless.
When I got pregnant, things got even harder. I had complications — pelvic girdle pain, preeclampsia — and I was furious that my husband didn’t notice how much I was struggling. He thought I was fine and would ask for help if I wasn’t. But I was too proud to admit I needed it. He gave me money sometimes, but not like a provider, more like someone “adding to” what I already had. Except I had nothing. I’d spent all my savings.
Still, being home gave me something priceless: time with my children. No nannies, no crèche, just us. Those moments built a deep bond I wouldn’t trade for anything. I do not regret it, but I would not do it again.
Now I’m slowly rebuilding. I’ve opened my own law firm and take on cases that fit around my mum duties. Being a mother is my greatest calling, yes, but I’ve learned I can be both: a mother and a lawyer. I thought motherhood broke my brain, but it didn’t. It gave me new wisdom and strength. Life is finally getting better.
As for my marriage, we’re still together, but not the same. There’s love, but less romance, more partnership. We don’t argue like before, but that’s mostly because I’ve learned to pick my peace. I no longer expect him to understand everything I went through; I just focus on building the life I want. We coexist with more honesty, and maybe that’s enough for now.
2. “I went from being a woman who had her own money, to someone who had to wait for her husband to give her money.” — May*, 30s, Lagos
My career as an HR manager was a lovely one. I was doing well, genuinely thriving in my role. Then I had kids, and let me tell you, having kids and working is not a joke. It’s the kind of thing people make look easy from the outside, but when you’re in it? It’s overwhelming. So I made the decision to leave.
I thought my husband and I had discussed it properly. We both agreed that someone needed to be home with the children, and since his career was more established, it made sense for me to step back. At least, that’s what we told ourselves. He said he understood, even supported it, but I think a part of me always felt like he didn’t fully get what that decision would mean for me. Still, I convinced myself it was temporary, that I’d find my way back eventually.
What I didn’t expect was how everyone would see me.
My friends were the first to start. “You’re leaving? But you were doing so well,” they’d say, with that tone that suggested I was making a terrible mistake. Then came the assumptions: “Well, you must have money saved up.” “Your husband must be making serious money for you to just stop working like that.” At family gatherings, my cousins would whisper loud enough for me to hear, “She’s lucky sha, some of us can’t afford to just sit at home.” One of them even said to my face, “This your husband must be taking care of you well well o. Me, I can’t depend on any man like that.”
Even strangers had opinions. When I’d mention I wasn’t working, I’d get these looks, like I was some rich housewife who just decided work was beneath her. People looked at me like I wasn’t serious about my life. There was this assumption everywhere I turned: they actually thought I made that decision because I had lots of money. Like I was some wealthy woman who could afford to just walk away from her salary.
But that wasn’t my reality at all.
I didn’t really gain anything from leaving, if I’m being honest. Well, I gained kids, that’s a plus, a definite plus. But I actually felt really bad about the decision afterwards because it worried me financially. Not having that salary coming in anymore? It was really sad. That steady income I’d relied on was just… gone.
And depending on my husband for everything? It changed me. I wasn’t feeling like myself anymore. Before, if I wanted something, I’d just buy it. Now, I had to ask. “Can I get this? Do we have money for that?” Even small things felt like a negotiation. My husband never made me feel bad about it; he provided, he took care of us. But inside, I felt like I’d lost a part of who I was. I went from being a woman who contributed, who had her own money, her own independence, to someone who had to wait for her husband to give her money. That feeling of not being able to just handle things myself? It ate at me every single day.
Looking back now, I don’t regret my choice. My children needed me, and I was there for them. But would I do it again? No. I wouldn’t.
Right now, I’m just trying to learn skills — sewing, nothing serious. The thing is, I haven’t been able to get a job since then. I’ve applied, I’ve tried, but the gap in my CV raises questions, and the market isn’t what it used to be. So I’m just trying to survive, and it isn’t funny at all. Not funny at all.
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3. “Love shouldn’t feel like a trap. Staying would have meant them learning the wrong lessons about what love looks like” — CoCo*, 40s, Canada
I was an unpaid, unslept, overworked and looked-over physician. That’s what the system does to you: it grinds you down until you’re running on empty, working yourself to the bone while feeling invisible.
But what made me leave wasn’t just the exhaustion or the thankless grind of it all. It was my pikin. My children. I needed to get them a better life, and I loved them too much to keep them trapped in a love gone sour.
The relationship I was in had turned sour. Some arguments would stretch late into the night, voices raised while the children ran to hide in their rooms. Then there was the silence, much worse than the shouting, days where we’d move around each other like strangers, barely speaking, if at all. My children started walking on eggshells in their own home, reading our faces or moods before they’d ask for anything. They were always so tense.
I couldn’t let them grow up breathing in that toxicity. Love shouldn’t feel like a trap, but that’s exactly what it had become. Staying would have meant watching them learn the wrong lessons about what love looks like, what they should accept, what they should tolerate. I couldn’t do that to them.
But leaving meant leaving everything. The relationship was tied to where I was—the hospital, the city, the life I’d built. To give my children that better life, to remove them from that toxic environment, I had to uproot completely. That meant walking away from my medical career, at least in the form I knew it. You can’t just transfer a medical practice across borders easily. The certifications, the licensing, starting over in a new place, it’s not simple. And with everything falling apart at home, I didn’t have the energy to fight that battle while fighting to keep my children’s spirits intact.
So I chose them. I chose us.
Leaving changed everything. Emotionally? I felt enhanced, like I could finally breathe again. Financially? I was impoverished, no question about it. The physician’s salary, even if it felt like I was working for pennies given the hours, was gone. Thankfully, I had some savings to keep us afloat for some time. But personally? There was growth. Real growth. The kind that only comes when you choose yourself and your children over comfort and familiarity.
There wasn’t one big moment where I realised what I’d given up or gained. It was a lot of micro-moments. Small realisations that built up over time. Like the first morning, I woke up without that knot in my stomach, without dreading what mood would greet me or what fight was waiting. Like the afternoon my daughter laughed, really laughed, freely and loudly, without that quick glance over her shoulder to see if it was okay, if it was safe. Like the evening I sat with my son helping with homework and realised I could actually think clearly about what I wanted for us, not just what I was expected to want or tolerate.
When I left my job and that relationship, something in me shifted completely. I had to pivot to something else entirely, find new ways to make money, new ways to use my skills. And in that pivoting, I morphed into a no-nonsense-taking monster. I don’t tolerate what I used to tolerate. I don’t accept what I used to accept. I learned to say no, to set boundaries, to protect my peace and my children’s peace like my life depended on it, because honestly, it did.
I do not regret my choice. I would do it again, in a heartbeat.
Now? I’m thriving. I’m hopeful. I’m doing lots of crazy things: consulting work that lets me set my own hours, exploring health advocacy in ways I never could when I was drowning in the hospital system, and even dabbling in writing about healthcare reform. Things I never thought I’d have the courage to try. There are endless possibilities ahead of me, and for the first time in a long time, I can actually see them. More importantly, my children can see possibilities too. They’re not trapped anymore. Neither am I.
4. “After the second miscarriage, he said I’d have to resign the next time I took in.” — Abra*, 30s, Ibadan
I was working with a popular microfinance bank as the Customer Support Team Lead. This was a career I had built for over ten years after graduation. The job was daunting, absolutely exhausting at times, but as someone dealing with ADHD, I loved the fact that I wasn’t stuck to a routine. I was jumping from one place to another, dealing with crazy customers and even crazier colleagues. I loved the job. I really did.
Then came the pressure to leave.
Long story, but here it is: My partner was actually working at the time, but my take-home was about four times his, so I was financing the house. He was driving my car, spending my money, hanging out with my circle of friends, and generally just living his best life on my dime.
He started dropping hints that he wanted me to get pregnant, saying work was really stressful. I ignored the subtle hints about resigning, just brushed them off. Then came the first miscarriage. Then the second. After the second one, he came out straight and said that I’d have to resign from this job the next time I took in. He claimed the stress was too high and that’s what was making the babies not stay.
I ignored him. He gave me the silent treatment. Then his parents started hinting at my resigning so that I could have time to “build my home.” Around this time, I was noticing some red flags that were making me reconsider the relationship entirely.
Well, I took in again. This third time, he outrightly told me to resign. I refused. I said I’d take things slowly — go on sabbatical, which is six months, then take three months unpaid leave, add three months maternity leave. That would be a full year. The baby would have been born, and I’d look for how to juggle work and a kid.
He blew up. He said he couldn’t allow me to work, that he was ready to take care of me and my kid. Don’t forget, he has a baby mama who isn’t working and a ten-year-old kid already. I laughed and looked at him dead in the eye and said nothing was making me resign my job. His salary wasn’t enough to take care of his baby mama, his son, and himself, and he wanted to add two more mouths?
He got mad and gave me the silent treatment for weeks. He stopped coming home, stopped picking up my calls. I applied for the six-month sabbatical, which was approved, and I started my journey of staying at home.
Unfortunately, I lost the baby at eighteen weeks. I eventually found out that I have a short cervix. It wasn’t the stress of the job that made me lose my babies; it was my health…my body. A medical condition, not my career.
Prior to losing the baby, he lost his job at about fifteen weeks into the pregnancy. Think about that. I wondered if I had resigned like he wanted, we would have been drinking garri. Both of us jobless, broke, with nothing coming in.
Everyone said I was stubborn. They said I had the qualifications, I could easily get another job, so why was I being so difficult? But I don’t think I could sit still without doing something. I would have been depressed. Maybe we would have broken up, actually, we definitely would have. My father supported me 100% and said if I wanted to work till the day I put to bed, then he supported me. That meant everything.
Personally, I am glad I stood my ground. If not, the story would have been completely different. I hate to depend on someone for my source of livelihood. People kept saying I had savings that could cover me for three to four years, even if I didn’t work, so what was the problem? But I’m building a safety nest because I plan to retire at forty-five. Dipping into my savings would have pushed that plan back by another five to eight years. I am super glad I listened to my instinct.
His mother still subtly shades me, saying I’m not wife material because I’m too career-driven. I don’t care.
When he lost his job and I lost the baby, I was depressed for weeks. I resumed work and buried myself in it to forget the pain. If I had resigned, I wouldn’t have been able to forget it. I wouldn’t have had that outlet. We would have broken up, or I would have resented him forever.
I do not regret my choice. And I would do it again, absolutely.
Where am I now? I actually got a better job that pays almost fifteen times what I was earning. Fifteen times. My old company wanted to increase my pay, but they couldn’t match the new offer. If I had left when he demanded, I would have seen premium shege. The suffering would have been legendary.
5. “I got pregnant. My body was changing, I was exhausted, and the pressure didn’t let up. I lost the job in my third trimester.”— Favour*, 28, PH
I didn’t want to get married at first. I had just graduated from university, maybe a year or two out, and I had plans. But he pursued me relentlessly. I showed him shege, honestly. I was testing him, seeing if he was serious. Once, he threw a whole party for my birthday, and I didn’t even attend. I wanted to see if he’d give up. He didn’t.
Eventually, I said yes. We got married, and I took in soon after. I was working at a consulting firm at the time, and the job was demanding; I had to bring in big investors, close major deals. Then I got pregnant, and the job got even harder. My body was changing, I was exhausted, and the pressure didn’t let up. I lost the job in my third trimester. Just like that, I was out.
I didn’t really have a choice in how things unfolded. I was pregnant. I had to have the baby. After my first son was born, I started looking for jobs again, trying to get back out there. But then I went to the hospital to get birth control. I wanted to wait, to space things out, maybe four years before having another child. Give myself time to rebuild my career, get stable again.
The hospital denied me. They said I hadn’t had a second child yet, so they couldn’t give me birth control. And did my Oga (husband) know? They asked me that, like I needed his permission to make decisions about my own body. I was stunned, angry, but what could I do?
Two years later, I got pregnant again. I had to put the job search on hold. Again.
My husband works in admin for an offshore company; it’s like a government job, so the pay isn’t always on time. We have a home, a two-bedroom flat that he maintains. We have food to eat. But we’re struggling. Really struggling. I’ve been doing everything to find work, sending out applications, and going to interviews. I went for one just this week, and I’m hoping to hear back. I’m finally on birth control now, and I made sure of it. Both my kids are over two, we have a live-in nanny, so this is the best time for me to go back to work.
But the years in between? They were hard. I struggled with postpartum depression after my second son. The weight of what my life had become pressed down on me every day. This was never my plan. I didn’t plan to have two children so close together. I didn’t plan to be out of work this long. I didn’t plan to feel so dependent, so stuck.
I don’t regret my children, never. And I do not regret my relationship. He loves me, and I see his effort. But I regret that I wasn’t given the choice to wait, to plan, to build my life the way I wanted before expanding my family. That choice was taken from me, and I’ve been trying to claw my way back ever since.
6. “I already see myself as a single mother. We don’t have a relationship except for our children, and even then, he is useless.”— Blessing*, 40, Warri
I was a student in my final year when everything changed. I had internships in the beauty and fashion industry, and I was preparing to graduate and start building my startup company. I had plans to travel, to research, to collect data that would help me grow my business. I was going to look for collaborations with other countries, with the Nigerian fashion industry. I could see my future so clearly, and it was bright.
Then I got pregnant for the man I loved.
I don’t know how to feel about the decision to leave school because, honestly, it feels like a decision that was made for me. I got pregnant in my final year and had to drop out to take care of myself and my baby. In my family, we do not “throw children away.” I had to keep my child. It’s a decision I regret from the beginning, not my child, never my child, but the circumstances, the timing, the way everything fell apart. Things would have turned out so bright for me. Right now, it’s down and bad.
What I didn’t know then, what made everything even more complicated, was that he already had a wife and children. This man, whom I considered my love, was a liar. So we never had a family unit of our own. My family and I had to raise my child together. Years later, when we met up again, I decided to have another child. I was getting older, so I overlooked the past and made that decision myself. I wanted my first child to have a sibling.
But I’ve not been able to do anything fully since then. As a mother, I’ve had to work—selling, trading, doing whatever I could to take care of myself and the children—because he wasn’t the best help. He wasn’t a present father. The toll on me has been heavy. I’ve lost myself in the process. Now I’m just living as a mother while struggling to survive.
My family was always there to support me and my children, so I’ve always had a support system. But on several occasions, I’d feel this weight on my heart, the weight of what would have been. I’d think about where I’d be if I had graduated, if I had launched that business, if I had travelled and built those collaborations. I’d think about the version of myself I was supposed to become.
To be honest, I already see myself as a single mother. We don’t have a relationship except for our children, and even then, he is useless.
I regret my choice, and I would never do it again. Never.
Where am I now? I’m trying to build myself one brick at a time. Taking care of myself, putting my kids through school, and just trying to live positively. It’s slow, and some days it feels impossible, but I’m still here. I’m still trying.
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When Toluwani* (50) followed a friend to a church program in 2001, falling in love wasn’t on his agenda. But the moment he met Tomisin* (45), everything changed. What started as a whirlwind romance became a long-distance marriage with three children.
He talks about the slow breakdown of their marriage, and why he still finds it hard to believe all the ways she betrayed him.
This is Toluwani’s story as told to Betty
I met my wife in 2001 at a Pentecostal church program. I was raised Anglican, but a friend insisted that we attend their special program, so I took my father’s car and we all went to the church.
At the meeting, I met Tomisin and thought she was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. She was tall, dark, and slim, and I was immediately captivated by her. I struck up a conversation with her, and we quickly became friends.
Before the end of the program, I found out that she was in a serious relationship with the church’s choirmaster. At first, I was disheartened, but I thought to myself, “A goalkeeper in front of a post doesn’t mean you can’t score.”
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So I started to chase her relentlessly. I lived in Ikeja while she lived in Sango, but I made sure to see her at least once every two days. I would show up with little gifts, trinkets and food, and after a while, I could tell she was starting to reciprocate my feelings.
At the start of 2002, Tomisin ended things with her choirmaster boyfriend, and we started dating. Her parents were strongly against our relationship — they felt the choirmaster was a better choice and didn’t want her dating someone whose upbringing they weren’t sure of. But we stayed together regardless.
By the end of 2002, we were married — though not happily. Tomisin seemed to think that I was much wealthier than I actually was, probably because I was driving my dad’s car around during our courtship. In reality, I was working as a secretary in a small architecture firm in Lagos.
Still, wanting to give my new family a better life, I quit that job and took a better-paying position in Abuja, while Tomisin remained in Lagos. I should mention that Tomisin didn’t work; I was the sole provider as a man should be, while she took care of the home. I would visit Lagos every other weekend, and that became our routine.
We had our first child in 2003, a girl as beautiful as her mother. Tomisin was a great mum, but after the birth of our second daughter in 2005, she started becoming restless. She said she was bored and wanted to get into the job market. I was strongly against this, but I eventually agreed after she pressured me. I got her a small car to move around with and encouraged her job application efforts.
She got a job as a civil servant in 2006, and her salary actually eased the burden of taking care of the bills. I was happy about this, and in 2007, we had our last child, a boy.
Tomisin seemed content with our arrangement for many years — until suddenly, she wasn’t.
In 2020, during the lockdown, I could no longer visit every other weekend as I usually did, and that’s when I started noticing cracks in our relationship. She started picking petty fights over the phone. For instance, she had been asking for a vacation abroad with the kids, but I thought it was better to use that money to buy a house or some land. It was causing serious issues between us, but I shrugged it off and insisted we stick to my plan.
By 2022, I had resumed visiting home regularly. The kids were doing well, and everything seemed fine — or so I thought. Then one night, during a visit to Lagos, Tomisin came home from work exhausted and went to bed earlier than usual. While we were lying in bed, her phone rang. She didn’t answer it, and shortly after, a message came in. It was a raunchy sext from a contact name I didn’t recognise.
I was livid. I woke her up immediately, and we got into a huge fight.
Apparently, her superior at work, a big Alhaji, was asking her to be his girlfriend and worse, she was entertaining him. The next day, I called her family and mine for an emergency meeting. I gave her an ultimatum: she must leave that job and go back to being a housewife or I would leave the marriage. She chose the job. I was annoyed, so I took our kids with me to Abuja and put them in boarding school, an idea she had always hated.
I thought Tomisin was just being stubborn, and she would come around, but she doubled down and kept going to work. We went no-contact for more than half of 2022. I knew she would call the kids at school sometimes, but when I checked in with her family, they would say they hadn’t heard from her. I would send her the occasional text, but she wouldn’t reply.
In early 2023, I ran into an old friend of mine in Abuja. It was the same friend who invited me to the church program, where I met Tomisin. I was delighted to see him, and we struck up a conversation. While we were talking, he said something that shocked me. He said he was sorry that my marriage had ended and asked how I felt now that Tomisin had remarried and had a baby for her new husband.
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I was gobsmacked. Remarried? New baby? I took the first flight I could find back to Lagos, and sure enough, the flat in Lagos was empty. The car I got her was nowhere to be found, and the neighbours in the compound said they hadn’t seen Tomisin for the better part of a year. I thought I was going crazy. I started asking her friends and family for her. Her mum was tight-lipped about Tomisin’s whereabouts, but one of her aunts took pity on me and called me.
She told me that Tomisin had converted to Islam and married the Alhaji at her work. The family thought juju was involved because once they married, Tomisin, who loved short skirts and tube tops, became a niqabi. Her aunt also mentioned that Tomisin had recently given birth to a baby girl. She was surprised I didn’t know. According to her, Tomisin had told the family that we had quietly divorced.
I was heartbroken. I felt like Tomisin and I were just going through a really rough patch, and we were going to come out of the other side stronger. I decided to call her with a different number to see if what her aunt said was true.
She picked up, and the first thing Tomisin said was “Salam alaikum.” It was like someone poured ice-cold water down my back. I started yelling at her. How could she do this? What about our children? Tomisin didn’t even sound remorseful. She said she was happy with the Alhaji and there was no juju involved. He had a wife already, so he had gotten her a separate apartment, and he showered her with money, especially after the birth of her new baby girl. Then she flippantly asked that we start divorce proceedings. She also said our kids should be with me because Alhaji wouldn’t want Christian children in his home.
I was so angry, I hung up. I realised that the woman I married didn’t exist anymore. The pain is not something I can describe easily. The two younger kids don’t really understand what has happened, and honestly, neither do I. Even two years later, I’m still trying to piece my life together.
I sued Tomisin in court for bigamy in August 2023. I don’t think she should be allowed to act with such callousness. She didn’t even tell me she was no longer interested before going to marry another man/ The case has been dragging on in court, but I’m happy to pursue it to the end of the earth and get compensation, one way or another.
Deborah* (22) talks about her parents’ troubled long-term marriage, encouraging her mum to leave and why she wishes their separation had happened earlier.
I like to tell people I ended my parent’s marriage just to see the shocked looks on their faces and the silent questions they desperately want to ask. Sometimes, I provide context. Other times, I don’t.
If you ask me, I think their marriage shouldn’t have happened in the first place. My parents got married in 1997 as literal strangers. According to the story I heard, they met because my dad returned to his village to pick a wife after years of hustling in the city. His mother spoke to my mum’s aunt, and their marriage was arranged.
My parents met a week before the wedding and moved to my dad’s place in the city immediately after the bride’s price was exchanged. My mum had to start married life in a new place with no friends or family around. With nothing else to do, she began popping babies out. My mum was either pregnant or delivering a child every year in the first five years of marriage and finally stopped with me in 2002.
To this day, I wonder how that happened — the pregnancy every year bit — because I don’t think there was ever any love lost between them. My mum said they lived like roommates who shared a bed for the first few months of marriage. My dad made it clear he didn’t like unnecessary talk or “women’s gossip,” so apart from normal greetings, they hardly talked.
Becoming parents didn’t change much. Since my sisters and I could crawl, we knew daddy was a no-go area. He was this fearsome creature no one neared or talked to without being asked a question. It wasn’t just that he beat us — that happened often —it was also what he said.
My dad can make stupid money by holding a masterclass in emotional abuse because he’s honestly a professional. He was so quick with the insults and humiliation whenever anyone did something he didn’t like. If he saw us watching TV, he’d lash out and complain about lazy children who only watched TV and didn’t know how to do anything well. If we were in our bedroom, the complaint would be, “Why are you all sleeping like pregnant women? Don’t you have anything better to do?”
One time, when I was 12, my dad asked me to bring him a cup of water. When I did, he dumped the water on my head because, “If not that your head is empty, don’t you know I don’t like this cup?”
My mum got the worst of his verbal attacks. My dad is mean on a typical day but gets downright evil when he wants to. His favourite pastime is telling my mum she’s a disappointment because she couldn’t give him a male child. They’d be talking about something as random as the children’s school fees, and a switch would flip in his head, and he’d just start berating her.
My dad was the one who insisted my mum didn’t work, but whenever he was angry, he’d complain about how she and “her children” were finishing his money and not adding anything to his life. If it wasn’t name-calling, it was asking if she couldn’t see that she was getting fat.
He was also fond of breaking or seizing things whenever he was angry. He once threw a screwdriver at our TV because my big sister accidentally burnt a pot of soup while watching a telenovela. Then he turned his anger on my mum and blamed her for giving him wasteful children.
My dad’s antics aside, I was angrier that my mum didn’t see anything wrong in his behaviour. I was the only one of my siblings who didn’t go to boarding school, so I had a front-row seat to everything. Whenever I asked my mum why she never stood up to his insults, she’d say he had a lot on his mind, and it was just the pressure getting to him.
The first time I suggested my mum leave my dad was in 2018. She’d visited me for my university matriculation, and we decided to return home together. Only, we met a locked gate. My dad was inside, and when we knocked, he came outside and asked us to return to where we came from because my mum didn’t seek his permission before leaving.
We stood at the gate for almost two hours, begging this man, but he didn’t budge. When it became a scene and neighbours started gathering, I dragged my mum away, and we went to sleep at her friend’s house.
It hurt me to see how accepting my mum had become of abuse. She was shaking, fearing what my dad would say if he realised she hadn’t stayed outside all night waiting for him to let her in. It was like I saw her clearly for the first time that night. The woman was literally wasting away. Growing up, my mum was robust. I didn’t recognise the lean woman sitting across from me. I asked her that night why she hadn’t left him. Her response was, “At least he doesn’t beat me.”
But that didn’t discourage me. Over the years, I kept applying pressure and making my mum see why she had to leave. I even sought the help of my sisters also to convince her, but she always refused.
When my mum finally left in 2022, she did it without drama. I’d graduated from uni three months prior and hadn’t been home since. The plan was never to return, actually. I couldn’t bring myself to remain in that environment.
My mum called me one day to complain and try to convince me to visit. I jokingly told her I didn’t think we’d see again if she remained in my dad’s house. Then, she responded, “I’m moving to your sister’s house next week.”
I thought she was joking, but my mum actually did it. When I asked what changed her mind, she said she just decided to accept what I’d been saying all these years. An elder in our church had used my parents’ marriage as an example of a long-standing marriage during one of his sermons, and my mum realised that external validation was the main reason she’d endured for so long. People were looking up to her for staying married for 25 years, but she was literally dying inside the marriage.
My dad didn’t take it so well. For the first time in a very long time, he called me and my sisters on the phone and asked us to speak sense to our mother. Of course, we didn’t tell him we were solidly behind her.
It’s been about two years since they separated, and I honestly think it’s the best thing that happened to them. My mum isn’t lean anymore, and she has peace of mind. I heard my dad has brought one young girl into the house. I guess she’s bringing him the peace we apparently didn’t give him.
To be clear, I don’t hate my dad. If not for anything, I appreciate that he sent us to school and provided — even though he regularly complained about doing it. My parents are the typical example of people who had no business staying together. I wish they’d separated earlier. Maybe I wouldn’t have the anxiety I struggle with now.
The moment you get engaged, you have to let all your single friends know that you are no longer their mate. Here are a few easy steps you can use to tension the hell out of them.
1. How you upload your ring picture on Instagram:
They must see it oh.
2. You, writing that ‘deep’ epistle for your Instagram caption.
Extra points if it’s a bible verse.
3. You changing your name on social media to “Mrs…” before the wedding.
No time to waste.
4. You, rushing to Facebook to change your relationship status:
No time.
5. You to all your single friends: “Don’t worry. God will do your own.”
They need the prayer.
6. How you do your hand whenever you are talking to them:
They must remember that you’re not like them again.
7. How you now see all the singles:
See their life.
8. You, planning to set them up with every single person you’ve ever met.
You don’t need their permission.
9. You, turning into a relationship counsellor overnight.
It’s now your second job.
10. When it’s been 5 minutes and you haven’t worked “my fiancé” into the conversation.
It needs to be like breathing for you.
11. You, dropping your couple hashtag months to the wedding.
They must not see road.
12. You, doing your pre-pre-wedding shoot.
You can never have too many pictures.
Yesterday we gave you the gist on Pastor Adeboye’s advice to young men on their choice of wives, and trust Nigerians to have a serious debate on the topic.
Nigerian Twitter was on fire with reactions, and we compiled the funniest tweets for you, you’re welcome!
Since some ladies disagreed with Daddy G.O, someone predicted what their relationship status would be in two years:
😡😡😡 "Pastor Adeboye is wrong for saying we MUST COOK He HAS NO RIGHT TO SAY THAT!!!!"
