My story isn’t simple, but I feel compelled to share it. Perhaps there’s someone out there—a woman, a girl, or anyone—who might hear it and think, “If God could help her, maybe He can help me.” Or maybe you’ll say God has no part in this. Either way, I’m not here for judgment. I’ve placed myself in God’s hands.
Listen to me, and please don’t judge. After all, you’re not God.
I was married to Duby—that’s my husband’s name. I met him when I was young, just 23. I’d finished secondary school years earlier, but my parents couldn’t afford university. So, I helped my mother sell stockfish in the market. That’s where I met Duby—Ndubuisi, his full name. He owned two shops at Onitsha main market.
At first, marriage to Duby was sweet. But things changed when I started having children.
I had my first daughter at 24, not long after we married. That’s when the trouble began. By the time I had my second daughter, the beatings had escalated. It was as though I’d chosen to have daughters just to provoke him.
When I had my third daughter, his hatred for me became unbearable. The beatings weren’t just slaps and punches anymore—he started using his belt. I begged, and I cried until my left nostril ran into my right. But nothing changed.
I had five daughters.
By the time my fifth daughter was born, Duby only came to me for one reason: to make children. By now, you can guess why he hated me so much. In his eyes, I was making him look weak by having only girls. That’s how men like him think.
One day, after a particularly brutal beating, I screamed at him that he was the one responsible for the sex of our children. That earned me an extra beating. Men like him don’t want to admit—or maybe don’t even know—that the father determines the sex of a child. Perhaps doctors and nurses should start telling them this.
But you can’t be your husband’s punching bag and still wish him well, can you?
I’ve heard some women say, “He beats me, but he loves me.” That’s nonsense. If he beats you, he doesn’t love you.
Eventually, I had a sixth child—a boy. But even then, I felt no special joy over my son. By that point, love, kindness, respect, joy—everything good—had left my heart. My husband had become impossible to please. Even with a son, the beatings didn’t stop. He just found new excuses to slap me, shove me against the wall, or knock me to the floor. One time, he broke my jaw. Another time, he swept my legs out from under me.
Bitterness consumed me. I reached a point where I wished either he would die or I would.
As a Catholic, I knew I wasn’t supposed to think like that. We’re taught not to divorce, not to abort, not to give up. The only place I found any peace was in the church.
I couldn’t go out much because my husband would find reasons to beat me. If I did go out, I’d rush home to avoid his wrath. I had few friends because those who visited often witnessed him beating me. He accused me of mixing with “ashawo friends” and didn’t want me socializing.
The church was the only place he didn’t beat me for going, as long as I could prove I was there for Mass or to go and clean it. And there, I would go to confession.
I started confessing how fed up I was. I couldn’t leave because my children would suffer under the next woman or anyone in my husband’s family. So I stayed. I poured my heart out to the priest during confession.
Confession is sacred. The priest wouldn’t expose or judge me. Many times, I confessed that I hated my husband and wished he would die or disappear. I even confessed that if God couldn’t take him away, He should take me instead. That’s how tired I was.
At some point, after service, the priest began calling me aside to pray with me. I shared the circumstances of my home with him. By then, my husband wasn’t even having sex with me anymore—not since the birth of my son. Not that I wanted it, but still…
This went on for several years. Then one day, Fada and I began…well, I won’t go into the details of how it started, but I began sleeping with him.
He didn’t force me. He didn’t entice me. I did it because, for the first time, I had a man—a man who listened to me, advised me, and gave me money to care for myself and my children. He knew if I was happy, just by listening to me on the phone. He knew what mood I was in, just from saying, “Hello” on the phone.
Yes, he’s a priest, a man of God, but he made me feel seen and valued and loved the way a woman should be loved.
It was easy to make it happen. All I had to say was, “I’m going to church.”
For the first time in my life, I felt loved.
This went on for a few years. I knew I wanted to leave my husband, but how? Fada is a reverend priest; he couldn’t marry me. But he could love me, not beat me, and provide for me and my children. That was all that mattered to me.
One day, Fada handed me a cheque. With it, I got a passport, and, under the guise of church activities, I relocated to the UK. My husband didn’t know.
What about my children? They wanted me to leave. They knew their father would kill me one day. My eldest daughter even saved my life once. My husband had come home from his shop and demanded food. I was still boiling the rice—it wasn’t ready. I was in the backyard washing his clothes when he came up behind me with the pot of boiling rice, ready to pour it over my head. Thank God my daughter was there. She screamed, ran to him, and pushed his hands away. I was still burned, but only my left leg suffered. It could have been so much worse.
So, when Fada helped me apply as a church assistant to go to the UK, I took the chance. I knew my children would miss me, especially my youngest, but if I were dead, I’d be no use to them.
Thank God for Fada.
In the UK, I stayed in one of the houses owned by the church.
I began doing home care for church members, through Fada’s connections. I started earning money. Fada didn’t abandon me. He kept sending people my way—people who needed help with cooking, cleaning, or other church-related matters.
Bit by bit, things began to change for me. Fada would send me money, and within three years of arriving in the UK, I was able to buy my own house. He even sent church members to stay at my house as Airbnb guests, which helped me earn extra income.
Whenever he visited, I cleared my schedule to spend time with him. He never raised his voice at me, and he cared for me deeply. Being a priest, he didn’t have a girlfriend or a wife—I was the only woman in his life. He poured his whole heart into me, and I cared for him in return. I will care for him forever.
As for my children, three of them are now in private universities, and I’m the one paying for their education. I also send money for their upkeep—not to my husband, of course, but to my sister, who makes sure they get what they need. When the time is right, I plan to bring them over to the UK, one by one.
(Series written and edited by Peju Akande and based on true stories) Photo credit