Wonders shall never cease.
Isn’t that what we always say? Well, this is the wonder I have witnessed.
Please, listen to me.
I buried my husband one year ago.
What happened?
He had been complaining of chest pain for a while. You know how men can be—he brushed it off, refused to see a doctor despite my urging. Turns out, it was far more serious than we thought. He collapsed at work. Just like that.
By the time they got him to the hospital, it was too late. He was pronounced dead on arrival. And just like that, my world shattered.
How do you process something like that?
He had been laughing with me that very morning. We spoke. We joked.
Then, hours later, I got the call—he was gone. I was inconsolable.
They had already taken his body to the morgue by the time I arrived at the hospital.
He worked for an international firm, so everything happened quickly and efficiently. But nothing could prepare me for that moment.
Then came the hardest part: telling the children. Two boys and a girl.
What could I possibly say?
I called Jummy—our nanny to inform her about this devastating news.
Jummy had been with us for almost a year, and honestly, she was a sweet soul. My husband and I often said she was a godsend. The children adored her from the start, and for me, it was such a relief. I could go to work knowing my kids were in safe hands—with someone I trusted, someone who never gave them reasons to fear or complain.
And let’s not forget—she was the younger sister of an old friend. I had even promised to support her nursing education. That’s how much faith I had in her.
Jummy screamed. I was later told by our maiguard that she fainted!
I didn’t even know as I was battling the sudden loss of my husband.
I wanted Jummy to keep our children from hearing about this until I got home, I am not sure I was able to communicate…a lot was going on.
But I guess she must have pulled herself together because by the time I got home, there were people already in our house and my children were upstairs not knowing what had happened.
The house was flooded with people—his relatives, friends, mourners, even those who had no business being there. I was numb. I never imagined I’d be a widow at just 42. My husband was only 47. So full of life.
We met during NYSC in Adamawa, posted to a small town called Ganye. I almost refused the posting, but when I found out he was going too, I thought—why not?
After our youth corps service, we returned to Lagos. I got a job in advertising, he joined a bank. We knew we’d marry, but we wanted to build something first. I won’t bore you with the details. What matters is this: On the day of his burial, Jummy pulled me aside and said she was pregnant.
Pregnant—for my husband.
I stared at her, stunned. “What did you just say?”
She repeated it. Calmly. “I’m carrying your husband’s child.”
I hadn’t noticed. Not a bump, not a change. Nothing. And before that moment, I had never suspected anything inappropriate between them. To me, their relationship was like uncle and niece. That’s all.
Jummy was 23 at that time. I never asked if she had a boyfriend—I just assumed she didn’t. She lived with us, and I never once caught her sneaking around on the phone or whispering sweet nothings to anyone. You know those signs? She gave none.
And my husband? He always said he didn’t like big women. Jummy was full-bodied—curvy in all the places he claimed not to like. So I never imagined he’d even look at her that way.
But here we were.
In fact, when Jummy first came to live with us, the very first thing my husband joked about was how she’d probably finish all the food in the house.
I knew what he meant. She was big—and he’d always said he didn’t like big women. Look at me: I’m petite. Not because he insisted on it, but because I’ve just never been able to gain weight. I was even smaller before I had the kids—almost fragile.
So yes, it was baffling. And infuriating. I was mad as hell.
There I was, grieving the man I thought was the salt of the earth. Not that we didn’t have our issues—of course we did, like any couple—but we always found our way back to each other. I knew he wasn’t a saint, but this? This betrayal? It felt like a knife in my back.
And the timing—why did Jummy think the day of his burial was the right moment to tell me?
I was still in mourning. I was looking forward to some quiet, to begin piecing my life back together—for myself, for my children, and yes, even for Jummy. As far as I knew then, she was part of our family. I had plans to support her education, to help her find her feet.
And then she tells me she’s carrying my husband’s child?
I lost it. I cursed them both. But I also knew I had to protect my children. I didn’t want the whole world knowing. It was shameful. Their father had been sleeping with the maid. How do you explain that to a child?
I ordered her out of the house.
A month after the burial, I returned to work. I packed away the black clothes and wore bright colours. I refused to keep mourning a man who had betrayed me so deeply.
But of course, people began to talk.
I said, let them talk!
About three months after the burial, I got a call from my old friend—the one who brought Jummy into my home. She was pleading. Said Jummy had nothing. Asked if I could help.
Help?
I was stunned. These people have balls!
Your sister was sleeping with my husband, and now you’re asking me to help her? Because, what—she’s carrying “my husband’s baby”? Because the child is “my children’s sibling”?
People really have audacity.
Or maybe they thought if they just spoke to me gently enough, I’d melt. That I’d forget the betrayal. That I’d open my arms and play the good woman. I don’t know what they imagined.
And of course, the pressure started. “You’re bigger than this.” “She’s suffering.” “Your children might want to know their sibling someday…”
I cursed them all.
Then, maybe eight months later—almost a year after the burial—I heard Jummy had been rushed to the hospital. She’d given birth to a baby girl. It was a C-section. The baby was in an incubator. And they couldn’t pay the bills.
My old friend called again. Said she had no one else to turn to. That if I didn’t help, Jummy might die. Or the baby might. She said she couldn’t live with that on her conscience so she decided to call me.
Hummn.
So I paid.
I paid for the surgery. I paid for the incubator. I cleared the hospital bills.
And I sat with myself afterward, asking: What kind of wahala did my husband leave behind for me?
How long will I be guilt-tripped into saving Jummy? If she dies, it won’t be my fault but can I live with that, if money is the issue? Money that I have, not that I need to borrow?
It’s exhausting. It’s maddening.
I hate him for this. Truly. If not for my children—still so young—I would never set foot near his grave again.
(Series written and edited by Peju Akande and based on true stories)