As a mother, I am shattered.
Not just broken, I am broken in many places I will never heal from. My story is shameful, frustrating, and hopeless, not only for me, but for my daughter and the life growing inside her.
How did we get into this mess?
I left my husband after 19 years of marriage. Years marked by constant physical abuse. What no one told me was that even when the bruises fade, emotional abuse lingers. The name-calling. The lies he spread to turn my own family against me. The mornings I woke up, wondering what sin I had committed to deserve living like an animal with the children I bore for him.
One day, I couldn’t take it anymore. I packed what little I had left and moved out. I slept in the shop of a kind customer at the market until I could find a place of my own.
She had seen me crying and listened to my story. “Leave,” she said. “When you’re strong enough, go back and get your children.”
That was my plan. I had two children then, a son and a daughter, 17 and 15. My daughter was younger. I thought their father would care for his own blood.
I was wrong.
I thought I needed a year to rebuild. I was wrong again.
I started selling pure water. Then soft drinks. I bought goods on credit, sold them, and reinvested. I expanded my stock to include snacks and other items.
But as a woman living in a shed by the garage, I was vulnerable. I was robbed and bullied. And if I didn’t want to be raped, I needed protection. The man who oversaw the garage became my shield. He didn’t beat me or steal from me. When he wanted sex, I gave it. In return, he kept the area boys and agbero away from me. I became known, though behind my back as “the elder’s meat.” I didn’t mind.
This arrangement was like some two years. Eventually, I got a proper shop near the garage. Things improved. But not enough to bring my children home.
I visited their school often. They looked fine.
But appearances can be deceiving.
So he was trying for me.
I used to encourage my children to focus on their studies. Whenever their father refused to give them money for food, which happened often, I’d pack Coke and Gala for them to eat. It was the least I could do.
I kept telling them things would get better.
Then I noticed my son was skipping school. I reported it to his father, hoping he’d step in. Instead, I was met with curses. He blamed me, called me names. I cursed him back. I hated the situation, but I felt powerless. I couldn’t bring my children to live in a shed. I thought they’d be better off in a proper house with their father.
I was wrong.
One weekend, I went to the house to talk. I thought maybe he’d changed. I said, “Let’s talk about our children’s future.” He lured me into a room and beat me. I fought my way out. That day, I vowed never to have anything to do with him again.
The children were his. His blood. If he chose to watch his own future waste away, that was on him.
I said those things, but they were still my children.
Remember I told you my son was skipping school?
He sat for WAEC and failed. His father refused to pay for him to retake it. I wanted to help, but by then, my son was already deep into weed and cheap drugs. I didn’t know it at the time. I gave him money to go and register again; he blew it on smoke.
So, he stayed home. Doing nothing.
An idle hand is the devil’s workshop. I told him to tell his father to enrol him in apprenticeship. This one has no head for school. He could learn to be a mechanic or even tailor. Their father sent him back to call me names. The stupid boy repeated the curses to me.
My daughter had grown too. This was about three years after I left their father. I kept thinking I’d find a way to get her out.
Around that time, things were getting serious with the man who had been helping me. He moved me into his proper house. For the first time, I felt safe. He was rough around the edges, but never with me. He never raised his voice. He let me trade freely. What I earned was mine. He gave me money for food and personal needs.
But he made it clear, he couldn’t take in my children. He already had four of his own, plus his younger brother, all living with us in a cramped two-bedroom flat. They were all grown, I knew it would be more than over cramped. The youngest, 11 year old boy, slept in our bedroom on certain days.
One day at the market, I ran into an old neighbour, the same woman who used to hide me in her room when my former husband beat me and I had nowhere else to go. She sought me out deliberately. She said my daughter had told her where to find me.
Then she dropped the bombshell: my daughter was pregnant.
I froze. “Who? How?” I asked, my hands on my head.
She urged me not to let my children’s lives be destroyed by their father.
I ran to the house, not caring whether he was there or not.
I found my daughter asleep. And yes, she was pregnant.
I asked her who was responsible. She was nearly 19years. I begged her to tell me.
She said she didn’t know.
I cried. I pleaded. She cried too. I kept asking, and finally, she whispered that it was between her father and her brother.
I must have fainted, because I woke up in the neighbour’s room. She was fanning me gently.
When I asked what had happened, she said nothing, but the memory came flooding back, and I screamed.
She quickly covered my mouth. She said, “You don’t announce yourself to the world,”
But I told her I needed help. You can’t hide fire under your clothes just because you’re ashamed people will see your nakedness.
My daughter had been abused by her own father and brother.
It’s an abomination. We don’t even know whose child it is.
She was already over five months pregnant; they told me. I cursed myself again and again. How could I not have known? Where had I been for five months?
Why didn’t I see it when she visited three months ago? Why didn’t I sense something was wrong?
Who were the monsters I left her with?
Now the shame is out in the open.
This story echoes the silent cries of countless women and children across Nigeria who suffer abuse in homes that should be safe. We need more than sympathy, we need systems.
Survivor shelters must be expanded and funded, especially for women escaping domestic violence with children.
Mandatory reporting and follow-up for suspected child abuse should be enforced, with real consequences for failure.
Community-based support networks, like the neighbour, should be formalized and trained to intervene safely.
Mental health services must be made accessible to survivors, especially young girls like the daughter, who carry trauma in silence.
Legal aid and advocacy should be available to help survivors navigate the justice system without fear or intimidation.
Nigerians cannot afford to look away. Every child lost to abuse, every woman silenced by shame, is a wound in our collective future.
(Series written and edited by Peju Akande and based on true stories)