I got married young. Just 23. The ceremony was held in the mosque, simple and quiet. My husband was a devout Muslim, and he insisted I wear the hijab. That wasn’t the problem. I wore it without complaint, just like I did everything else he asked of me.
But still, he beat me.
Over the smallest things.
Marriage was not sweet. It was bitter. And most nights, I cried myself to sleep, unsure of what I was doing wrong. If I cooked, he complained the food was too salty. If I cleaned, he’d point at a missed spot on the floor. Nothing pleased him.
He didn’t let me have friends. I couldn’t visit people. I hated my life.
Even sex felt like war. My sister, how do you surrender your body to someone who constantly bruises you? I dreaded his touch. I flinched when he came close. I stopped sharing my thoughts, stopped speaking my truth. I was living in fear.
One day, something changed. He came home early and met one of my friends visiting. We had gone to polytechnic together, she was one of the few people I kept close, someone who had never judged me. She came because she hadn’t heard from me since the wedding. I told her the truth, what I was going through, and she listened, really listened. Then she told me: “Find out what he wants. Ask him what will make him happy.”
I didn’t expect her advice to matter.
Now, this friend isn’t like me. She doesn’t wear the hijab. She’s free-spirited. Loud where I’m quiet. But I loved her like a sister, because she never stopped checking on me.
When my husband walked in and saw her, my heart sank. I knew there would be trouble when she left. My friend saw the fear in my eyes and quickly got up to leave. But then… something unexpected happened.
He stopped her.
“Stay,” he said. “Don’t rush off because of me. I’m glad my wife has friends.”
He went out, bought drinks, sat down with us, and started talking, laughing even. They gisted like old friends. I was stunned, silent through most of it, unsure who this version of my husband was.
When she finally left, I braced myself.
But he didn’t revert to his old ways. He started asking about her. Wanted to know if she was single, if she had a man in her life. I answered what I could.
That night, we had sex, and for the first time, I didn’t feel pain.
For the first time, I felt pleasure.
After we made love that night, something shifted. My husband told me things he’d never shared before. He spoke about his university days: wild, reckless, full of experimentation. Sex, mostly. He confessed to having threesomes, foursomes, exploring all kinds of styles I’d never even imagined.
I didn’t know what to make of it at first. But looking back, I see he was laying a foundation, testing how far he could go with me.
I sensed he wanted me to try those things with him, and I agreed.
There are details I won’t share with you here, but that night marked the beginning of a transformation between us. We grew closer, oddly enough. I couldn’t reconcile this version of him, the man who once seemed so pious, with the stories he was now sharing. But he felt safe enough to open, unjudged. And I chose to keep it that way.
Then came the moment I didn’t expect.
He asked whether my friend would be open to joining us in bed.
I froze. But at that point, I’d begun to taste peace in my marriage. I feared that refusing him might bring back the rage, the silence, the bruises. So, I took a risk.
I called my friend. She came over. I didn’t ask outright, I circled the question gently, unsure how to phrase such a thing. But the crazy girl agreed!
That was the beginning of a new chapter.
My husband became lighter, more cheerful. No more complaints about the food or missed spots on the floor. We travelled together, my friend, my husband, and I checked into a guesthouse and explored things I’d never thought I’d witness, let alone feel.
I watched him make love to my friend. I didn’t feel jealousy. I felt relief. If this was the path to peace, I was willing to walk it.
Eventually, she brought her boyfriend into the group. We went out of town again. Another guesthouse. Another night of tangled limbs and hushed moans. I even watched my husband hold my legs apart while her boyfriend had sex with me, and still, no anger, no violence.
You ask me if this clashes with my religion?
I don’t know, I pray for forgiveness after each act.
For the first time in years, my marriage is sweet. No quarrels. No bruises. Just peace and a satisfied husband.
Isn’t that what every woman wants?
(Series written and edited by Peju Akande and based on true stories)