Divorce that man, Abike

one of many "open letters" from the edge

Abike, stop coming to me for advice.
Divorce that man before you die of hypertension.
I saw him last night at the beer parlour,
laughing with women while they sat on both sides,
drinking beer and chewing kolanuts,
his teeth darkening like his feelings for you.

Abike, your husband is cheating on you, and you know it.
So why are you still there?
You think he’ll change? That man has no eyes for you anymore.
He only married you because you made it easy.
You cooked. You cleaned.
You said yes to him when you should have said go to hell.

And now he treats you like you’re nothing.

Abike, look at the way he talks to your neighbour’s daughter.
That girl is old enough to be his child, and too young to be his wife.
That man is a pedophile, and he does not respect you.
Not you. Not your home. Not your body.

Abike, where’s the money from the sales you made yesterday?
The 20k from the shop?
You know he took it and gave it to that woman who sells agbado at the end of the road.
So why are you asking me?
Am I living in your house?

Abike, your husband with his pot belly will not wake up and change tomorrow.
Why would he? You let him do whatever he wants.
Abike, you're supposed to hold his ear and scream into it:
“You’re a married man! Act like one!”
But you keep shrinking instead. And cowering in fear.
Abike, you’ve forgotten that you are the wife.
And last time I checked, you are the head of that house. You, not him.

When last did he touch you? When last did he make love to you?
But last night, he brought Mama Caro into your house.
And slept with her on your own matrimonial bed.
And instead of setting him right, you sat outside and cried. Praying for God to "touch his heart."
God is tired.
Even angels are tired of your prayers.

One day, Abike, he will pack your load and send you away like expired bread.
And the same women laughing at you now will ask,
"Ah, what did she do to her husband?"
Abike, the only thing he does is eat your food with money he never earned.
And yet, you still cook for him.
You serve him three meals a day and then turn around and serve yourself heartbreak.

Abike, look at you, the once-village beauty.
Everyone looked at you with envious eyes.
The men wanted you.
The girls wanted to be like you.
But see what you’ve reduced yourself to.
All because of love.

What else do you want me to say?
I won't tell you to keep fighting, Abike. I’m not like your mother and her friends who blame you for your husband's madness.
No, Abike.
I will tell you the truth.
Divorce that man.
And go live your life.

---

Abike, why have you come again?
Abike, this is not what I asked you to do.
I wanted you to be happy.
I wanted to see you smile again.
I wanted you to live.
I wanted that for you.
To rest.
To breathe.
I wanted to see the reflection of life in your eyes again.

But Abike… what have you done?
Why did you kill your husband?

That’s not what I meant
When I said live.
I meant leave.
I meant pack your bag at dawn, not poison his food at night.
I meant walk away, not wipe his mouth and wait for him to stop breathing.

Abike, you were supposed to save yourself.
Now look,
they’ve come for you.
Your name is on people’s lips again,
but not like before.
Not the village beauty,
not the wife whose husband was sleeping around.
But the woman going to cell 3 for killing her husband.
The one they’ll say smiled while he choked.

I told you to live,
not to take his life.