The woman at the Men’s Store

Dear God,

I was sitting idly, but peacefully, in the customer lounge of a men’s clothing store, waiting for my Adam to finish shopping. Yes, my Adam (The guy in my personal Garden of Eden) was the one shopping.

He was bouncing around the store, swiping away his hard-earned money with the enthusiasm of a child in a candy shop. Shopping with him is always a comedy special. While my Adam has a default interest to examine clothing labels as if they hold the secrets of fashion, I (an unrepentant Igbo girl) instinctively reach for the price tag first, and do a mental currency conversion simultaneously.

He grabs the label, I grab the price tag, then we look at each other and burst out laughing.

He goes, “Hmm… good brand.” And I go, “Hmm… too pricey.”

Dad, I know you’re laughing. I too admit it. Balance is in my DNA: quality and affordability must shake hands.

As I guarded his pile of shopping bags like a loyal security officer, a middle-aged woman walked over and sat beside me. One of those effortlessly elegant women with a sweet voice. She noticed one of the shirts beside me.

“Unique colour” she said, smiling. “What rack did you get that from?”

I smiled back.

“I honestly don’t know. Hubby is doing the shopping. I’m just here… manning the gates.”

Her laughter came out deep, one of those laughter that vibrates through the chest like a church organ. Immediately, I liked her. Deep laughers are my weakness.

“Good for you,” she chuckled. “It’s usually the other way around.”

“Oh yes,” I said, pretending to sulk. “When he wants to control my spending, he brings me to a men’s store. He knows I won’t find anything to buy.”

She laughed louder. Americans and their laughter, they don’t ration it. Full-volume joy.

“From where I’m sitting,” she said, “for you to come along and sit quietly here waiting for him… you two still have it going strong.”

I rolled my eyes like a seasoned actress. She laughed again.

We began a comparative analysis of Nigerian men versus their American counterparts and had some good laughs. She seemed to have some weird stories about African men she knows.

Then, just as I was about to ask her which countries in Africa she has visited, she said softly:

“You remind me of my ex-husband.”

My brain froze.

(Father Lord, why? Why must You trip me up in public? Which kind of compliment is “you remind me of my ex-husband”?)

She went quiet. Her face softened, not bitter, not angry, just distant.

The silence stretched between us and I shifted uncomfortably…

“My husband of ten years left me,” she began slowly. “He remarried quickly. Almost as if he wiped me away. As if our ten years never happened. There was no warning. No crack in the marriage that I noticed. I thought we had it going very well. It broke me. I thought I would die.”

She paused.

“I think I died a little.”

Her honesty sat heavy between us. I didn’t know what to say.

“Ten years later,” she continued, “I heard he had stage 4 lung cancer. Everyone expected me to react emotionally, but I didn’t. I wasn’t bitter. I wasn’t vengeful. I just… felt nothing.”

She sighed.

“And then people began to have opinions. ‘Reach out to him.’ ‘Send a kind message.’ ‘Attend the funeral.’ All these expectations from people who weren’t there when I was breaking.”

I nodded slowly. People and their unsolicited opinions (they sprinkle them on you like confetti).

She went on.

“A friend going through divorce once told me something he read in a psychiatric journal: that the grief of losing a spouse to betrayal is often equal to (sometimes worse than) losing them to death. Because death doesn’t try to destroy you on its way out.”

I wanted to laugh (Americans and their dramatic philosophies) but I understood what she was saying. Some heartbreaks stab in places even death cannot reach.

She continued:

“What people don’t know is that when someone betrays you deeply and leaves, they already died once in your world. So, when the news of their actual death comes later… it doesn’t hit the same.”

I took a deep breath and nodded.

“Did you go for the funeral?” I asked

She shook her head. “No.”

“Why?” I asked.

She looked straight ahead.

“Because I survived losing him once. Going again would have been death number two, and I had no intention of dying twice for the same man.”

I blinked. (I dared not laugh).

“People judged me,” she added. “Family, friends, everybody suddenly became philosophers. But their opinions were cheap compared to what I had lived through. They would show empathy; some would cry dramatic tears and move on. Meanwhile, I was the one who would carry the emotional bill. I was the one who had to pick up the pieces of my life again. I was the one that had to grind to heal within.”

I understood her deeply. (Not from personal experience, but from cultural contrast).

In my African upbringing, you’re expected to show up. Cry properly. Perform rituals. Demonstrate virtue. Even if the person hurt you. Even if they fractured your spirit.

We honour the dead even when the dead did not honour us.

But her words challenged me: “You have to survive yourself first before you can survive expectations.”

Silence fell between us again. Not awkward this time. Just… honest.

Soon, her order arrived. She picked her bag, flashed me a warm smile, and said:

“Take care of your Adam. You both seem good together”

Then she walked away, leaving me with her story like a wrapped gift I didn’t ask for but somehow liked.

 

That day as I waited patiently, while my Adam examined sleeves and labels, I learned something unexpected from a stranger with a deep laugh and a deeper wound.

That: “There is no “correct” way to respond to betrayal or loss. No formula, no tradition, no universal script. Survival is personal”. You handle your pain the best way you can.

That: “Sometimes the living walks out of your life in ways that feel like death, and you must bury the version of them that broke you.”

That: “People will judge your pain quickly because they don’t carry its weight. Their opinions are free. Your healing is not. So, if you must move on, move honourably.

If you must grieve, grieve honestly. And if you must protect your peace, protect it fiercely. You are your own best protector.

After all…… You only get one life. Don’t die twice because of one person.

And as for me, I quietly held my Adam’s shopping bags a little tighter that day, grateful, amused, and reminded that love is a journey, but it needs wisdom as the seatbelt.

By the way, Lord, I did not buy anything from that store that day…and guess what? I dragged my Adam to my own mall the next day and made his pocket bleed.

One-one. After all, we have it going str

ong……abi? *winky*

This is your daughter, I am checking in.