Is Not Gold

 

 

Dear God,

Chelsea, practical to the bone and never emotionally unemployed, walked back into my office from the restroom, shut the door with surgical calm, and looked at my sad face the way a doctor looks at a patient and smirked…. “You have not heard the half of it.”

I shook my head with dread.

“When Chiamaka found out,” she began again, “she did not cry at first. She raged.”

Apparently, the night Arinze confessed, she drove straight to her mother’s house. No makeup. No composure. Just fury in human form.

“Mummy, he lied,” she said, pacing the living room. “He never wanted me. I was the camouflage.”

Aunty Ugo, ever the diplomat of denial, lowered her voice. “Keep your voice down. The staff can hear.”

“My marriage is scam and you are worried about the staff?” Chiamaka fired back.

At this point, the other mother had already been summoned. Yes. Emergency summit. Two matriarchs. Two reputations. One wounded girl.

Arinze’s mother arrived in silk and composure.

“My dear,” she said softly, holding Chiamaka’s hands, “every marriage has… complexities.”

“Complexities?” Chiamaka’s laugh was sharp. “Your son cannot even look at me.”

Silence. Then came the negotiation.

“We can fix this,” her mum insisted. “You must not embarrass the family.”

(Fix this? Like it was a faulty air conditioner. I rolled my eyes)

Arinze’s mother leaned forward. “We will ensure you are financially protected. There are properties in your name already. More can be arranged and shares, if you are discrete.”

Both mothers exchanged knowing glances

Chiamaka stared at them. “So that’s it? I trade my sanity for assets?”

“No,” Aunty Ugo snapped. “You secure your future.”

Father Lord, when did shame become monetized?

They laid it out clearly. Stay. Smile. Post anniversary photos. Avoid public drama. And (this part still makes my stomach turn) “try harder…. It’s your duty.”

“Men are visual,” her mum advised, lowering her voice. “Be more… seductive.”

“Maybe he is just stressed,” Arinze’s mother added. “Use what God gave you.”

“How did you know these details”, I wondered aloud. Chelsea and Chiamaka were 5&6 before Ariz swagged in. Their family friendship dated back before they were born. Few months after the Ariz appeared, they became sworn enemies. Aunty Ugo and Aunty Gloria won’t be caught dead in the same environment.

“She told me”, she admitted.

Told you? How? I thought……..

“Bad news loves companion……..she called me. I didn’t pick at 1st, but when the rumours started making rounds…. I knew she needed a shoulder and I reached out”.

Anyway, Chiamaka later told me the mothers did everything to make her stay, Chelsea continued.

“But he is not attracted to women!” she cried.

“Then make him,” Aunty Ugo said flatly. There was no way she was going to give up on this luxurious life easy. As if sexuality was a stubborn goat that needed persuasion. And so began the second year. The year of performance. New lingerie. Romantic getaways. Therapy he refused. Even herbal concoctions whispered about by aunties who believe everything is spiritual.

“Did you try aphrodisiacs?” her mother had asked casually over lunch.

Father Lord!

Chiamaka told Chelsea that sometimes she felt like a manikin sitting pretty in the house. There were nights she would stand in front of the mirror, barely clothed, rehearsing confidence.

“You are desirable,” she would whisper to herself.

Then she would enter their bedroom. And he would freeze.

Chelsea said it plainly: “The presence of a naked woman made his skin crawl.”

One evening, after yet another attempt, she touched his shoulder gently.

“Ariz, please. Let’s talk.”

He recoiled as if burned. “Stop. Just stop.”

“I am your wife!”

“I didn’t ask for this!” he shouted.

She stared at him. “You married me.”

“I married an arrangement!”

And there it was. The truth, naked and ugly. The arguments escalated. Resentment thickened the air. And then one night, in a moment of frustration and disgust, he pushed her. And that was the beginning of the punching bag syndrome.

“Don’t touch me!” he yelled.

She stumbled back, stunned. The second time, it was worse. Chelsea paused when she told me this. Her usual sarcasm softened.

“She said it wasn’t even about the pain or the humiliation,” Chelsea whispered. “It was the realization that she had become an irritant in someone else’s lie.”

Yet, the two mothers still insisted on endurance.

“Do you know how many women suffer quietly?” Aunty Ugo said sternly. “At least you are comfortable.”

(Father Lord, that woman needs salvation)

Chiamaka later told her, “Mummy, a gold-plated cage is still a cage.”

“It doesn’t have to be a cage, you know, if you are discrete, you can eat your cake and have it. Get yourself a discrete bed warmer”, she whispered winking at her daughter.

“Mum!” The poor girl screamed.

But Ugo had tasted the opulent life. The events. The circles. The respect. The upgrades. Money can buy comfort. It can buy access. It can buy silence. But if you have sold your soul, happiness becomes a rumour. One afternoon, after another boxing championship with Ariz, Chiamaka did something radical. She drove to her father’s office. He looked up from his desk and immediately knew. Fathers know.

“Daddy,” she said quietly, “It’s messed up, I am not okay.”

He did not explode. He did not interrogate. He simply listened. When his daughter finished speaking, the confession, the arrangement, the money, the pressure, the fights, the quiet suffering, the room grew heavy with the kind of silence that tells you something irreversible has just happened. His jaw tightened.

“So, your mother knew all along?” he asked.

She hesitated. Then nodded. He walked to the window, stood there for a long moment, then turned back with the calm of a man who had already made his decision.

“Go home. Pack a bag. I will handle it.”

And he did. No drama. Just clear decision. Within days, a formidable lawyer was engaged. Evidence was preserved. What the other family hoped would remain buried began to surface, not through gossip, but through the clean, sharp language of the law.

The mothers panicked. Calls were made. Pleas were whispered. Reputation suddenly became very important. But the father’s response was quiet and devastating:

“Our daughter was bleeding… and you were counting diamonds.”

That was the moment everything became clear. This was shameless greed. It was about what people are willing to sacrifice to maintain comfort. Too often, families protect image instead of protecting their children. Too often, luxury is preserved while dignity is quietly auctioned off.

Chiamaka chose differently. She chose to walk away.

The divorce was finalized. Ironically, the very assets meant to keep her silent became the runway for her freedom. Her mother mourned the lifestyle that slipped through their fingers, worried about what people would say.

The real lesson for me, Lord?

Never mortgage a child’s joy for social applause. Never confuse wealth with peace.

And if you ever find yourself living inside a glittering prison, remember, doors built on deception never stay closed forever. If you can, open it and walk. Choose your dignity, protect your peace. Las-Las, everyone go chop breakfast.

This is your daughter Lord, I am checking in.