The Woman Who Forgot Herself

Dear God,

A wise woman once said, “When a house catches fire, everybody brings water. The problem is that not everybody brings the right bucket.”

That was exactly what happened the day my friend, Nkeiru, called me. At first, I thought it was one more fight. One more misunderstanding. One more episode in her long-running drama series called “Marriage Will Humble You.” But I was wrong. This was different. The marriage wasn’t merely shaking. The foundation had already cracked.

By the time I entered the compound that afternoon, her belongings had already been thrown outside the gate, for the second time. The neighbours looked exhausted. Friends had become emergency response teams, church members had become marriage referees, and the husband, whom we shall call Jack-da-Destroyer, had delivered a final decree.

Three months. That’s ninety days. That’s twelve weeks. And that was all the time Nkeiru had to leave the house. Leave the house she had helped clean. The house she had decorated. The house where she had buried fifteen years of dreams. The house where she had laughed, cried, prayed and aged. All because another woman was waiting backstage for her exit, bags packed and ready to move in.

Dad, this life can be strange. 

A woman can spend years building a home and one morning discover she was only renting emotional space. When I arrived, the living room was already full. And like every African family crisis, there wasn’t a shortage of advisers. What there was a shortage of was wisdom.

Five women with five opinions and five completely different solutions. I sat quietly, observing, listening and learning. Because before you advise a drowning person, you must first understand who pushed them into the river.

The first preacher was the mother-in-law. Ah. The Blessed Mother of the half-grown man. She spoke with the softness of cotton wool, but every sentence carried hidden nails.

“Your husband is a good man,” she began. I almost choked on air. Good man? Is there another man in this equation we are discussing? She continued. “You know men have pressures.” (Nkeiru nodded weakly). “You know men are different.” (Nkeiru nodded again). “You know men need respect.” (Another nod). Then came the real message.

“You know, a man comes home from work tired. He needs his wife to make the home peaceful. Maybe if you can be more patient with him, more submissive, more attentive…” I almost choked.

Apparently, adultery had now been classified as a workplace injury caused by insufficient domestic customer service. 

Funny how the responsibility for a man’s bad behaviour often arrives wearing a woman’s shoes. I watched the old woman carefully. She never once asked why her son was cheating. Not once. She never asked why another woman’s baggage were packed in her son’s garage. She never asked why a full-grown man (the good man she raised) was throwing his woman’s belongings outside.

No.

Her assignment was simple. Make Nkeiru become smaller. Become quieter, become more obedient, more invisible, so that her half-grown son will feel like a grown man. Because some people don’t want accountability, they want surrender and they often disguise it as submission. 

I wanted to ask one small question. “What exactly should the woman who is sleeping with him improve about herself?” 

But I kept quiet. (It wasn’t worth the fight)

Then came Nkeiru’s mother accompanied by the church matron. The two women had clearly rehearsed their sermon. “My daughter,” her mother began softly, “Marriage requires patience.” The matron nodded. “Forgiveness and Long-suffering.” Another nod. “And endurance.” Another nod (I wondered why her neck is not paining her with all the nods). 

“Marriage is not easy,” her mother said. “Marriage is a covenant,” the matron added. “You must not give up.” “God hates divorce.”

I looked at them. I knew they meant well. But I wondered quietly whether we had sometimes confused preserving a marriage with preserving the conditions that are destroying the person inside it.

Then the matron opened her Bible dramatically… “My daughter, love covers a multitude of sins.” I wanted to ask her which edition of love they were referring to (Dad, please don’t get me wrong, I am a sucker for spirituality, however…… there is godly love, and then there is self-destruction disguised as spirituality)

The woman continued. “You must pray more.” Pray more? (Dad, what happened to the ones she has been praying since?). This woman had been praying. Seriously Lord, fifteen years of praying…. I know this for sure. And for the soul of this man oh. Morning, Midnight, emergency, special prayer all to no avail. And now she was about to become homeless, despite all the prayer points.

You see my Lord, sometimes people prescribe prayer the way roadside pharmacists prescribe antibiotics for every ailment…… same medicine. Broken arm? – Pray. Lost job? – Pray. Husband cheating? – Pray. Roof leaking? – Pray. Country collapsing? – Pray.

(Dad, please don’t look at me like that). While I know for sure that prayer is powerful, I also know for sure that you, God, gave us wisdom, common sense and legs to move when the house is collapsing. Noah prayed, but Noah also built the ark, jumped in, and locked the door before the rain began. That’s wisdom and it is profitable ONLY when it directs.

Anyways, after the elders left, the atmosphere changed. The younger women took the stage and suddenly we had entered another movie entirely. These were lawyers without licenses, feminists without filters and angry women with internet subscriptions.

The first friend slammed her hand on the table. “Take him to court!” (Shege Jagwa! I love activists). The second nodded aggressively.

The first continued… …. “Sue da hell of out him, you will get the house and 50% of everything else, worst case!” (I looked around me to be sure I was still in Nigeria. All these janded babes have no idea how things work in Africa).

Nkeiru looked confused. One group wanted her to become a martyr and now here is another group that is pushing her to become a warrior. And in all of these, nobody seemed interested in helping her become whole, nobody wanted to know what she really wants, what she thinks.

It reminded me of an old proverb my grandma used to quote: “As two people are busy fighting over the sharing of a bird, somebody should first remove the bird from the fire.”

Everyone was arguing about justice, nobody was discussing her survival. For nearly an hour I listened quietly. Then I asked a question, one simple question.

“Nkeiru, how much money do you have saved?”

The room went silent. She looked at the floor. Then she whispered. “Nothing.”

I blinked. Surely, she misunderstood. I repeated the question. Again, the same answer, nothing. After fifteen years of marriage – Nothing? No hidden savings, no personal emergency fund, no investment, no backup plan – Nothing. Chai!

God forgive me. I nearly fell off my chair.

“Aunty,” I said, “you have been married for fifteen years. You have no savings?” she nodded like a lizard. She whispered, “He handled everything.”

I rubbed my forehead. I looked around the room and then I looked at Nkeiru. And for the first time, I didn’t see a wife. I saw a hostage, a beautiful hostage, prayerful, loyal hostage, but a hostage, nonetheless. Because dependence is sweet until the person you depend on changes. 

A bird that forgets how to fly becomes a prisoner of the branch. And some women mistake comfort for security. My gender, they are not the same thing. Comfort is what somebody gives you. Security is what remains when they stop giving.

(If you like hear me, if you like don’t hear me. Sit there and be doing…” I love my husband. I didn’t say don’t love him oh……I said borrow sense)

Back to my friend, Dad, Nkeiru didn’t need revenge first, she needed recovery. I turned to the radical ladies.

“Ladies,” I said calmly. “We have work to do.” They leaned forward. 

I stood. “The first priority is not the husband.” They looked surprised. 

“Yes, our first priority is Nkeiru.” 

Silence. I continued.

“We need a two-bedroom apartment.” (The women exchanged looks). “We need to find her employment.” (More looks). “We need to restore her confidence.” (Nobody spoke again). “We need to remind her who she was before she became the Dragon’s wife.”

Now the room was completely silent because they finally understood. The goal wasn’t winning a battle against her husband. The goal was rebuilding a human being. I pointed at Nkeiru.

“This is not the Nkeiru we knew. This is a battered, frightened, financially dependent version of the woman we knew. (Tears rolled down her face). Before we decide whether she stays married, leaves the marriage, fights the husband, forgives the husband, or takes him to court, we need to bring Nkeiru back.” (Total sobbing).

The room went quiet, because suddenly, the question was no longer: What should Nkeiru do about her husband? It became: What should Nkeiru do about Nkeiru?

Tears welled up in the eyes of my activist friends, but I paid them no attention. My mission was clear. We cannot keep fighting Nkeiru’s battles, we need to get her to stand on her feet and fight her battles. My father used to say… “Don’t give a person fish, rather teach him how to fish, so that whenever he is hungry, he can go to the river and catch some fish”

By the time we left that house, we had clear action plans within the 3 months timeline the husband gave her. Nkeiru was not going to beg to be seen or loved. She was going learn to love herself. She was going to claim her confidence, her independence and her life back.

That evening, as I drove home, one thought followed me. Sometimes the greatest tragedy in marriage is not that a woman loses her husband, it is that she loses herself long before the husband leaves. 

And dear sister, (hear me and hear me well), if you ever find yourself standing in the ruins of a life you built with someone, remember: A lost marriage can be rebuilt. A lost house can be replaced. A lost opportunity can return. So never lose yourself.

Because the woman who remembers her worth has already won half the battle before life begins the war. You must have the wisdom to know the difference between fighting for a home and fighting to remain in a place that has stopped being home.

What happens next?… the answer to that question would arrive three months later. And when it did… Nobody was prepared for what Jack-da-Destroyer did next.

This is your daughter, Lord, I wi

ll continue this story, for now, I am checking in.