Post by Laurita Eberechi (@laurita_uzor)

I have been married three times.

The first time I got married, I was twenty-three.

I had just finished NYSC. I was young, hopeful, and standing at that beautiful intersection between girlhood and womanhood where the future still looked like a blank page waiting to be written.

And then I met Nonso.

Nonso was a hardworking banker at GTBank. He earned about ₦400,000 a month, which, at the time, sounded like serious money to me.
I met him at the bank when I went to sort out some issues with my NYSC account. Somehow, the universe decided that my banking problem would come with a husband attached.

He was the one attending to customers at the customer-care desk.

The moment he saw me, he smiled.

His teeth were impossibly white.

He looked up at me and said, “Corper, how may I help you?”

I smiled and greeted him. “Good afternoon, sir. I want to rectify some issues with my NYSC account. I haven’t been getting credit alerts whenever my allowance is paid.”

He sorted everything out for me.

And just when I thought the transaction was over, Nonso asked if he could have my number.

I gave it to him.

Almost immediately, my phone vibrated.

Hi. It’s me. You just gave me your number. Can I take you out for lunch or dinner sometime? I like you.

That was it.

No long introduction. No complicated courtship. No years of friendship.

Just two people, a smile, a phone number, and the dangerous confidence of young love.

Within two months, Nonso came to my parents’ house.

He paid my bride price.

We had our white wedding.

And what a wedding it was.

It was beautiful. Classy. Everything I had ever imagined my wedding day would be.

My friends came to celebrate me. My parents were happy. My mother danced as though she was the bride herself, surrounded by her friends, laughter, music, and excitement.

Looking back now, I sometimes wonder if we were celebrating a beginning or unknowingly dancing at the entrance of a storm.

Because two years into the marriage, happiness and sadness had become roommates.

And somewhere in those two years, I began to wish I had paused.

I wished I hadn’t said yes after only two months.

I wished I had taken my time.

I wished I had allowed myself to know the man beyond the smile, the banker’s shirt, the salary, and the charming words.

Because the calm man I thought I married eventually revealed another face.

He was a woman beater.

He was controlling.

He constantly made me feel as though I was never enough.

Everything about me became a problem.

How I dressed.

How I talked.

How I ate.

How I behaved.

There was always something wrong.

And perhaps the strangest part of the marriage was that, despite all the turmoil, we had no children.

The first time he hit me, I ran to my mother’s house.

I was crying. I was angry. I was frightened.

I told her, “Mummy, I’m not going back.”

My mother looked at me and said something I would remember for years.

“No. You have to go back. I’m sure you must have said something to him. I know you. You talk too much, and you insult people too much. Your father and I are coming with you. We will sit down and settle this. Divorce is not an option.”

And just like that, my escape route became a road back to the same house.

My parents drove me to my husband’s house.

We sat in the living room.

Nonso explained his side.

According to him, I was rude and disrespectful. I slept until 9a.m in the morning. I didn’t make his breakfast. I watched home movies all day and did nothing.

Some of it was exaggerated.

Some of it was simply untrue.

Yes, there were days I woke up late. But most mornings, I woke up early to prepare his breakfast and lunch.

And sometimes, when I was exhausted, there was a reason.

Our private life was intense.

Nonso had an enormous appetite for intimacy, far more than I could comfortably keep up with. I often woke up physically exhausted, while he interpreted my exhaustion as a lack of interest in him.

He complained that I didn’t have enough sexual drive.

The truth was simpler: I wasn’t built for the pace he expected from me.

But none of that mattered in that living room.

He told my parents he had hit me because I had insulted him.

They listened.

And then they made me kneel down and apologize to my husband.

He accepted my apology.

And I went back to him.

I wish I could say that was the end.

It wasn’t.

It became a pattern.

A cycle.

A terrible rhythm of provocation, anger, violence, tears, apologies, reconciliation, and another beginning.

Eventually, I stopped telling my parents.

I stopped explaining.

I stopped hoping they would understand.

But when the beatings became unbearable, I found somewhere else to put my pain.

A friend.

He lived in America.

We had met on Facebook and gradually became close. We talked often. He knew what was happening in my marriage. He listened.

Sometimes he sent me money.

Sometimes he sent gifts.

Every morning, he checked on me.

How are you?

Those simple words became a kind of shelter.

0 likes · 0 comments · 0 shares