Divorce? You will divorce me? After everything? After I stood by you when you had nothing? After I left my family for you? Chaik, have you forgotten the love we once had? Chaik swung back to face her, his eyes cold and hard. Love cannot produce children. My mother was right.
I should have left you long ago. I need a wife who can give me sons, not a woman who fills my house with silence. By tomorrow, Ngozi, I want you out of my house.
Ngozi broke down, falling to her knees, clutching the edge of his trousers. Please, Chaik, do not do this. Give me more time.
Give us more time. God can still answer us. Chaik pulled his leg away as if her touch disgusted him.
God has nothing to do with this. You are the problem, and I am tired. You will leave.
That is final. The argument echoed through the walls. The maids in the house whispered among themselves, but none dared to enter the room.
Ngozi’s sobs filled the air as she tried one last time. Chaik, look into my eyes. Look at the woman who cooked for you, who washed your clothes, who prayed for you when you were sick.
I have given you everything I could. Do not throw me away like trash. But Chaik’s heart was hardened.
He picked up his phone and made a call in front of her. Yes, Barrister Okeke. Prepare the papers.
I want a divorce immediately. Yes, she will leave tomorrow. Ngozi froze, staring at him in disbelief.
You called your lawyer already? You planned this? Chaik, how could you? Chaik looked down at her, his tone sharp. Ngozi, you are a burden. I am freeing myself.
If you love yourself, pack your things tonight. By morning, I do not want to see you here. Ngozi stood slowly, her body weak, her heart breaking into pieces.
She walked to the wardrobe and began to fold her clothes into a small bag. Her hands shook so much that she could barely zip it. Every dress she folded carried memories.
Birthdays, church services, quiet dinners. But now those memories felt like lies. As she packed, Chaik stood watching, his arms crossed, his face stone cold.
Not once did he move to stop her. Not once did his heart soften. Ngozi finally lifted her small bag, her tears falling freely.
She turned to him one last time, her voice breaking. Chaik, you will regret this. One day you will see the truth.
One day you will understand what you have done. But Chaik did not answer. He looked away as if she were already gone.
With slow steps, Ngozi walked out of the bedroom, her slippers dragging on the marble floor. The house that once felt like a home now felt like a prison. She passed the maids, who bowed their heads, afraid to meet her eyes.
She pushed open the big front door, and the night air hit her face. She paused, looking back at the mansion she had called home for seven years. Then she whispered to herself, I may be leaving with nothing, but I will not remain broken.
My God will fight for me. And with that, Ngozi stepped into the darkness, her bag in her hand, her tears falling, but her spirit quietly vowing that this was not the end of her story. Ngozi didn’t know where she was walking to that night.
She just kept moving, holding her bag close to her chest. The streetlights were on, but the road felt dark. Her legs were shaking, and her eyes were wet.
She could still hear Chaik’s voice in her ears. You are a burden. I am freeing myself.
She walked past shops, past sleeping dogs, past women closing their stalls. No one looked at her twice. No one knew that the woman passing them had just lost her home, her husband, and her peace.
Her friend Amaka lived a few streets away. She was the only person Ngozi could think of. They had known each other since university, and even though life had taken them in different directions, Amaka’s door was always open.
Ngozi knocked gently. The time was almost 10 PM. Amaka opened the door in her wrapper, shocked.
Ngozi, what happened to you? Why are you crying? Did someone die? Ngozi couldn’t speak. She just burst into tears again and fell into her friend’s arms. Come inside, come inside, Amaka said, pulling her into the small flat.
She led her to a chair and closed the door. Talk to me, please. What happened? He threw me out, Ngozi whispered.
Chaik! Ngozi nodded slowly, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. He said I’m a curse. He said I’m the reason we don’t have children.
Amaka hissed and sat beside her. That man has no fear of God. After all these years? He didn’t even check himself? Ngozi, you have suffered.
Ngozi rested her head on Amaka’s shoulder. I don’t even know where to start. I left with just this bag.
All my things are still in that house. Amaka touched her arm gently. Don’t worry.
You will sleep here tonight. You can stay as long as you need. I don’t have much, but this house is your house now.
Ngozi closed her eyes and let out a long sigh. Thank you, Amaka. The room was silent for a few seconds.
Then Amaka stood up. Come, let me boil water. You’ll take a hot bath and eat something.
Tomorrow, we’ll talk about what next. Ngozi sat there as Amaka walked away, her eyes staring at the floor. Her heart felt like it had cracked into many pieces.
That night, she couldn’t sleep. Even though the bed was soft and the room was quiet, her mind kept going back to the moment Chaik told her to leave. She remembered how he turned his face away, how he looked at her like a stranger.
By morning, her pillow was soaked with tears. Days passed. Ngozi stayed in Amaka’s house, trying to hide her sadness.
But she couldn’t eat much. She barely spoke. She would sit near the window, staring outside as if waiting for something to change.
Amaka tried everything to cheer her up. One morning, she said, Ngozi, come with me to the market. Let’s walk around, breathe some fresh air.
But Ngozi shook her head. I don’t want people to see me. What if someone asks about Chaik? What will I say? You’ll say the truth, Amaka replied.
That is a fool who threw away a diamond because he wanted a stone. Ngozi gave a small smile, but it didn’t last. Later that week, Amaka brought up something important.
Ngozi, have you ever gone for a proper medical checkup? Ngozi looked at her, confused. What kind of checkup? A fertility test. Have you ever tested yourself to be sure the problem wasn’t from you? Ngozi shook her head slowly.
Chaik said it was me. He never agreed to go for tests himself. He said he was fine.
Amaka frowned. So you just believed him? I didn’t have a choice, Ngozi said, her voice weak. He wouldn’t listen.
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