If you haven’t read the first part of this story, here’s the link. Kindly read it before starting this one.
I shared my story about my husband not showing up for my parents’ funeral, and you called on him to come and share his side. There may be a part to his story, but it does not erase mine. It does not erase the silence, the absence, and the times he chose not to show up when it mattered most. Whatever he has to say cannot carry the weight of what I lived through. You asked me to share the full story, here you go.
My husband got to know me through a friend. We started talking in 2015, then stopped, and picked up again somewhere in the middle of 2016. From the moment we started again, the red flags were there, clear as daylight. But I wanted a Christian man, and he was an elder in a Pentecostal church. That was enough for me to stay.
He began asking me for money. Sometimes his behaviour made it obvious he was speaking to other women, but I still stayed. I borrowed from friends. I took loans. I carried things I should not have carried for a man who was supposed to be leading me.
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When we decided to marry, he told me he had nothing to contribute because he was paying off a car loan. I accepted it. “Don’t worry, just focus on God” I told him that, and I took on everything. The traditional marriage, the court registration, the white wedding. All of it. I paid for it with my money. He fixed the wedding date himself after counseling.
He was the one who fixed the wedding date so imagine my shock when he called just before the wedding, and told me he would like to cancel. On that call, even though he could not see me, my knees hit the ground and I cried. I begged him. Not even for love, but because of the money I had already invested into the relationship. It could not go down the drain like that.
As if on the wedding day, God was giving me another sign to stop, but I went on with it. During the engagement, his family showed up late because, according to them, they did not have transport, so he had to borrow someone’s car to go and pick them from Nzema to Shama himself. Then, I had an issue with my gown; it was only God who saved my white gown. Stew oil almost poured on it, but my maid of honour stepped in just in time.
After the ceremony, when I wanted to finally have my husband to myself, his family was waiting for him to send them home with the borrowed car because they still had no money. I ended up giving them transport fare so everyone could leave in peace.
When all was said and done, he didn’t follow me to thank my family or my church. He had only paid half of my dowry, and delayed payment of the rest. The remaining part, he sent in anger, saying, “Go and ask how much other brides cost. It is not this expensive. How much did they even spend on you?” I saw all this but I still believed my marriage would work.
I asked him if he truly did not know the kind of woman I am. He didn’t respond and went on comparing me to someone with less education, as if my worth was a burden to him.
There was no chop money. No care. Visiting him every week became my responsibility. We were in a distance marriage from the beginning, so I traveled constantly from Half Assini to Axim, never missing a weekend because I believed that was what a wife should do. I did it with so much strength, you would think I was being paid for it. He was living with his nephew at the time. The boy was misbehaving, and when I spoke up, my husband told him I came to meet him, so I should leave if I was not comfortable.
He treated me with cruelty. He saw me as a man, not a wife. Everything that went wrong was my fault. He was always right. I was called evil, a monster, demonic, a prostitute. My past was dragged into every argument until it became the only thing that defined me in that marriage.
One year in, there was no peace. No joy. Only stress.
He was a ministerial candidate in the church. When he failed his first interview, he blamed me. Everything circled back to me. Always me.
By the third year in the marriage, I was diagnosed with fibroids. He blamed me for that too, but I did not even have the strength to argue anymore. I went ahead with the surgery, and it was successful.
After an HSG test, he complained again and again, saying, “There is always something wrong with you. You cannot even get pregnant.” People were already saying so many things, that I could not get pregnant. Instead of standing with me and praying, he took a transfer and left me for Tema at the very moment I needed him most.
My parents tried for me. They invited him several times. He never came. My mother’s family also called him, fixed dates, waited for him, but he would not show up. Each time, he chose silence or arrogance. I have suffered in this marriage in ways words cannot fully carry. He took me for granted from the very beginning.
Reading people’s comments hurts sometimes, because what I have endured is not something you explain in a few sentences. Only God has held me together.
I did not come from nothing. My father was an education officer. My mother was a teacher. I was raised in a home that had dignity. But from the beginning, he was jealous of me. He made it seem like I forced myself into his life, like I was the one begging to be chosen.
It has been disgrace upon disgrace.
The church knew what I was going through, but they hid behind doctrine.
Even when my parents were ill, they kept asking me if my husband had called. In my mother’s final days, she asked me to send back the bride price, the Bible, and the ring because we had called him and his family over and over, and they only gave excuses.
Contents
What Nobody Tells You About Divorce
I sent everything through someone. Three days later, his father and mother returned the items, saying they would not accept them. That one is their problem.
So even if his apostle speaks, whatever he says will not move me. I have my freedom now, and I intend to use it to my fullest potential.
—Jacintha
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