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Gaya

My husband offered me ₦50 million to leave our marriage. Not because I cheated. Not because I stopped loving him. Not even because we had one of those terrible marriages where two people wake up one morning and realise they've become strangers.

No, my husband wants to marry my best friend. The same best friend I begged to help us have a child. And before you ask, yes, I know how ridiculous that sounds. Sometimes, when I say it out loud, I almost want to laugh.

He made the offer last Sunday, after church. We had just returned from a service where he had stood in front of the congregation, Bible in hand, reminding everyone about the importance of keeping their promises, especially promises made to God. Were our vows not a promise to God? Did we not promise to be together in sickness and in health? To death do us part? All of a sudden, none of that matters anymore.

By the way, my husband is a deacon. Yes, a very respected one. When we got home that day, he sat me down in our living room and explained that he wanted us to separate peacefully. “Separate peacefully." What did that even mean? "You're a good woman," he said. "I don't want us to become enemies."

Enemies? I looked at him, waiting for the rest of the joke, but he went further and then mentioned the money. He said it would be enough for me to buy a house, start a business, travel, and do whatever I wanted. "You can even adopt children like you always talked about," he added. And that was when I knew the man sitting across from me was no longer the boy who had once held my hands and promised that nothing would ever separate us.

I met my husband when we were teenagers. I was the Yoruba girl who talked too much, and he was the Igbo boy who always seemed to have an answer for everything. We always had this unexplainable connection between us, and of course, we became friends. But as if we couldn’t get enough of each other, we soon started dating.&nbsp;

Our classmates used to tease us then about getting married, and we'd laugh because, in our minds, that was exactly what we hoped would happen. We had already planned everything. We'd finish secondary school, go to university, complete NYSC, find good jobs and get married. I had no doubt that we had true love between us.&nbsp;

You know those silly conversations young couples have when they believe love is enough to solve every problem? Oh, we had lots of them. From the number of children we’ll have to the names we’d give them to where they would spend their Christmas holidays. So when time came for us to leave for the university, we were overjoyed; it felt like we were getting closer to our lifelong dream of building a family together.

We had planned to attend the same school, but things didn’t quite work out that way. I ended up in a school far west, and he applied to a school in the far east. The news was devastating for both of us at first, but we consoled ourselves with the fact that being away from each other would help us concentrate more on our studies and graduate with top grades so we could eventually get great jobs that would help us provide well for our future family.

But before we finally left, I became a bit worried about what would happen when we were apart. What if he met another girl? What if I met someone else? What if distance changed everything between us? I didn’t want that to happen; we had invested so much between us, and I didn’t want to give any part of that up. So I suggested that we get intimate. He was very taken aback at first but later came to see reason with me. Looking back now, I realise how incredibly foolish that decision was, because what was supposed to be a simple deed to seal our love became a cross that neither of us could carry.

The deed was done, and we were both happy and satisfied with ourselves, but as if God was grossly unhappy with what we had done and perhaps sought to punish us, I discovered that I was pregnant shortly after. I remember staring at the test result and back at the doctor in disbelief. I’m sure he too must have realised how bad the situation was for me because all I could see were pity and questions in his eyes. It felt as though my entire future had disappeared.

What would happen to me? What would happen to us and the future we had planned? We were just teenagers. We had no money. For God’s sake, we just got into the university. And our parents? God forbid! They could never hear of this; they would kill us. So I suggested an abortion. 

I didn’t know what else to do. I had heard of girls who did it and survived; many even went on to marry good men and birth beautiful children, so surely I wasn’t doomed. Surely, I would be part of that exception, so we both decided that I should terminate the pregnancy. I need you to understand that part. We decided together. He didn't force me, and I didn't force him. We were both frightened, but we both believed it was the only way to protect the future we had imagined.

But as though the gates of hell were destined to prevail against me, I developed a serious infection following the procedure. I didn’t realise it on time, and by the time I received the medical care I needed, the damage was already so severe.&nbsp; Months later, after several hospital visits and tests, the doctor explained that the complications had badly damaged my reproductive organs and my chances of carrying a pregnancy were now extremely poor.

I cried. I cried till there were no tears in my eyes left to cry. I was finished. I was doomed. What good was a woman without a child? Even worse still, what good was a woman who couldn’t even birth one? I was beyond devastated. I really wanted children, and I knew I would make a great mother. I didn't deserve what was happening to me.&nbsp;

My boyfriend held me while I cried. He told me we were young, that we had made a mistake, and that we would still find a way to build a family. "We'll adopt," he said. "There are children who need homes. We'll give them one." I asked him if he was sure, and for a second, he looked offended. "Do you think I'm with you only because of children? You're the person I want to marry, Tinu."

To his credit, my husband didn't abandon me, at least not at first. We went to university. We survived long-distance dating, examinations, family drama and all the other things that usually finish young relationships. He graduated, completed NYSC and eventually secured a well-paying job at a consulting firm. Not long after, I finished school too and was already rounding up with my service when he kept his first promise and came to my parents' house to ask for my hand in marriage.

Our wedding was beautiful. My mother cried. His father danced until he was sweating through his agbada. Our friends kept talking about how rare it was for secondary school sweethearts to actually get married. We were the talk of town, but yet nobody knew our secret. Not my parents. Not his parents. Not even my best friend. As far as everyone was concerned, we were simply two young people who had loved each other long enough to make it official.

The first year of our marriage was wonderful. We travelled, we furnished our home, and we built routines together. I was not a morning person, but my husband was, and he never made me feel somehow about it. He would get up earlier and make breakfast before getting ready for work. Sometimes, we'd lie in bed talking about adoption agencies and the kind of parents we wanted to become. He even joked that he'd be the soft parent while I'd be the strict one, and then I would pout and playfully warn him not to spoil our children. I was living in paradise; marriage was going better than I even anticipated. I had no reason to doubt him until his mother started asking questions.

My Mother-in-Law Wanted Her Own Grandchildren.

At first, it was harmless, typical mother-in-law banter, like, "When are you people giving me grandchildren?" Then it became: "All your mates are already carrying babies." Then: "Are you sure everything is okay with you?"

By our third year of marriage, she had stopped pretending to be subtle. Whenever we visited, she'd bring up somebody's daughter-in-law who had recently given birth. She would even send me messages about fertility treatments and prayer programmes for women looking for the fruit of the womb. One time, during a family gathering, she pulled me aside and asked whether I was deliberately refusing to give her son children, going on and on about how neither I nor my husband was getting younger by the day, so we needed to “start making the babies in our youth now”.

I told my husband. He got upset and promised to speak to her. And for a while, things improved. There was no more bickering or snarky comments. Then we brought up adoption.&nbsp; You would have thought we'd announced plans to sell her family house. My mother-in-law refused to hear us out; it was as though she despised the word 'adoption'. We tried explaining to her that there were children who needed loving homes. She looked at me, then at her son. "So after everything our family has done, you want to bring another man's child into this house?"

I was taken aback by her statement, and so was my husband. He tried to reason with her, but she wasn't interested. She said she wanted grandchildren who carried her son's blood. She wanted to see his face in their faces. And then she said something I'll never forget: "I warned you about marrying outside our people. Now look at what has happened."

Oh yes, my mother-in-law shrieked when she first discovered that I was Yoruba, but my husband asked her to give me a chance, and I can say I spent a good part of our courting season convincing her that I’d make a good wife for her son.&nbsp;

My husband immediately told her to stop. But she continued. She accused me of bringing bad luck into the family. At one point, she even suggested that perhaps my people had done something spiritually to prevent me from having children.

I felt a sharp pain in my chest at that instant; it felt like my insides were turning. Almost immediately, my husband took my hand and led us both out the door. He appealed to me not to take anything she said to heart, that she was just being emotional. I didn’t know when the tears started dropping, and I ended up crying all the way home.

When we got home, my husband kept apologising on her behalf. He held me that night and reminded me that we didn't need anybody's permission to adopt. At least, that was what he said then.

When the time came for us to adopt, my husband stalled. He kept stalling, and he wouldn’t tell me why. One day, I had had enough of his stalling and pressed him to tell me what was going on. He said it was nothing at first, but eventually, he opened up. He told me he'd finally explained our history to his mother. Everything. The pregnancy. Our decision. The medical complication.

I was speechless. I couldn’t understand why he would do that. For years, we had agreed that our past was something we would share only when we were both ready. And now, he had gone to tell the one person who already believed I was the problem. "She's my mother," he said. "I needed somebody to talk to."

I asked him what her response was; he hesitated. Then he told me she'd cried and asked why I had encouraged him to become intimate with me before marriage. Apparently, according to her, I had led her innocent son into trouble. I reminded him that he'd agreed to everything. "I know," he said. But his mother didn't seem to know. Or perhaps she simply didn't care.

Then he went on to tell me how she said that he was too young to spend his life without biological children. That he had made promises as a boy without understanding what they would cost him as a man and that he was denying her the grandchildren she deserved. And slowly, my husband began repeating her words. "Don't you ever wonder what it would feel like to have a child that's actually ours?" he asked one evening. I stared at him. Was my world crumbling before my very eyes?

Bringing My Best Friend Into Our Marriage Was My Idea.

I wish I could tell you that I saw everything coming. That I noticed the warning signs, packed my bags and left before things got worse. But I loved my husband. And more than anything, I wanted to save our marriage.

We started exploring fertility treatment and gestational surrogacy because my ability to carry a pregnancy had been affected. Our doctors discussed the possibility of creating embryos through IVF and transferring them to someone who could carry the pregnancy. We went through assessments, consultations and treatment. But it was expensive and emotionally exhausting too. Several attempts were unsuccessful. Every time we received disappointing news, my husband became quieter. And every time his mother called, I wondered whether she was telling him he needed a second wife.

The days were counting and the pressure was mounting, and then I remembered Esther, my best friend. We had always been close, like sisters. She knew things about me that my own family didn’t know, so I thought to mention to her what I was going through with the whole ‘finding a surrogate’ thing. She had stood beside me on my wedding day, and she knew how desperately we wanted children, although she didn't know the full history of why it had been so difficult.

When I asked whether she'd consider helping us carry a child, she cried. She hugged me and said she'd do anything to see me happy. We discussed the arrangement extensively and sought medical advice, but the process was more complicated than any of us had imagined, and eventually, our attempts didn't even work.

My husband became fully frustrated this time. But could you blame him? So much money and effort had already gone into this. He said he was tired of hospitals, appointments and waiting. But we had to find a solution. I didn’t want to lose my home, and I didn’t want my mother-in-law to win. So I made the suggestion that changed everything.

What if he and my friend conceived a child together? My husband stared at me, eyes wide. “Are you sure?” I wasn't, but what other option was there? Yes, I detested the idea so much, but what else was I supposed to do? My marriage was on the line here. “Yes. I trust her, and I trust you.” I said, even though my heart was unsure.

Then he hugged me. It was a different kind of hug. It felt like relief on his end, as if he had been&nbsp; waiting for the opportunity all these years. But I tried not to dwell on the thought too much. My friend assured me that nothing would change between us. She said she was more than happy to help me build the family I had always talked about. She said she was doing it for me. For us.

I spent weeks thinking about it. I cried and I prayed. There were conversations about responsibilities, expectations and what would happen after the baby arrived. Looking back, I wish we'd understood how much could go wrong, especially when a child and the people involved have rights and feelings that cannot simply be signed away. But at the time, I trusted them. I trusted my husband. And I trusted my best friend. God, I trusted them.

When Esther became pregnant, I was genuinely happy. My husband was over the moon. I bought baby clothes (his &amp; hers) before we even knew the baby's sex. I started planning the nursery. I saved pictures of baby beds and tiny shoes on my phone. I wanted it all to be perfect for my baby. For our baby.

For the first time in years, I allowed myself to imagine holding a child in my arms. I became super excited, but not too long after, my husband started making some funny moves. First, he insisted my friend move into our home so we could look after her properly. I agreed. Why wouldn't I? She was carrying the baby we hoped to raise.

But once she moved in, things began to change. My husband started coming home with her favourite meals. He remembered her cravings, her appointments, and her complaints about back pain. If she wanted something, he made sure she got it. And somehow, I became the person responsible for making sure she was comfortable. "Can you help her with that?" "Please don't stress her." "She needs to rest."

I understood that pregnancy could be difficult, and of course, I wanted my friend to be comfortable. But I was beginning to feel like a guest in my own home. Sometimes, I'd walk into the living room and find them laughing about something. The moment I joined them, the conversation would change. They discovered they liked the same films. The same music. The same football club. Apparently, they had plenty to talk about.

One evening, I came home to find them watching a movie together. My husband had ordered food for two. The last time I checked, there were three of us that lived in the house. When I asked why he hadn't ordered anything for me, he said he didn't know when I'd be home. In my own house. What happened to buying it anyway, and then I’d microwave it when I got back? I confronted him later that night. He accused me of being jealous. "She's carrying our child," he said. "What exactly do you want me to do? Ignore her?"

I tried explaining that I wasn't asking him to ignore her. I just wanted him to remember that I was his wife. Instead of reassuring me, he told me that I was overthinking things. Esther said the same thing when I mentioned it to her the next day. And somehow I believed both of them. Perhaps I was truly overreacting; after all, Esther was pregnant, she was probably going through a lot, and I had to give more grace.&nbsp;

I remember how she held my hands one afternoon and told me how excited she was for the baby to arrive. "You're going to be such a good mother," she said. And I believed her.

The baby was beautiful. A little boy. I remember looking at him and thinking about all the years we'd waited for that moment. I cried when I first held him. My husband cried too. We were elated. Even Esther was happy, though exhausted. For a brief moment, I thought everything we'd been through had finally been worth it. Then we brought the baby home.

Esther didn’t leave immediately. We thought it wise to allow her to breastfeed the baby and, you know, care for him a little while longer, especially because of the nutrients he needed to get from the breast milk, which I couldn’t provide at the time. Although when the time came for her to finally leave, she began saying she wasn't ready to be separated from him.

And I understood, at first. She had carried him for nine months. Of course she had formed a bond with him. I suggested we take things slowly and speak with the professionals who had advised us. But my husband became defensive whenever I brought up our original plans. "Why are you rushing her?" he asked. “A mother’s bond with her child is usually very strong right after birth. You wouldn’t know this, of course; give her some more time and stop rushing her.”

I wasn't rushing anybody. I just wanted to understand what was happening; after all, we had an agreement, but again, I took a step back from talking about it. But then I started noticing something: Esther stopped talking about the baby as someone she was helping us raise. She started talking about him as her son.&nbsp;

I wasn’t particularly happy about it, but I guess this was the bond my husband spoke of between a mother and her child, but it became a regular thing, and my husband wasn’t correcting her on it, even in moments where I pointed it out. Then one evening, he told me we needed to talk. You know how people say those four words and your stomach immediately knows something terrible is coming? That was exactly how I felt.

He told me he had developed feelings for Esther. He swore that it wasn't planned but that spending so much time together had made him realise they had a connection. He said he wanted to marry her and have more children with her. For a few seconds, I forgot how to breathe. I asked him to repeat himself, because surely I hadn't heard correctly.

This was my husband. The man who had promised to stand by me when we were teenagers. The man who had held my hands in a hospital room and told me children wouldn't determine whether we stayed together. The man who had married me, knowing everything. And now he was telling me he wanted to marry my best friend. I asked about our marriage. He said he didn't want to hurt me. I asked about all the promises he'd made. He said people change. Do people change just like that?

Apparently, I'm Supposed to Be a Rich Single Mother.

I begged him. I cried, and I held onto his shirt. I begged him not to ruin me, not to ruin us. I reminded him of everything we'd survived. I reminded him that we had made our decisions together. I reminded him that involving my friend had been about building our family, not replacing me. He said he had spent years trying to make our marriage work. That he'd sacrificed the chance to have biological children because of a decision we'd made when we were young.

A decision we made. But somehow, it had become my decision alone. He said his mother was right about one thing: he deserved to experience fatherhood without complications. I asked whether he understood how cruel he sounded. He said he was only being honest, and then he made the offer: fifty million naira.

He said I could have a comfortable life. That I was still young enough to start again and that I could adopt as many children as I wanted. "You could be a rich single mother," he said. “It would look good on you,” as though he were offering me some wonderful, once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. I asked him what Esther had to say about all this. He said she wanted us to handle things peacefully. Peacefully? After everything?

I haven't spoken to her since then. I don't even know what I'd say. What do you say to someone who stood beside you on your wedding day, promised to help you become a mother and then decided she'd rather become your husband's wife?

Since then, I’ve been hanging around. Hoping that he would change his mind. I have begged and cried. I even reminded him of our history, but nothing has worked. His mother is delighted, of course. From what I've heard, she's already discussing how the family will welcome her new daughter-in-law.

Imagine spending years trying to prove that you're good enough for a family, only to discover they were simply waiting for someone else to take your place. But I've stopped begging now, and I wish them the best. Oh yes, I do. Infact, I pray that they are able to survive what’s coming to them.

My husband thinks I'm still considering his offer. He thinks the money will convince me to leave quietly, move somewhere else and allow him to continue living as the respectable man everyone believes he is. Oh, but he has forgotten something: our church doesn't know our history. They don't know about the pregnancy when we were teenagers. They don't know that we made that decision together. They don't know what he promised me afterwards. They don't know how my best friend became involved in our marriage. And they certainly don't know how their beloved deacon decided to replace his wife with the woman who helped them have a child.

Every Sunday, people greet him with bowed heads. They ask him to pray for their marriages. They invite him to counsel young couples. He advises couples to own their crosses and move together in love and hope in God, no matter the circumstances. Ironic, isn’t it?

So yes, I've decided to take the money. I'll be speaking to a lawyer soon, and I'll make sure the settlement is properly documented and that I understand my rights. But I'm not disappearing. I've spent years protecting his reputation while he allowed people to believe I was the only reason we couldn't have children, like he didn’t partake in all that transpired prior to all this. Like he didn’t ruin my life!

I protected our secret because I thought it belonged to both of us. Apparently, I was the only one who still believed that. Now, I'm going to tell the truth. I'm going to tell them everything; what happened when we were young, what we promised each other and how he brought another woman into our marriage. And I'm going to tell them exactly who that woman is.

He can keep his new family. He can keep his mother's approval. He can even keep standing at the front of the church with his Bible, but he doesn't get to decide that I must remain silent so he can look innocent. So he’ll get the satisfaction of playing the victim when people start asking for my whereabouts and he tells them that I was simply no longer interested in the marriage and chose to walk away.

I have already picked out what I'm wearing to church next Sunday. It’s a beautiful black sequin dress. The kind of dress you wear when you want people to remember seeing you. I have already appealed to my husband to take the pulpit, as I’d like to share a word with the congregation, and he has agreed. He believes it’ll help the moving-on process be smoother for me.

He has absolutely no idea what is coming for him.

My husband promised we'd build a family together, even if we couldn't have children. Now he has a child with my best friend, wants to marry her, and thinks money will make me disappear.

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