Chapter three
That was how I continued, slowly and quietly using what I had—my son, my money, my position—to place myself above her. I didn’t shout, I didn’t insult her directly, but my actions spoke louder than words. Everything I did carried a message, and deep down, I knew she could see it.
I moved with a certain confidence in the house, a silent pride that came from what I believed I had over her. I had Lamin, my son. I had financial strength from my work. I had experience in the home. To me, those things meant power. And without saying it openly, I began to use them in ways that made the difference between us clear.
Ammie, on the other hand, remained the same—calm, respectful, and quiet. She never argued with me, never tried to challenge me, and never reacted to the subtle things I did. Sometimes I would even wait for a reaction, just to confirm that she felt what I was doing. But she gave me nothing. No anger, no competition, nothing.
And somehow, that silence made me push even further.
Then one day, everything shifted again.
Ammie got pregnant.
When I first heard the news, I didn’t know how to feel. It was expected, of course, but still, it brought a new kind of tension into my heart. I watched her closely during those months, noticing how my husband paid attention to her, how the house adjusted around her condition. It reminded me of when I was pregnant with Lamin, and for a moment, I felt something close to discomfort.
But I quickly buried that feeling and held on to my belief—I still had the advantage.
Months later, she gave birth.
It was a big day in the house. There was joy, celebration, and a different kind of energy that filled the air. My husband was happy in his quiet way, and even people around us shared in that moment. When I heard the news, I prepared myself for whatever I was about to face emotionally.
But then I found out—she gave birth to twins.
For a brief moment, I was surprised. Twins. It was something special, something that naturally draws attention and excitement. But when I heard that they were both girls, something inside me settled again.
In my mind, I had already decided what that meant.
I told myself, I still have the son.
That thought alone gave me a sense of victory, one I didn’t even try to hide from within myself. No matter how special her moment was, no matter how joyful that day felt for her, I believed I still stood above her. Because in my understanding, having a male child carried a different weight.
And so, I continued.
I carried myself in a way that made it clear, even without words. I showed it in how I spoke, how I acted, and how I positioned myself in the home. To me, I was still the superior one. The first wife. The mother of the heir.
And just like before, Ammie never objected.
She didn’t challenge me. She didn’t confront me. She simply accepted everything quietly, focusing on her children and her own space. At times, I wondered if she truly didn’t care, or if she just chose silence over conflict.
But I didn’t think too deeply about it then.
Because in my mind, I was winning.
What I didn’t realize was that sometimes, the person who looks like they are losing is simply waiting… and life has its own way of balancing things in ways no one expects.
As time went on, Lamin grew older and moved fully into secondary school. I remember the day I took him there, how proud I felt watching him step into that environment—confident, well-dressed, and carrying himself in a way that reflected everything I had invested in him. In my mind, he was the proof that I had done something right. He was my pride, my strength, and, in many ways, my silent victory.
But life has a way of humbling you when you least expect it.
At first, the changes were small. So small that I didn’t take them seriously. Lamin would come home and act a little differently—less talkative, more withdrawn at times, and sometimes overly excited in a way that didn’t feel natural. I told myself it was just a phase. After all, he was growing up. Teenagers change, I thought. It was normal.
But then, slowly, things became clearer.
He started keeping new friends—friends I didn’t know, friends he didn’t want to talk about. When I asked questions, he would either avoid them or give me answers that didn’t feel complete. That was when I began to worry. A mother knows when something is not right, even before she has proof.
Not long after, I started hearing things.
Little reports here and there. Complaints from school. Subtle warnings from people who had seen him outside. At first, I refused to believe it. My Lamin? The same boy I had raised, the same boy I had invested everything in? It didn’t make sense to me.
But the truth eventually became impossible to ignore.
Lamin had fallen into bad company.
He started picking up habits I never imagined for him. Drugs. Girls. A lifestyle that was completely opposite to everything I thought I had built around him. It felt like watching something precious slip through my fingers, no matter how tightly I tried to hold on.
I tried everything I could.
I spoke to him, sometimes calmly, sometimes with frustration. I tried to remind him of who he was, of where he came from, of the future I had always talked about. I tried to discipline him, to guide him, to correct him. At times, I even blamed the school, the environment, the friends—anything that could explain what was happening.
But nothing seemed to work.
The more I tried, the more distant he became. It was like he was slowly becoming someone I didn’t recognize. The boy who once looked at me with love and dependence was now looking at me with resistance and indifference.
That broke me in ways I cannot fully explain.
I began to feel helpless. All the effort, all the sacrifices, all the pride I once carried—it suddenly felt like it was collapsing right in front of me. I started questioning myself, my decisions, my parenting. Where did I go wrong? What did I miss?
And in the quiet moments, when I had no one to talk to, a painful thought would come to my mind.
Was this the result of everything I had done?
All the times I wasn’t there. All the times I chose work over him. All the moments I believed money and comfort could replace presence and guidance. Was this where it had led me?
I had tried my best to fix him.
But the truth was, I couldn’t.
And for the first time in a long time, I felt like I was losing something I didn’t know how to get back.
It was around that time that something inside me began to break. All the confidence I used to carry, all the silent pride I held onto for years, started to fade. I became more humble, but not in a peaceful way—more in a painful, forced way. Life had humbled me, and I could feel it deeply. For the first time, I began to pity myself.
I would sit alone sometimes and think about everything that had happened—my choices, my attitude, the way I treated my home, and especially the way I treated Ammie. All the things I once used to feel superior suddenly didn’t feel so strong anymore. My son, the same Lamin I had used as a symbol of my “advantage,” was now the source of my deepest worry and pain.
And that was when things between me and my co-wife began to change.
At first, it was small. Little comments here and there. Nothing too direct, but enough to sting. Ammie, who had always been quiet and respectful, started speaking in ways that carried hidden meanings. She would say things that sounded normal on the surface, but I could feel the message behind them.
Sometimes she would make comments about parenting, about raising children properly, about discipline. She never mentioned my name directly, but I knew she was talking about me. I could feel it. And because of what I was going through with Lamin, her words cut deeper than they normally would have.
Those small comments slowly turned into minor arguments.
We began to clash over little things—household matters, responsibilities, even things that didn’t really matter. It was no longer the quiet, peaceful coexistence we once had. There was tension now, and it was growing. I could feel it in the way we looked at each other, in the tone of our voices, in the silence that followed our conversations.
There were moments she openly shamed me, especially when it came to Lamin.
She would make remarks about how children reflect the home they are raised in, how a mother’s presence matters, how discipline should never be compromised. And even if she didn’t say my name, it felt like she was pointing directly at me. Each word felt like a reminder of my failures, things I was already struggling with inside.
Sometimes I tried to respond, to defend myself, but it often led to more arguments. Other times, I stayed quiet, not because I had nothing to say, but because deep down, I knew there was truth in some of what she was saying. And that truth made it harder to fight back.
The house that once felt calm was now filled with small, constant tension.
And through all of this, my husband remained the same.
Nonchalant. Quiet. Distant.
He didn’t involve himself in our disagreements. Even when arguments happened in his presence, he would either ignore them or walk away like it didn’t concern him. At first, it frustrated me. I wanted him to step in, to say something, to at least try to restore order. But he didn’t.
It was like he had removed himself emotionally from that part of the home.
No matter what happened between me and Ammie, he stayed neutral, almost indifferent. And somehow, that made everything feel even heavier. It felt like we were left to handle our issues alone, without guidance, without support.
And in those moments, I began to realize something painful.
The home I once tried to control, the position I once fought to protect, had slowly turned into a place where I no longer felt secure. Where every small argument reminded me of my struggles, my regrets, and the consequences of my past actions.
I was no longer the confident woman I used to be.
Life had changed me.
And I was only beginning to understand how deep those changes would go.
As time continued to pass, things with Lamin became even more difficult, to the point where I could no longer recognize the boy I once knew. The changes that started quietly had now become something serious, something I could not ignore or manage with simple advice or discipline anymore.
His academic focus completely dropped. The same boy I once proudly enrolled in one of the best schools in Abuja was now struggling to concentrate on anything meaningful. His teachers would send complaints more frequently, and his performance began to decline sharply. It was painful for me to hear because I remembered how much hope I had placed in him, how I used to see him as my greatest achievement.
But school was no longer his priority.
He had become deeply involved in a lifestyle I feared from the beginning. Drugs, bad company, and constant association with girls who were not helping his direction in life. It felt like every attempt I made to pull him back was met with resistance. The more I tried to correct him, the further he drifted away.
At home, things became even more worrying.
Lamin started stealing money—first small amounts, then larger ones. At first, I couldn’t believe it. I would notice missing cash and try to convince myself I was mistaken. But it kept happening. From my purse, from my room, even from his father. Nothing seemed safe anymore.
The betrayal hurt me deeply. Not just because of the money, but because it came from my own son. The child I carried for nine months, the child I sacrificed so much for, was now stealing from me. It felt like something inside me was breaking every time I discovered it.
His father tried in his own way to control him, but even that was no longer effective. Lamin no longer listened to authority. He would argue, walk out, or simply ignore instructions. It was like he was living in a different world, one that neither of us could reach anymore. The calmness that once existed in the house had been replaced with constant worry and frustration.
Things were getting worse by the day.
There were nights I would sit alone, unable to sleep, thinking about what had gone wrong. I replayed everything in my mind—his childhood, my absence due to work, the decisions I made, the moments I missed. I kept asking myself if I could have prevented this if I had been more present, more attentive, more involved.
But regret alone could not fix what was happening.
At some point, I realized I needed to take a serious step. Something beyond arguments, beyond discipline, beyond hope that things would change on their own. I could no longer handle it alone, and pretending otherwise was only making things worse.
After much thought and emotional struggle, I made a difficult decision.
I decided to take Lamin to a rehabilitation center.
It was not an easy choice. As a mother, it felt painful to admit that my child needed that level of intervention. It felt like failure in many ways. But at the same time, I knew I had reached the limit of what I could do by myself.
He needed help beyond me. Professional help. Structured help. A place where he could be guided back before things became completely irreversible.
When I finally made the decision, I felt a mix of emotions—fear, sadness, guilt, and a small sense of hope. Hope that maybe, just maybe, this step could bring my son back to me.
But deep down, I also knew that nothing about this journey was going to be easy anymore.