Chapter four
Now that everything had fallen apart with Lamin, I began to feel like I had lost the very thing I once held onto with pride. The same son I used to see as my strength, my advantage, my reason to feel superior… was no longer that. Instead, he had become a source of pain, worry, and constant shame in my life.
And that was when things between me and my co-wife took a completely different turn.
Ammie had already given birth to her two daughters, and they were growing well—healthy, calm, and well-behaved children. She was always around them, always present, always attentive. The same way she had quietly filled the gaps in the house before, she was now fully settled in her role as a mother.
But this time, it felt different.
She was no longer just minding her business quietly.
She was now… all over me.
Not physically, but in presence, in words, in attitude. It was like she had found her voice, and she was no longer holding back. The same woman who once remained silent when I tried to show superiority was now the one subtly reminding me of my situation.
Her words became sharper.
She would make comments about raising children properly, about the importance of a mother’s presence, about discipline and responsibility. And this time, it didn’t feel hidden anymore. It felt direct. Personal. Like she was speaking to me without needing to mention my name.
Sometimes, she would talk about how peaceful her daughters were, how easy it was to manage them, how they listened and respected her. And even if she said it casually, I could feel the comparison.
It was no longer subtle.
And I couldn’t even defend myself the way I used to.
Because the truth was right in front of me.
My son was no longer the example I once used to stand tall. He was in rehab, struggling with himself, while her children were right there in the house, growing well under her care. The same position I once used to place myself above her had now been taken away from me.
And that reality was painful.
We started having more arguments, more direct ones this time. Words were exchanged, emotions were no longer hidden, and the peace we once maintained completely disappeared. Every small issue became something bigger. Every conversation felt like it carried weight.
And through it all, my husband remained the same.
He didn’t interfere.
He didn’t try to correct anything.
He didn’t even seem concerned.
It was like everything happening between us was invisible to him. Whether we argued, kept quiet, or avoided each other, he stayed in his own space, completely detached. That nonchalant attitude of his, the one I once tolerated, now felt like abandonment.
I began to feel alone in my own home.
Truly alone.
The house that once felt like a place of comfort had turned into something else entirely. A place filled with tension, comparison, regret, and emotional distance. Nothing felt the same anymore.
And as I sat with myself in those quiet moments, I couldn’t help but feel it clearly—
My life had taken a turn I never imagined.
Everything I once believed I had under control… was gone.
Life truly humbled me in ways I never imagined. The same confidence I once carried had completely faded, replaced by a quiet pain and constant reflection. I found myself holding onto the only thing I felt I still had—my son. Even with everything he had become, even with all the struggles, he was still my only male child, and that thought alone kept me going.
At some point, I had no choice but to turn fully to God. I began to pray more than I ever had in my life. In the quiet of the night, when everyone was asleep and my thoughts refused to rest, I would sit and pour my heart out in prayer. I asked for forgiveness, for guidance, for healing—for my son, for my home, and for myself. It was no longer about pride or position anymore. It was about survival, about finding peace in a situation that had completely overwhelmed me.
But even with prayers, it was not easy.
The situation at home did not improve. If anything, it became heavier. The tension between me and Ammie continued, sometimes quiet, sometimes loud. There were insults, direct and indirect, moments where words were thrown in ways that left deep marks in my heart. I tried to control myself, to avoid unnecessary arguments, but it was difficult. Living in the same space with someone who constantly reminded you of your struggles was not something you could easily ignore.
Days turned into months, and months into years.
It felt like I was stuck in a cycle I could not escape. Every day came with its own weight, its own emotional burden. I kept hoping things would get better, that something would change, that my prayers would bring a turnaround. But life does not always move at the pace we expect.
Then, after some time, Lamin finally returned from rehab.
I remember the day clearly. I was filled with hope again, even if it was small. I told myself that this was a new beginning, that maybe everything he had gone through there would help him find his way back. I welcomed him with open arms, ready to start fresh, ready to support him in any way I could.
But that hope didn’t last long.
Slowly, I began to see the same patterns again. The same lack of focus, the same restlessness, the same behavior that had taken him down that path in the first place. At first, I tried to ignore it, telling myself he just needed time to adjust. But deep down, I already knew.
Nothing had truly changed.
The stealing started again. The same habits, the same struggles. It was like everything we had tried to fix had only paused, not ended. Watching it happen all over again broke something inside me. It felt like going through the same pain twice, but this time, with less strength to endure it.
I tried again. I spoke to him, pleaded with him, even cried in front of him. But it was like I was talking to someone who could not hear me.
And once again, I was faced with a decision I never wanted to make again.
I had to take him back to rehab.
That moment was one of the hardest in my life. It felt like I was admitting defeat all over again. But at the same time, I knew I could not give up on him completely. No matter how difficult it became, he was still my son.
And I was still his mother.
Then one day, after everything that had been happening, I felt completely overwhelmed. It was too much for me to carry alone. The house no longer gave me peace, my son’s situation was draining me emotionally, and the constant tension with my co-wife was slowly breaking me down. I needed a place where I could breathe, even if it was just for a short while.
So I decided to go home.
I traveled to see my family, to Zaria, hoping that being around them would give me some comfort. The moment I arrived, I felt a slight relief. There is something about being in your mother’s presence that makes you feel safe, no matter how old you are. It felt like I had returned to a place where I didn’t have to pretend or carry strength all the time.
I met my mother, and not long after, I also sat with my grandmother.
At first, I didn’t plan to say much. I thought I would just rest, distract myself, and return. But somehow, everything I had been holding inside began to come out. Maybe it was the way they looked at me, maybe it was the peace of being home, or maybe I was just tired of being strong.
I told them everything.
I spoke about my marriage, about my husband bringing in a second wife, about how I had tried to adjust but struggled. I told them about the tension in the house, the arguments, the silent competition that had turned into something more serious. And then, I spoke about Lamin—my pain, my disappointment, my fear of losing him completely.
As I spoke, I could see the concern on their faces. My mother listened quietly, asking questions here and there, trying to understand every detail. But my grandmother… she was different.
She listened deeply, her expression calm but thoughtful, like she was trying to see beyond just the surface of what I was saying.
When I finished, there was a moment of silence.
Then my grandmother said something that caught me off guard.
She mentioned something about charm.
At first, I didn’t even take her seriously. I almost laughed. To me, it sounded like one of those old beliefs, something people say when they cannot explain a situation properly. I had been through a lot, yes, but I still believed everything had logical explanations—my choices, my son’s environment, my husband’s decisions.
Charm? It didn’t make sense to me.
I told her that I didn’t believe in such things. That what I was going through had clear reasons, even if they were painful. I even found it a bit funny, the way she said it so seriously, as if it was something obvious.
But she didn’t laugh with me.
She remained calm and simply looked at me in a way that made me pause for a moment. It was like she knew something I didn’t, or at least believed something strongly enough not to dismiss it.
Then, quietly, she reminded me of something I had already said.
My co-wife was from Borno.
That statement stayed in the air for a moment.
I didn’t respond immediately, but I could feel something shift slightly in my thoughts. Not belief, not yet—but a kind of curiosity. A small, uncomfortable thought that I didn’t want to fully accept.
I tried to brush it off again, telling myself it was just coincidence, just people connecting things that didn’t necessarily relate.
But even as I tried to ignore it, a small part of my mind began to wonder…
What if there was more to everything happening than I had allowed myself to see?
I still found it hard to believe. No matter how much my grandmother spoke about it, no matter how serious she sounded, my mind refused to fully accept it. Charm? It just didn’t sit well with me. I had always believed that everything happening in my life had a clear reason—my choices, my actions, my absence, my mistakes. Blaming it on something unseen felt like avoiding responsibility.
Even after that conversation, I kept telling myself it was nothing. Just an old belief, something people say when situations become too complicated to understand. I didn’t want to go down that path. I didn’t want to start seeing my life through fear or suspicion.
At the same time, I knew one thing for sure—I didn’t want any more problems with my co-wife.
I had already gone through enough. The tension in the house, the arguments, the emotional stress—it was already too much for me. I didn’t want to add suspicion or accusations to it. I didn’t want to start looking at her differently without any real proof. So I made up my mind to keep my distance, to mind my business, and avoid anything that would create more conflict.
But even with that decision, something inside me refused to stay quiet.
I was curious.
Not the kind of curiosity that comes with peace, but the kind that comes with confusion. A small voice in my head kept asking questions. What if there is something I don’t understand? What if there is more to all of this? I didn’t believe it, but I couldn’t completely ignore it either.
That was when my mother spoke again.
She told me calmly that I should try talking to my husband. That maybe I needed to open up to him in a deeper way, not just about the house or the daily issues, but about everything I was feeling. She believed that communication could reveal things I might not be seeing clearly.
Then she added something else.
She suggested that I could also consider seeing a native baba.
When she said it, I went quiet.
It wasn’t something I expected to hear from her so directly. I looked at her, trying to understand if she truly meant it or if she was just trying to give me options. In our environment, things like that are not strange, but for me, it felt like crossing into something I wasn’t comfortable with.
Part of me resisted immediately. I didn’t want to go down that path. I didn’t want to start looking for answers in places I didn’t fully trust or believe in. But another part of me—the tired, confused part—felt like maybe I was running out of options.
I had tried handling things logically.
I had tried fixing my son.
I had tried adjusting in my marriage.
And yet, everything still felt like it was falling apart.
So I sat there, caught between what I believed and what I was being told. Between logic and uncertainty. Between staying in my comfort zone and stepping into something I didn’t fully understand.
For the first time, I felt like I didn’t have clear answers anymore.
Only choices.
And I didn’t know which one was right.
That night, I finally gathered the courage to talk to my husband about everything that had been eating me up inside. I had been holding it in for too long—my confusion, my doubts, the things my mother and grandmother said, and the questions I could no longer silence in my mind.
When I approached him, I tried to speak calmly. I didn’t want an argument. I didn’t want noise. I just wanted him to listen.
I told him everything—how I was feeling, what I heard from my family, the strange suggestions about charm, and my own inner confusion that I could no longer ignore. I even told him I wasn’t accusing anyone, but I just needed clarity. I needed reassurance. I needed him to understand that I was not okay.
But the moment I finished speaking, his reaction broke something in me.
He laughed.
Not a small laugh, not a nervous one—but a full, dismissive laugh that made me feel small in an instant. It was like everything I had said meant nothing to him. Like I was talking nonsense. Like I had embarrassed myself by even bringing it up.
Then he shook his head and called me mad.
He said I was jealous.
He said I was imagining things because I couldn’t accept the reality of polygamy.
His words were sharp, but what hurt most was the way he said them—with complete indifference. No concern, no attempt to understand, no softness at all. It was like he had already decided that whatever I was feeling was irrelevant.
He told me I should stop thinking too much and focus on myself. He repeated that he didn’t have time for such “stories” and that I was only creating problems where none existed.
I stood there listening, but inside me, something was shifting.
It wasn’t just sadness anymore. It was disappointment. Deep disappointment.
I had come to him hoping for understanding, even if he didn’t agree with me. I thought maybe he would at least listen, maybe calm me down, maybe even reassure me. But instead, I felt dismissed, ignored, and invalidated in my own home.
After that moment, I stopped talking.
I didn’t argue.
I didn’t defend myself.
I just went quiet.
He went back to his usual attitude, acting like nothing had happened, like the conversation meant nothing. That nonchalant behavior of his, the one I used to tolerate, now felt heavier than ever. It made me feel like I was alone even while standing right next to him.
That night, I lay in bed awake for a long time.
Thinking.
Processing.
Trying to understand where everything had gone wrong.
And slowly, a decision began to form in my mind. Not out of anger, but out of exhaustion. Out of the feeling that I had nowhere else to turn, no one else to truly listen to me.
If I couldn’t find answers in my home…
Then maybe I would have to look elsewhere.
The next morning, with a heavy heart but a determined mind, I made up my decision.
I was going to go and meet a native baba.
I went to meet the native baba with a heavy heart and a mind full of confusion. I didn’t even know what I was expecting exactly—answers, peace, confirmation, or maybe just someone who would take my worries seriously without laughing at me.
When I got there, the environment was quiet in a strange way. It wasn’t like the usual places I was used to. There was a calmness that made me feel both nervous and uncertain. I explained everything to him carefully. I told him about my marriage, my co-wife, my son, and the strange feeling that something in my life was no longer normal.
He listened without interrupting me.
That alone made me feel like maybe I was finally being heard.
After I finished speaking, he nodded slowly, like he already understood more than I had said. Then he told me not to worry too much, but to be observant. He said sometimes problems in a home are not always ordinary, and sometimes things are not always seen clearly with the eyes alone.
I didn’t fully understand what he meant, but I listened carefully.
Then he gave me something.
He handed me a small bundle of turaren wuta and told me to use it inside my house. He said I should burn it regularly, especially in the evenings, and pay attention to what happens around me. According to him, if there was anything unusual affecting the house—anything hidden or spiritual—I would begin to notice signs over time.
He didn’t force me.
He didn’t pressure me.
He simply told me to observe and be aware.
I took it.
I don’t even know why I took it so easily. Maybe it was because I was desperate, or maybe because I just wanted something—anything—that could explain what I was feeling inside.
When I returned home, I started using it exactly as he said. Every evening, I would light it and let the smoke spread through the house. At first, nothing happened. Everything remained the same. The house still felt normal on the surface. My husband still had his usual attitude, Ammie was still calm and focused, and life continued like nothing had changed.
But inside me, I was watching everything closely.
I became more observant than ever before.
I started noticing small things I used to ignore. The way people moved around the house. The way certain conversations ended quickly when I walked in. The way silence sometimes fell in a room without explanation.
Still, nothing was clear.
Then one day, something happened.
I was walking outside the house, not thinking much, just going about my usual routine. The sun was low, and the compound was quiet. As I moved closer to one side of the floor near the entrance, my eyes caught something unusual.
At first, I thought it was trash.
But as I got closer, I noticed it wasn’t just anything ordinary.
It was something placed there.
A small object, strange in shape, and very out of place. It didn’t look like something that naturally belonged on the ground. It looked… intentional. Deliberate.
My heart started beating faster.
I stopped for a moment, staring at it, trying to understand what I was seeing. My mind immediately went back to everything I had been told, everything I had been thinking about lately. The words of my grandmother, my mother, the native baba, my husband’s dismissal—everything came rushing back at once.
I bent down slowly and looked at it properly.
And in that moment, I didn’t even know what to think.
Because whether I believed in it or not… the sight of it alone made my mind begin to question everything I had been trying so hard to ignore.