Chapter one
My name is Hafsat, and I live with my husband here in Abuja. He is a civil servant, a calm and disciplined man who believes in order and responsibility. I also work with an NGO, and my job keeps me busy in different communities, meeting people, and trying my best to make small changes in their lives. Our lives, from the outside, looked simple but beautiful. Everything felt stable, like a home built on quiet understanding.
In the beginning, everything between us was good. In fact, more than good—it felt peaceful. My husband was not just my partner; he was my best friend. He cared for me in a way that made me feel safe at all times. He would check on me during the day even when he was at work, just to ask if I had eaten or if I was tired. Sometimes, I would laugh because he acted like I was still a small girl he was responsible for.
He was the type of man who paid attention to details. If I mentioned casually that I liked something, he would remember it and surprise me with it later. I never had to beg for attention or love. It came naturally from him. He would take me out on dates once in a while, nothing too extravagant, but meaningful enough to remind me that I was special to him. We would sit together, eat, talk about our day, and laugh over small things that didn’t even matter. Those moments made me feel like I had found the right place in life.
At home, we shared responsibilities without stress. There was understanding between us, the kind that doesn’t need too many words. I would cook sometimes when I was less busy, and other times he would bring food home or suggest we order something simple. We didn’t struggle for attention or validation; we simply existed together in peace.
People around us used to say we were a good couple. And honestly, I believed it too. I didn’t see any cracks in our marriage. There were no loud fights, no deep misunderstandings, nothing that made me question my place in his life. He treated me with respect, and I respected him in return. It felt like we were building something stable and long-lasting.
Even when I went out for my NGO work, I never felt insecure or worried. He never gave me a reason to doubt him. He would encourage me, ask about my day when I returned, and sometimes even listen to my work stories like they were important to him—which they were.
Looking back now, I realize that peace can sometimes make you blind. When everything is calm, you stop expecting storms. I thought our life would always remain like that—quiet, steady, and safe. I thought I knew my husband completely, and I thought I understood the home we had built together.
But I didn’t know that life has a way of changing stories when you least expect it.
My life with my husband felt stable, and I always gave thanks to Allah for it. Alhamdulillah, everything was going well in its own quiet way. My family is in Zaria, and even though I now live in Abuja, I still make sure I visit them from time to time. Those visits mean a lot to me because no matter how grown you are or how far you go in life, home is still home. Whenever I go back, I see my parents and siblings happy to see me, asking about my marriage, my work, and my life in Abuja. It always gives me a sense of comfort, like I’m still connected to where I came from.
My life and my husband’s life were mostly centered around work. We were both busy people. I would go to my NGO job, dealing with fieldwork, reports, and different kinds of people every day. My husband, on the other hand, would leave early in the morning for his civil service job. Sometimes our schedules would only allow us to see each other in the evening, and even then, it was usually just to rest, eat, and talk briefly about our day before sleeping.
Money was not really a problem for us. It was not like we were extremely rich, but we were comfortable enough to live without stress. Bills were paid on time, food was available, and we could afford small pleasures once in a while. We didn’t struggle, and that alone was something I appreciated deeply. I had seen people in difficult situations, so I never took stability for granted.
One thing about my husband that I always noticed was his personality. He was a very nonchalant person. He didn’t get easily excited about things, and he didn’t panic over small issues. Sometimes I would look at him and wonder how he could remain so calm even when things around him were happening fast. He was the type of man who would simply say, “it will be fine,” even when I was worried about something serious.
At first, I liked that about him. It made me feel like I was with someone strong, someone who didn’t let life pressure him easily. But over time, I also began to notice the other side of it. His calmness sometimes felt like distance. While I was expressive, emotional, and always thinking about the next step in our life, he was more reserved and quiet. He didn’t talk too much, and he didn’t show emotions openly.
Still, I adjusted to it because every marriage has differences. I told myself that not everyone expresses love in the same way. Some people show it through actions rather than words, and I believed my husband was one of those people. He provided, he cared in his own way, and he never gave me reason to doubt his loyalty or his intentions.
Whenever I traveled to Zaria to see my family, I would miss him, even though I knew he wouldn’t express missing me in a loud or emotional way. He would just ask me simple questions like, “Did you arrive safely?” or “How long will you stay?” That was his way of caring.
Looking back now, I realize I was living in comfort, but also in quiet ignorance. Everything looked normal, everything felt stable, but I didn’t understand how silence can sometimes hide things you are not ready to see.
After two years of marriage, my life entered a new and beautiful chapter. I became pregnant, and it felt like a blessing I had been waiting for without even knowing it. Those months were a mix of excitement, fear, and gratitude. I would sit quietly sometimes, placing my hand on my stomach, just imagining the life growing inside me. My husband was calm as always, but I could see a different kind of care in the way he looked at me during that period. He became more attentive, making sure I was comfortable and not stressing myself too much.
When the time finally came, I gave birth to a baby boy. It was one of the most emotional moments of my life. I still remember hearing his first cry and feeling something inside me change forever. We named him Lamin. A very handsome, bright-looking child from the very beginning. Everyone who saw him would smile and say how beautiful he was. To me, he was more than beautiful—he was my heart outside my body.
For a while, everything revolved around him. My world shifted completely. Sleepless nights, feeding, cleaning, and learning how to be a mother became my new routine. Even though it was exhausting, I felt fulfilled. There is a different kind of love that comes with holding your child in your arms. It is a love that cannot be explained properly unless you experience it yourself.
Just when I was adjusting to motherhood, work came calling again. My NGO job became more demanding. They started insisting on field travels and assignments in different locations. At first, I tried to manage it carefully. I would leave Lamin with my husband or sometimes with trusted help when needed, but it was not easy at all. Every time I left him, I felt a part of me breaking inside.
Being a mother and a working woman at the same time is not simple. I had to constantly balance two lives. One part of me wanted to be fully present for my son, watching every little milestone—his first smile, his small cries, the way he reached for me. The other part of me had responsibilities I could not ignore. My work involved people who depended on me, reports that needed to be submitted, and trips that I was expected to attend without excuses.
My husband tried in his own way, but his nonchalant nature sometimes made me feel like I was carrying most of the emotional weight alone. He would take care of Lamin when I was away, but he did it quietly, without much discussion or emotional expression. He was reliable, yes, but not very expressive. And during that phase of my life, I think I needed more emotional support than anything else.
There were days I would return from work completely tired, my body aching, only to still take over full responsibility of my son. I would bathe him, feed him, play with him, and put him to sleep. And after that, I would still have to think about the next day’s work. It felt like I was living two full-time lives at once, and neither of them allowed me to rest fully.
But despite everything, Lamin became my strength. Every time I looked at him, I reminded myself why I was pushing so hard. He was my motivation, my reason to keep going even when I was exhausted. I told myself that everything I was doing was for him, for his future, for the life I wanted him to have.
At that point in my life, I didn’t know that this was only the beginning of changes I was not prepared for.
Life went on, slowly but surely, but if I’m being honest with myself, my parenting was not at its best during that period. I won’t lie or try to paint it in a perfect way. I was struggling, even if I didn’t fully admit it at the time. Between my job, my travels, and the pressure of trying to maintain everything, I began to lose balance.
Sometimes I would leave Lamin more with his father than I intended to. Other times, I would rely on a nanny to help take care of him when I was away or too tired. At first, it felt like a necessary arrangement, something temporary to help me manage both work and motherhood. But gradually, it became a pattern. A routine I started depending on without realizing how much distance it was creating between me and my son.
I would tell myself that I was doing it for his future, that my hard work would give him a better life. But deep down, I could feel the emotional gap growing. Lamin was growing, changing every day, and I was not always there to witness it the way I should have been. There were moments I would come home and realize he had started doing things I had not even seen him learn. It hurt me in ways I didn’t always express.
My husband, on the other hand, noticed more than I thought he did. One day, he sat me down and told me calmly that I needed to slow down. He asked me to stay more at home, to look after Lamin properly and take care of the house. He didn’t shout or raise his voice, but his words carried weight. He reminded me that a child needs his mother’s presence more than anything else.
But I didn’t take it well. I felt like he was trying to limit me, like he didn’t understand the importance of my work or the responsibilities I had outside the home. To me, it felt unfair. I felt like I was being pulled in two different directions—one side demanding I be a devoted mother, the other demanding I be a committed worker.
That discussion eventually turned into an argument. Not a loud, violent one, but one filled with disagreement, frustration, and misunderstanding. I remember feeling stubborn, refusing to see his point clearly. And just like that, nothing changed. I continued my routine. I kept balancing work and motherhood the same way I had been doing, even if it wasn’t perfect.
My husband, as always, became quiet. That was his way. He didn’t argue much after that. He didn’t force me or try to convince me again. He simply returned to his calm, nonchalant nature, observing everything silently. Sometimes his silence made me wonder what he was thinking, but I never really asked.
And so, life continued like that between us. Me trying to hold everything together in my own way, him watching quietly without much interference. The house was still standing, still functioning, but something subtle had begun to shift beneath the surface. Something I could not yet name or fully understand.
As life continued, things slowly settled into a routine that felt normal on the surface, even if it wasn’t perfect underneath. Lamin was growing so fast. Before I even realized it, my little boy had turned five years old. He was no longer the tiny baby I used to carry everywhere. Now he could speak clearly, ask questions, run around the house, and even express his own small opinions like a grown child. Watching him grow should have been one of the happiest experiences of my life, but most of the time, I was too busy to fully enjoy it.
My work with the NGO had taken a stronger hold of my life. There were more responsibilities, more meetings, more field assignments, and more pressure to deliver results. I was constantly moving from one place to another, trying to prove myself, trying to keep up, trying to be everywhere at once. I told myself I was building a future for Lamin, but in reality, I was barely present in his daily life.
My husband, on the other hand, remained the same as always. Calm. Quiet. Nonchalant. He didn’t complain much, and he didn’t demand too much attention either. Sometimes I would come back home late and find him cooking food in the kitchen or cleaning the house without making any fuss about it. He would take care of Lamin when I wasn’t around, feed him, and ensure he was fine. He did everything in his own silent way, without ever making it feel like a burden.
At times, I honestly wondered how he managed to stay so emotionally detached from everything. It always looked like nothing bothered him deeply. Whether I was home or not, whether things were smooth or stressful, he carried on with the same calm expression. Even when I tried to talk about serious matters, he would respond in a very simple, almost indifferent tone, like everything in life was just meant to be handled quietly without too much emotional reaction.
But beneath that calmness, I began to sense something shifting.
One day, out of nowhere, he said something that completely caught me off guard. We were sitting together, and the atmosphere was normal, nothing unusual. Then, in his usual calm voice, he told me that he would like to get another wife.
For a moment, I thought I didn’t hear him correctly. I looked at him again, trying to read his expression, but his face remained unchanged. Calm. Serious. Certain. He didn’t look angry. He didn’t look confused. He looked like someone who had already made up his mind a long time ago and was only now choosing to say it out loud.
That statement shook me more than I expected. Not because I had never heard of polygamy—this was not something strange in our environment—but because of how sudden it felt in my heart. It was like something I had been ignoring or avoiding had finally come to the surface.
Deep inside me, I already knew I was part of the reason this was happening. I could not deny it. I had been distant. I had been too focused on my work. I had neglected things at home that mattered more than I admitted to myself. I had left gaps in my role as a wife and as a mother. And now, it felt like those gaps were being filled by a decision I was not emotionally prepared for.
What made it harder was knowing my husband’s personality. He was not the type to threaten or say things without meaning them. When he spoke, especially about serious matters, he meant every word. And once he made a decision, it was almost impossible to change his mind. I had seen that part of him before in small things—his firmness, his quiet certainty—but this was different. This was life-changing.
I tried to process it quietly, but my thoughts were everywhere. I started thinking about Lamin, about my home, about everything I had taken for granted while chasing my career goals. I also thought about how my husband never really got angry easily. He didn’t shout. He didn’t argue endlessly. But when he reached a point of decision, that was it. Final. No turning back.
And in that moment, I realized something I had been avoiding for a long time. My actions, my absence, my priorities—all of it had consequences. And now, those consequences were standing right in front of me in the form of a decision I could no longer ignore.