The Marriage They Made For Me: Part 1

You’re going to find out about my beginning, in a quiet village where growing up revolved around patience and resilience. Life hasn’t always been easy. My early years were spent in the embrace of a large, polygamous family, complete with stepmothers, siblings, and stepsiblings. In that dynamic, patience wasn’t just a virtue; it was a survival strategy.

I was the one who shouldered a lot of responsibilities early on, especially during my teenage years. That’s when I started my own little business – selling homemade pasta with peppery moi moi (Bean pudding). This wasn’t just about entrepreneurship, it was a means to an end – providing for my siblings and me. Why? Because my parents divorced and my father, with his new family, could no longer support us.

Despite these tumultuous times – when suitors came calling and life looked as though it might take a turn for the better – fate had other plans. The emergence of Boko Haram in Adamawa State threw our lives into chaos. The upheaval scattered my family, and the ensuing violence claimed the life of the person I had hoped to marry. At that instant, every dream I clutched so dearly crumbled to dust.

However, I had to pick up my shattered self and move on. The years that followed were marked by separation from my siblings, as we each ran for safety in different directions. It was only after three years that we dared to return to our devastated village. But the shadow of Boko Haram loomed over us – a constant reminder that life, as we knew it, had irrevocably changed.

You’re going to find out about the staunch resilience it takes to rebuild a life shattered by conflict. After fleeing the horrors of Boko Haram, my return to Adamawa State brought a swath of emotions. The village that once was the cradle of my childhood now seemed to wear scars just like I did. In the aftermath, we learned that adaptation isn’t just about change; it’s about transformation.

Imagine looking at the familiar through the lens of constant fear. That’s what life felt like when we made it back. Every sound and stranger was a potential threat, and the new normal was all about survival. We were on edge, always ready to run. Yet, we had to continue with our lives, integrating the possibility of another attack into our daily routines.

This period was a testament to my conviction to push forward. But it wasn’t just about my own strength, my family—my siblings and I—found unity in our fragmentation. We weren’t in the same state, but our shared experiences held us together even when miles apart. Our bonds were reinforced, not by presence, but by the shared determination to survive and thrive amidst our new reality.

I’m going to share with you a part of my life that wasn’t exactly a choice, but more of a path I was maneuvered onto by circumstances and, unfortunately, by family persuasion. It revolves around my entry into a polygamous marriage, a union that, in hindsight, I realize was a bundle of external pressures rather than an act of true commitment.

The concept of marriage is often romanticized, but for me, it was a matter tangled in societal expectations and the fear of loneliness. As a woman living in Maiduguri after having survived the horrors inflicted by Boko Haram, I felt the weight of labels such as ‘short’ and ‘old’, despite not even being thirty. These labels came not from strangers, but from within the walls that were supposed to protect me: family.

My meeting with my would-be husband wasn’t the result of a long-term relationship; it began with my cousin mentioning a friend’s interest in me. Initially, I stood my ground: I did not wish to be a second wife. But in time, relentless persuasion by my aunt – driven by her belief that I should seize any marriage opportunity – wore me down. Notwithstanding his attentive countenance and romantic gestures, the core of our relationship was shaped by external expectations rather than mutual affection.

You might be wondering how I went from saying ‘no’ to stepping into a situation I was wary of. It wasn’t a sudden change of heart, but rather a gradual succumbing to the narrative that ‘this was my chance’ to evade the stigma of not being married. My aunt’s voice proved to be more influential than my own reservations. With the added pressure from having to convince my reluctant mother, family dynamics played a significant role in steering me toward this marriage.

Walking into my new home was supposed to be the beginning of a joyous chapter. Instead, I faced the harsh reality of a husband’s neglect. Unlike the faintly lit hope I harbored, the house lacked the basic comfort of nets, curtains, or even a proper bathroom. My aunt had a mat for me, a small mercy in a situation where I expected marital bliss.

My struggles weren’t confined to the physical discomforts of my living space. Eating became a sporadic occurrence, with days stretching out before the charcoal was lit to cook a simple meal. My husband’s absence was both physical and financial; excuses about his responsibilities to his other wife did little to abate my hunger or frustration.

If I dared voice my concerns, they were met with admonitions to be patient. Patience, it seemed, was the plaster expected to mend the gaping cracks of our home. But patience cannot feed an empty stomach nor warm a lonely heart. And when I took the initiative to start a business, my earnings were taken by the man who was meant to be my partner and protector.

Months turned to years, and the man I’d wed continued to prioritize his work over our household, sometimes vanishing for months without providing any financial support. My mom had to keep sending me foodstuffs. Clearly, I wasn’t welcome. I was too distracted by misery and negligence from my husband to know that I got pregnant, and sadly I lost the baby in a deadly miscarriage. My sister had to come to help me because I wasn’t strong due to the several complications of the miscarriage.

The aunt who once urged me to marry now turned her back, unwilling to lend an ear to my troubles.

The final crack came sharply – a slap. It was the escalation from emotional to physical abuse, and it served as a wakeup call. Relationships ought to be sanctuaries of safety and mutual respect; mine had become a prison of despair. It was a moment of clarity amidst the chaos: I would no longer accept this as my life.

In my village now, I’m rediscovering what it means to be at the helm of my own life, post-divorce. It’s not been a picnic, with the whispers of the past echoing around and the challenges of a community quick to judge.

I’ve learned that the road to reclaiming autonomy is paved with hard truths and tougher choices. People talk, stepmothers might scoff, and even though my mom’s ‘I told you so’ stings, none of these are my primary concern anymore.

I’ve faced the fact that my plight is not just a tangle of unfortunate events; it’s a stark reminder that my voice and decisions matter. Through this ordeal, I’ve grasped the importance of listening not just to what is expected of me, but to my own convictions.

I’m moved to take charge of my narrative and fight for the life I believe in. That starts by confronting the man who promised to share a life with me but instead shared misery. I’m mindful enough to see the value in seeking legal advice and strong enough to go through with the decision to divorce, despite the prolonged silence and the appeals for patience.

It may have seemed like my fate was decided for me, but my story doesn’t end with what’s been dealt. Moving forward, I am laying down a blueprint to thrive, one that includes being patient, steadfast in the quest for justice and love, and above all, a builder of a life that belongs to me and no one else.