The Day I Left With Nothing but My Child

My name is Blessing, and for a long time, I thought suffering was normal.

I got married at twenty-two, full of dreams and hope. My husband, Kunle, was charming when we were dating. He promised me heaven on earth. My parents were poor, so when he came with confidence and small gifts, they believed he would take good care of me. I believed it too.

The beatings started three months after our wedding.

The first slap shocked me more than it hurt. He apologized, cried, and blamed stress. I forgave him. The second time, he blamed food. The third time, he said I disrespected him. Soon, apologies stopped coming. Beatings became routine.

When I got pregnant, I thought things would change. Instead, they became worse. He would come home drunk, kick my stomach, and tell me the child was not his. I lost my first baby at five months. He didn’t take me to the hospital. A neighbor did.

I stayed.

Why? Because people said, “Marriage is endurance.”

Because my mother said, “Go back, he is your husband.”

Because I was afraid of shame.

I opened a small provision shop with money I borrowed. Kunle took the profits. When I complained, he beat me. When I cried, he locked me outside. Sometimes, my children and I slept hungry. Sometimes, we drank garri morning and night.

One night changed everything.

He came home angry and accused me of cheating. He dragged me by my hair into the kitchen and picked up a knife. My two children were screaming, holding his legs, begging him. For the first time, I saw death clearly. It was no longer a threat. It was waiting.

That night, I ran.

Barefoot. No bag. Two children in my arms.

We slept at a church corridor till morning. The pastor’s wife saw us and cried. She took us in. She helped me report the case. Kunle was arrested after neighbors confirmed the abuse. People insulted me for “sending my husband to jail.” I didn’t care. I chose life.

It wasn’t easy after that.

I sold sachet water on the roadside. I washed clothes. I cleaned offices at night. My children slept while I worked. Sometimes, I cried in the bathroom so they wouldn’t hear.

Years passed.

Today, I own a small food canteen. My children are in school. I still have scars on my body and in my heart but I am alive. I laugh again. I sleep without fear.

Some women didn’t make it out.

I tell my story because silence kills.

I tell my story because love is not pain.

I tell my story because staying is not always strength sometimes, leaving is.

This is not fiction.

This is my life.