The Day I Chose Me: Divorce, Gaslighting, and Moving Forward

People used to point at us and say, “Ah, love still dey.” Same compound gist, same Sunday rice, same small arguments about which garri is best for soaking. We were the couple that felt like tradition. Then one day, I confirmed the thing I was never supposed to confirm.

I did not stumble. I gathered receipts. Dates. Screenshots. Locations. My heart already knew, but evidence has its own kind of peace. When I laid it out, he did not look sorry. He looked offended that the curtain fell before he could arrange the stage.

I asked for simple. Let us do this quietly. Uncontested. We are not children. Let us part with dignity.

He said half of everything, just like that. Split it like suya on a plate. Forget the burn. Forget that half will not buy me a modest place where I can lock my own door and sleep with two eyes closed. I told him I want to move closer to my child to help with grand-babies. Not to move in. To have my own keys. He heard it like bargaining. I meant it like oxygen.

He swore the other woman was history. Then life decided to show me a free cinema. A long lunch. Familiar hugging. A kiss that did not look like first time. You know when two people have rhythm...That.

He promised he would never leave me struggling. The figures he was pushing told a different story. And when I mentioned the minimum I need from the house to stand on my feet, his mouth changed. “I will destroy everything.” “I will burn this house down.” Later he called it a saying. In the moment, it sounded like someone spinning matches near harmattan grass.

Even the house noticed. Walls that used to hold laughter started keeping quiet. The mirror in the corridor showed me a new face. Not older. Sharper. The sharpness that comes when your brain is doing market maths day and night. How long will this wahala last? How much will it eat? What can I keep today that will still keep me tomorrow?

No one prepares you for a late-life breakup. The world prefers makeover tales and gym selfies. What I’m facing is different: dividing a lifetime into cartons, keeping my heart from burning out, and mastering valuations and petitions with hands that won’t stop trembling.

On the third night after the “lunch,” NEPA took light as usual, and the generator hummed like an old lullaby. I sat at the dining table with a biro and the back of an envelope. I did not write goals. I wrote truths.

I am not mad. I saw what I saw. Half is not always fair. Stability is not greed. I deserve my own front door.

By morning, that list looked like prayer. I folded it small and kept it in my wallet.

Later, I opened the windows and let the breeze slap sense into the curtains. For a few hours, the house felt like mine again. Sun on the table. Dust particles were dancing as if nothing had happened. Somewhere outside, a hawker called out bread, and life continued without asking for permission.

I started packing the easy things. One or two frames that smiled brighter than the memories behind them. The small bowl where visitors drop keys. A cookbook stained with palm oil from Christmas, when everybody still came on time. I wrapped each item and whispered, Thank you. You were good to me.

In the evening, I took a short drive. Parked where I could see water breathing, the way Lagos lagoon or River Niger pretends to kiss the sky, that line where blue meets blue felt like a promise. Love can be like that. Fine from far. Complicated when you stand close. Eternal in a proverb. Tidal in real life.

A teenage girl passed my car, phone in her hand, laughter in her mouth, walking like the road owed her softness. I remembered being that sure. I wanted to wind down and tell her two things. Save money. Learn the difference between apology and strategy. I let her laugh. Youth should not always hear thunder.

That night I chose the guest room, the bed for people who do not stay long. It felt symbolic. I am a visitor in this version of my life, not a tenant. Before I turned off the bedside lamp, I opened my envelope and added one more line.

I am allowed to walk out of any room that starts to smell like smoke.

Morning came with its typical attitude. Kettle on fire. Quiet radio news. A voicemail from a lawyer whose voice sounded like a steady drum. “We start with what you need, then work backwards,” she said. My spirit sat down inside me. Start with what you need. Work backward. I wrote it on a sticky note and pinned it to the fridge with a magnet shaped like a pawpaw slice.

He still banged on one or two doors that week. Words still came hot and cooled into “I didn’t mean it.” But somewhere between the folders, the breeze, the water, the guest room and the pawpaw magnet, I found my beginning.

It did not look like a victory. It looked like a small piece arriving on time. Clean cup. Fuel in the tank. Locked gate. Clear sentence. A friend who said, “I believe you,” and meant it with her full chest.

The house may still be holding its breath, but I am not. I am breathing on purpose, counting each inhale like a market change. I am moving through rooms and choosing what comes next. I am not waiting for anybody to declare it reasonable.

I am calling it life.