Seventeen Years Later, It Is Only Clear My Wife Hates Me

Seventeen years ago, my wife and I took a solemn vow. We stood in front of families, friends, and strangers. Before that, we had been dating for three good years. So, three years of dating and now fourteen years of marriage. I am a teacher and she is a nurse.

When we stood before our families, I imagined the greatest love story. One where we would fight and make up before the sun set. One where we would laugh so much our stomachs would hurt. I imagined us standing in the kitchen, loving and doting on each other while the food burnt. For a while, it was like that. And trust me, we basked in that glory.

But right now, hmm. Things are going a bit south. It is really hurting my soul.

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I saw the red flags early on. I knew there were things about her that could make marriage difficult, but I silenced my instincts. I spoke to myself as if it was the devil. “Oh, get away from me, you Satan. Get away, I rebuke you.” I knew and trusted that my love was enough. More so, the pastors I revered urged me to go forward. It felt like God was telling me, “I’ve got you.” They reminded me of the many who looked up to me. And so, I obeyed.

We got married on a beautiful Saturday, but by Sunday, I stood and watched my world begin to crumble. I stood face to face with what I had ignored. Our first argument started over the simplest thing ever. It made no sense. She was going to meet an unknown person who had called her. When I did not agree, it was not because I am your husband and supposed to dictate your movement. From the bottom of my heart, it was just a genuine concern for my new bride. How are you going to meet someone you barely know? Just that. She ignored it. She chuckled, dragged her feet, and walked out the door. That was just the beginning.

We started small. We agreed to live in a single room in a compound house, believing the discomfort of the place would push us to work harder and build our own home. So, the following year, we bought a piece of land. She paid for it from her savings while I used my earnings to fund my degree. It was an agreement both of us understood. Even aside from the clear financial strain, we found joy in our growing family. From the day we found out we were pregnant to the delivery, the journey was beautiful, even for me. Watching a woman risk her life for my child was surreal, and I was overwhelmed with happiness.

I gave my all as a father. When her maternity leave ended, I took over full-time childcare duties, becoming a stay-at-home husband while she resumed work. I was doing it for my family, so it was no bother. Besides, I loved taking care of my daughter. Later on, I juggled my teaching job with fatherhood, taking our daughter to my mother’s place during the day and bringing her back home after school. When our second child was born, I continued to be the supportive husband. Cooking, cleaning, washing, and caring for the children. Everything that society says belongs to the African woman, everything they say is a woman’s duty, I did dutifully. I did it all because I loved my family.

When we started building our home, I funded it mostly through loans I took from the bank. A roof over the head was better than moving from one apartment to the other in these times when house owners behave like they own the world. My wife then decided to take loans, not to support our building project, but to start businesses. I supported and agreed. We could not depend on the salaries we earned, so I stood by my wife, and she flourished. From the bottom of my heart, I was genuinely happy for her.

Maybe it was the devil trying to test me or show me something, but somehow things changed on my side. Things were not going well for me financially. I was stretched so thin that I was unable to contribute much to household expenses beyond paying the bills and my children’s school fees.

I am overwhelmed and sad to announce that in that moment, she turned into a stranger. It started small. She started denying me access to her body. She started coming home late at night, and who was I to complain? I could not recognize her anymore. She grew distant. I am not allowed to even touch her subtly. Then and even now, when I look deep into her eyes, I fear what is going on in her head because it is clearly not love.

Still, I remained patient, because patience is key, right? I have seen you people say it here a lot: be patient.

Then, when we finally moved into our half-completed house, she decided to further her education. I fully supported her decision. She later proposed that we start a block-making business. She said it would be a good investment. I suggested we wait and use her savings for school fees instead. But she ignored my advice, went ahead with the business, and ended up with nothing. When her fees were due, she had no money and had to take a loan elsewhere.

That was when things spiraled out of control. Sometimes I think, does she blame me for it? Does she think because I did not support it, that is why it failed?

She has told everyone who cares to know that I have refused to support her education, as if I am one of those men who behave like the wife’s growth is a crime. And you know how lies go. Before I could explain myself, the lie was everywhere. People started to look at me differently. The respect I once had in the community vanished into thin air. I am sure, when parents saw me, they prayed that their daughter did not marry a man like me.

For three years now, she has refused to share a bedroom with me. She has chosen instead to sleep in the children’s room. So, you can imagine how long I have been denied. Denied the simple act of watching my wife fall asleep and wake up beside me. For three years now. And I have begged, pleaded, and tried everything possible under the sun to restore what we once had, to make her happy, to make her see me as her husband, a man she loves. But she has shut me out completely. I am standing outside the door, locked out, just here counting days and watching my heart break. I am so sore. My heart hurts, my chest, this feeling… oww.

We no longer share meals. I cook for myself and the children while she prepares hers separately, sometimes at home, sometimes at her shop.

But what hurts me the most is how she treats the children. She has become abusive, physically, emotionally, and verbally. I see the fear in their eyes. I hear their silent cries. I feel their pain.

I have carried this burden alone for years. I have endured the shame, the false accusations, the emotional neglect, and the destruction of our family.

She tells people I am cheating on her with my students, that is the biggest, fattest lie. She tells them I do not take care of the home, another lie. She tells them I refuse to support her business, yet another lie. My wife hates me, right? What is the problem?

Whenever she watches movies where men mistreat their wives, she projects that anger onto me as if I were the villain in the story.

I have tried everything. Prayers. Patience. Counselling. Conversations. Nothing works. Anyone who attempts to mediate is immediately seen as an enemy.

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Now, I am exhausted.

I cannot keep fighting a battle where I am the only one who wants peace. I cannot allow my mental health to deteriorate any further. And I cannot watch my children grow up in this toxic environment.

For the first time in seventeen years, I have accepted that maybe, just maybe, letting go is the only way to save myself and my children.

And so, I stand at the crossroads of love and survival, torn between the vows I made and the reality that is breaking me.

I never imagined my marriage would end like this, but at this point, I see no other way.

—Peter

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