The first time I met Benedict, my life was in pieces. I was in Level 200, and my boyfriend at the time was abusive. His abusiveness was not the kind you excuse. He hit me. Sometimes it was over nothing. Sometimes it was over things I cannot even remember now because they made no sense then and they make no sense now. He would just get angry and lift his hands at me like I was something he owned.

I had just broken up with him. I had fresh wounds and fresh confusion. I kept asking myself if I had done the right thing because, as bad as it was, he was familiar. He was my everyday, and leaving him felt like stepping into emptiness. That was the state I was in when I met Benedict.

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He was also a student on campus, pursuing his PhD. At that point, I was drowning in my academics, so having him in my life encouraged me to study hard to be like him. Every day, he asked if I had studied my slides or attended my tutorials. He was very kind to me, and soon I was forgetting how badly bruised my heart had been.

Within a few days of knowing him, I thought of him as a friend. Then he started introducing me to people. Today it was one of his “brothers”. Tomorrow, a colleague from school. Where I come from, when a man begins to fold you into the fabric of his life like that, it means something.

The women from my tribe are known to be respectful and home-oriented. We are not the kind to involve ourselves in situations like infidelity. I carried that value with me, quietly but firmly. And he liked that about me, so what we had flowed easily. We barely even fought.

We had been together for about four months when we went on holiday, and when we returned, everything came crashing down.

The problem started on his birthday. I had to find out the date from his brother’s social media. I was surprised because I didn’t even know it was his birthday, and that bothered me. Why on earth didn’t I know my boyfriend’s birthday? What kind of girlfriend was I?

I was so ashamed of myself that I couldn’t think straight. I told myself I should add him on Facebook so I would never miss important dates like that again. All this while, mind you, I had never searched for him on social media. It never occurred to me. I was just enjoying him, his presence, his love, and his gifts.

I clicked “add friend” on his profile and began going through his feed. First, I saw a photo of him, a woman, and a child. He had tagged her, so I checked her profile too. I went through her feed and it didn’t say much until I caught a glimpse of her status. She was married, and she was married to him.

Benedict didn’t smell like a married man. He didn’t wear a ring. He didn’t leave me at odd hours to pick up calls. When he was with me, it was just me.

It all felt like a prank, so I called one of his brothers for an explanation. His brother listened to me and then said, “It is not my place to tell you anything. Call him and ask.” He hung up the phone before I could say another word.

I was pacing in my room when I dialed Benedict’s number. I was screaming, but he was calm. “Let me come and see you.” It was a trap. I knew that usually, when you are angry with men, they try to use those visits to weaken you. I saw right through him. I told him, “Stay where you are and tell me what I need to know.”

“I am married,” he said. “I am sorry, I should have told you the truth. I am just looking for a second wife. Even my family knows, and that is why they were so welcoming to you.”

It was all starting to make sense. His brothers, his colleagues, all of them knew.

After we got off the phone, I went back to her profile. I sat there and looked at her life. She is a nurse and a mother, full of life and enjoying her child. And here he was, living a different life from what she knew.

Some days later, one of his brothers called. I think he wanted to soften my heart, but he only added salt to the injury. He told me that after his wife had their first child, she had developed severe complications. It had become too dangerous for her to have more children. Benedict was an only child. He wanted to continue his family line. He had spoken with his wife, apparently, and she had agreed that he could take a second wife. So, his wife knew about me and was fine with it.

I listened to all of it. I let him finish.

My problem was never about the tradition of it, or even the marriage itself. My problem was what he stole from me. He took away my right to choose. He could have told me from the very beginning what kind of life he was looking for. He could have been honest and let me decide if that was a life I wanted. Instead, he built something beautiful and handed it to me without telling me what I was actually holding. He let me fall in love with a version of the story that was not complete.

That is why I walked away. I walked away from him and the whole joke playing out before my eyes. I told him so.

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It has been years since it happened. Over the years, he has called and begged. His brothers have pleaded with me to give him another chance. On birthdays, Valentines, and Christmas, I still receive gifts from him.

At some point, when he still believed he could change my mind, he traveled to my hometown and tried to speak to my family.

I have not gone back. I will not go back.

Not now, and not ever. I loved him, yes, but a married man? That is a grave sin. I am not that kind of person. I am not doing this just so a future husband won’t cheat on me. A man who wants to cheat will always be a cheater. I did it for my own sanity.

—Jay

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