My father was the talk of the town for a long period of time. Even before I could write and spell my name. Everywhere I went, they called me “Bra Junior ba.” And I was ashamed. Ashamed that my identity was tied so tightly to the hem of his cloth. I was not just myself. I was his extension of his ugly act.

My father was a man of few words, but he did things. Loud things. He was such a woman’s man growing up that it sat proudly in his head and turned him into a monster. A womaniser. Everyone knew it. Bra Junior di3, he likes women.

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That was all I heard growing up. And if it had only been hearing, maybe I would have survived it better. But I saw it too.

Women parading in and out of our home as if it were a public place. No shame. No hiding.

My brothers grew up thinking it was normal. They continued his legacy right from their teenage years. Girls started rumbling and fighting over them as if that was an achievement.

My uncles were no better. Their wives, together with my mother, bonded over their shared trauma. It made me sick. My mother suffered from infections almost every month. Most days I watched her try to hide it. But the itching, the stench, I knew it well. Since she wanted to keep it a secret, I pretended to be dumb too.

That was when I promised myself that anything that smelled like cheating, I would jump and pass.

Then I met Daudo. I told him exactly what was on my mind. I said, people claim cheating is their red flag, but when they are put in a tight position, they forgive it. I am not like them. I will drop your sorry self and leave like it is no one’s business.

He tried to play slick with me, but my father taught me better. I know the sneaks of a cheating man. I grew up studying them.

I caught him red handed once. He was dumbfounded. He pleaded and asked the world to tell me to forgive him. I moved on.

About three years ago, I met Fiifi. When I told him my stance on cheating, he laughed. He said I was too traumatised and needed to move past it. I told him I had moved past it. I just did not want to be like my mother and regret it for the rest of my life. We left it at that. And it is either he has been very good at hiding things, or he truly has not been playing behind my back.

But I have read two flirtatious texts he sent to two different girls. If he sent “You are the apple of my eye” to Bitha, he sent the same line to Irene. Word for word. I watched and read the same pattern of messages between both girls.

When I asked him about it, he said he had nothing sexual to do with them and that it would stop. Truly, the texts did not sound sexual. But I have a theory.

Cheating is not only sexual. It is emotional. It is physical. It is psychosocial. Your mind entertains it first. You nurture it. You are tempted, and sometimes that temptation alone is betrayal.

He does not see it like that. I do.

But I still stayed.

I have held it against him for a long time, even though I do not have solid proof. We could be arguing about something small, like who ate last and did not wash the plate, and I would bring it up. I would call him names. Cheater. Gold of the season. Petty names thrown like stones.

Last week, I did it again. I posted on my status, “I have accepted that I will not find true love.” He saw it and took it more seriously than I expected. He said if that is what I believe, then there is no need to take the relationship further. No need to continue.

I wrote it on one of those days when I felt unloved and uncared for. But I also accused him again of cheating.

Since then, he has refused to pick my calls. My messages go unanswered. He will not see me. The things I have done just to win him back break my pride. Maybe my begging is ugly. Maybe it is pushing him further away. But what am I supposed to do?

I am here wondering if I finally ruined love with my own hands. Did the ghost of my father’s actions finally come to kill what little was left in my gourd?

How do I heal from my father’s treacherous acts and stop projecting them onto him? For this man, I would try. I would even go to the moon for water if he asked.

He is right in some ways. I know he is. But if you saw what I saw growing up, if you watched your mother shrink under humiliation while your father entertained women like trophies, you would scream “men are wicked” every day too.

But this is my life, not my father’s. So maybe I have to let go.

Will Make You Leave Me After Forty Years Of Marriage?


Where do I go from here? To his house? His workplace? His favourite restaurant?

Or do I finally stand still and face the real work inside me?

—Dziese

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