For seven years, people thought I was the happiest married woman alive simply because I wore a ring and kept quiet. They didn’t know silence can be the most painful type of noise. When I married Adjei, I thought I had chosen a companion, someone I would laugh with, build with, grow with. I thought marriage was supposed to be a partnership, not a prison. But the day after our wedding, I learned something I will never forget: Some people remove their masks after marriage, not before.

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Adjei’s mask fell off quickly. The first time he beat me, it was because I didn’t “talk to him respectfully.” The second time, it was because the stew was not ready early enough. The third time? I don’t even remember. The reasons were always small, but the bruises were always big. I became an expert in wearing long sleeves, in applying foundation to swollen cheeks, in smiling when my heart was decaying inside. They say marriage is a blessing, so I convinced myself I just needed patience. That maybe if I tried harder, loved harder, swallowed my hurt deeper, he would one day treat me like a wife and not a punching bag.

But abuse is a hungry monster; the more you feed it, the more it grows. Adjei didn’t just beat me. He broke me in every possible way. Financially, emotionally, mentally, spiritually.

The man never paid school fees. He never bought books, uniforms, food, nothing. Every month when my salary came, he would go into my account and empty everything. I don’t know whether he saw me as a wife or an ATM without a PIN. Even when I begged him to leave something small for food, he would say, “If you want food, come to me.” Meanwhile, I would go to him and ask for just a pin and this man would get angry. He walked in and out of our home like a king, careless, cocky, arrogant, the type of man who always said, “I’m the head of the house. I don’t need to explain myself.”

But heads are supposed to lead, not destroy. For seven years, I lived in silent terror. My children learned to hide when their father came home angry. They learned to read my eyes, to know when Mommy was pretending. They learned quietness too early. Children are not supposed to grow up learning how to survive adults. I reported him once, but his family begged. My family said, “Marriage is like that. There’s nothing easy.”

I almost died in that marriage. Not physically but emotionally. I lost myself long before I walked out. The day I finally gathered courage, I didn’t shout. I didn’t cry. I didn’t even argue. I simply told him, “I can’t do this anymore. I’m leaving.”

He turned it into a fight, of course. He called me ungrateful, useless, lazy, the usual words abusive men use to cover their guilt. But this time, I didn’t fight back. I picked up my children, picked up my dignity, picked up what was left of my sanity and left. I rented a small room, nothing fancy, just a place with peace. Peace felt like oxygen after years of drowning. For the first time in years, I slept without fear.
For the first time in years, the kids laughed freely, and my heart felt like it belonged to me again.

My family and his family stepped in to resolve the issue. Meetings here and there. Discussions. Pleadings. Apologies. Excuses.

Then out of nowhere, Adjei died. No warning. No sickness. No closure. I wasn’t there when it happened. They say he complained of chest pains the night before and was found dead the next morning. Just like that.

The moment he died, my story died with him. To the world, it looked like:

Aku married until death did them part.
Aku was a good wife who stayed.
Aku’s marriage ended because God said so.

But inside me, I screamed: “No. I left. I walked away.”

I didn’t get to show my bruises. I didn’t get to tell my truth. I didn’t get to stand tall and say, “I divorced him because he ruined me.” I didn’t get to reclaim my power the way I planned. Even at his funeral, people whispered, “Awww, poor Aku. She must be so heartbroken.” Heartbroken? Yes, but not for the reasons they thought. I was heartbroken because his death changed my story. The world would never know what I endured. People love to praise the dead; no one asks what they did when they were alive.

Sometimes, I lie in bed thinking about all the years I wasted, wishing I had run earlier, spoken earlier, screamed earlier, protected myself earlier. If there is one thing I regret, it is silence. I stayed too long and protected the image of a man who destroyed me.

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I learned that if you don’t tell your story early, the world will rewrite it for you. And that is why today, I tell women everywhere: “Leave early. Leave loudly if you can. Don’t wait until life or death changes your narrative.”

My story didn’t end the way I wanted. But I survived. My children survived and that is enough. Adjei may have died, but the version of me he tried to kill lived. And she will never be silent again.

—Aku

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