I finally got tired of this girl who had been interfering in my marriage for over three years, so I decided to go to her place to warn her to stay away from my husband—and guess who I met there with her? My husband.

She used to live with us as a house help when we had our child, Wendy. It was my husband’s mother who brought her in. She was very helpful at first. You would wake up to see the house clean and smelling of breakfast. On weekends, she was all over the place ensuring that things were smooth. I loved her until I started seeing signs of flirtation between her and my husband.

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She was the first person I spoke to, trusting that she was a woman like me and would open up. She said my husband hadn’t made any move on her and that she felt safe around us all. I told her, “He’s a man and can cross the line sometimes. When you see any signs of him crossing the line with you, let me know and I’ll talk to him.”

It was cordial. I meant well and was even ready to put my marriage on the line just to protect her from the prying eyes of my husband. I continued seeing things. They were quiet and subtle—something only sharp intuition can pick up on. Again, I approached her. “Are you sure my husband hasn’t approached you in any way? I see the way he looks at you. I see how you don’t want to look at him when he’s with me and I’m talking to you. It’s like you want to disappear whenever he’s around.”

She smiled and said she was fine. I didn’t believe her, so I started buying her new clothes and going out with her often. I was free with her and took the friendship a level up, believing she would trust me enough to open up to me. She didn’t. She even supported my husband.

I stopped engaging her and instead opened my eyes. I came from work early one day and met my husband in the house. I didn’t get the hint of his presence early, so I announced myself outside before going in. Even then, I saw Wendy quickly dashing into the kitchen while my husband lay shirtless on the sofa. The room felt mushy, like two scents had collided. I asked my husband why he was home early and why he didn’t call to tell me. He said, “I knew you’d be coming very soon, so there was no need.”

It all came down when I went to a funeral one Saturday and left them in the house. I didn’t go far when it suddenly occurred to me that I should go back and see what I would find. I went back and, behold, my husband was in Wendy’s room and our baby had been left alone in the hall. He said he was helping her fix her fan—a fan that was already on and blowing air.

I lost it. It wasn’t concrete, but I didn’t think I’d ever catch them on top of each other. I asked Wendy to prepare to leave my house. She begged. She cried. My husband protested. I called my mother-in-law to come for her, but she couldn’t come around. So on the day Wendy was leaving, I went with her to ensure she was home and in the hands of her parents. She was twenty-six then.

Sacking her was like shooting myself in the foot. It opened the floodgate for my husband to step out to chase his dream. I read from his phone. He had gone to meet Wendy and they had done “things.” I don’t know what those things were, but they kept calling it “things,” so I had to read between the lines. I fought my husband. He denied all the things I’d read with my own eyes. He called me a hater of Wendy, even when I had seen evidence.

Another time, it was a photo she sent to my husband. It was some wild photo, bi ooo. Her cleavage and tummy were all showing. My husband replied, “This is exactly what I’m missing.” When I confronted him, he made me look like I was mad and hallucinating about things. He denied ever receiving such a photo from Wendy and told me right to my face that if I was tired of the marriage, I should leave him alone.

I cried some nights. Out of frustration, I decided I would go to Wendy’s house and talk to her and ask her mother to also advise her to stay away from my husband. It was a Saturday. My husband had travelled the day before on a business trip. In my mind, I was doing it when he wasn’t around to ensure smooth operation. I got there and saw my husband seated on the floor eating banku Wendy’s mom was serving. She was giving him more stew when I got there.

He quickly got up out of fear and asked, “What are you doing here?”

Wendy disappeared, and her mother also locked herself in her room. It was left with the two of us. I answered, “I should rather ask you this question. You’re not supposed to be in town, so what are you doing here?” His voice went low. He said I shouldn’t try to create any scene to embarrass him. That got me angrier, so I started shouting. I wanted the whole community to know who Wendy and her mom were. My husband stopped begging and started warning me to leave before something bad happened.

I called his mom and told her what was happening. She begged me to leave, and I did. My husband came home a day later to ask me, “What was that for? Do you still want this marriage after embarrassing me the way you did?”

Oh, I didn’t keep quiet. I think I shocked him into silence. Our child was with me and crying, but I didn’t back down. When the dust settled, I asked myself, “Why should I allow someone to bring out this side of me I didn’t know existed when I can just walk out?”

The next day, I came to my parents’ house. I didn’t pick anything from the house. I came here to wear my old clothes, sleep in my old comfortable room, and be surrounded by parents who love and cherish me. He has come here twice to beg. I locked myself inside, refusing to see his lying face. My dad has asked me twice what I want to do, and each time I told him I want a divorce. He said, “Think about it very well when you’re no longer angry. I don’t want you to regret anything.”

I Left Him Because He Didn’t Help In The Kitchen

We’ve been apart for two months, and at this point I believe the worst form of regret would be me going back to that house and into the arms I’ve been sharing with Wendy. My child saw the last fight. I believe if I go back, he’ll look at me and wonder why I returned to a place where I was nearly beaten. I don’t think he would even respect my title as his mom. So I will stay here until my dad is convinced that all I want is to leave.

—Akuaba

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