Two weeks after marriage, my husband’s taxi had an accident and the driver died. This is a taxi he had owned for over four years, and this same driver had worked with the taxi, making sales for him every day. The taxi was completely mangled, though the accident didn’t look very serious.

My husband was left with two motorbikes he was operating. Not long after the taxi incident, one of the motorbikes was stolen. I went up and down with him, looking for the rider. We made it a police case, but nothing came out of it. I was the one calling the officer in charge or going there to ask if they had found any information about the bike.

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A month later, nothing had come out of the search. You could see frustration in my husband’s strides. When he sat down eating, he’d drift away, looking into nothingness, obviously thinking about the tragedy that had befallen him. He had a taxi, and through the hard work of the taxi driver, he bought two motorbikes. Within a short period, he’d lost a taxi, a driver, and also a bike.

One evening, the rider of the last bike came to park it and said he was traveling to the village to visit his sick mom. He said he was going for a week, but three weeks later he wasn’t back. I told my husband we should look for a new rider since people kept calling and asking for services.

A call came through one afternoon from one of my husband’s old customers. They needed a bike to run a series of errands. The money was good, so my husband decided to do the errands himself. He left home around 2 p.m. Just around 4 p.m., I had a call that my husband had been involved in an accident and his condition was critical.

I couldn’t breathe. How was that possible? I rushed quickly to the hospital, where I met my husband’s mother already there. She had been crying profusely about what had happened, so with tears in my eyes and my lips shaking, I asked if my husband was doing well and what had really happened. She chuckled and walked away. I followed her to the ward and saw my husband’s condition.

His left leg was buried in bandages and his face was full of injuries. He could see my face but didn’t say anything. I was crying and asking what had happened. He lay quietly in bed while staring at the ceiling. My mother-in-law asked me to be quiet or she would drive me away from the ward. I didn’t understand her bitterness toward me, but that wasn’t the right time to ask questions. I stayed by his side, but he said no word until I had to go back home.

I was home getting ready to go back to the hospital when his mom called to tell me I shouldn’t bother because she would be there. I still went anyway. My mother-in-law wouldn’t let me be alone with my husband, so I asked what was going on. She answered, “I should leave you so you can end his life totally? Witch. That will not happen.”

My husband’s father came by but didn’t engage with me. Even when I tried to talk to him, he ignored me. My husband’s siblings also came to visit. They ignored me. They all treated me like a shadow on the wall, unimportant and almost nonexistent. My own parents came to visit and the treatment was the same. My dad told me, “Go home and allow them to do whatever they want. God knows you’ve tried.”

One day, out of frustration, I decided to cause a scene at the ward in the presence of my in-laws, asking them what I had done to deserve all that shameful treatment. It turned into a heated exchange of words. My mother-in-law told me I was the witch destroying my husband’s life. “Is that the way you met him? Just a few months in his life and see what’s happening to him. Witch. Bad-luck woman. Go back to wherever you came from.”

My husband spent over one month at the hospital. He himself told his parents they should not allow me anywhere close to his bed. I know this because another woman who was also caring for her husband in the same ward told me everything they said while I wasn’t there. I went to the hospital when I could. I begged my husband to speak up. I told him I was praying for him, so he shouldn’t give up on us.

When he was discharged, his parents took him home. That meant I couldn’t see my husband whenever I wanted to. A few days after he was discharged, he got the news that he’d lost his job. I started believing what everyone was saying—that I was the bad luck, that there was something about me destroying my husband’s life. In a marriage that wasn’t even a year old, this flamboyant man I married had lost everything.

I took it to prayer, asking God to restore my husband to his rightful place even if that should cause the end of our marriage. I grew thin. I didn’t know who to save, my marriage or the man I married. I would pray and dream that my husband had been placed in an oven. I would call him and his mom or dad would pick up the phone. They wouldn’t allow me to talk to my husband. For two months, I didn’t see my husband’s face.

His parents came to my house for a divorce. They didn’t even tell us they were coming. My parents, out of anger, accepted the divorce even when I was pleading with them not to. Right after that, my husband called me. He said, “Maybe it’s not you, but it’s better this way so we both have our peace.”

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We are yet to divorce in court, but nothing shows this marriage is going to recover. I’ve prayed. I’ve fasted. I’ve followed crazy directions from different men of God, but nothing works. The shame is too much. Everyone around me thinks I’m the problem. A few days ago, I wanted to end it all, but a voice said in my ear, “Wait, the truth will finally come out.”

I hope it comes out soon and I’m vindicated. All I did was love him. This shouldn’t be my lot after everything I’ve been through.

—Asabia

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