We were returning home from a funeral at night when we had an accident. My husband was driving, and I was dozing off next to him. Maybe he felt lonely and also dozed off. I heard the turbulence and the shout and opened my eyes. We were off the road and descending a hill at an ungodly speed. I shouted “Jesus” before it all went pitch black.

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I woke up in the hospital bed only to be told that my husband couldn’t make it. I wanted to be dead too or remain in a coma forever. I was told I couldn’t shout, but the tears couldn’t stop from falling. I asked them to take me to him, forgetting I’d broken an arm and had stitches on my face.

When the heart breaks, physical pain pales in comparison. No pain is more painful than the one you feel in your heart when you lose a husband. I was pushing, begging for them to take me to him. The nurses walked in and out of my ward without paying attention to my need to see the face of my husband.

My parents came without my son. I asked them where he was, and they couldn’t say. Later, they told me they didn’t want him close to the sadness that was flowing through our corridors. Later, the parents of my husband also came, followed by some family members and my husband’s siblings.

His mom asked, while crying, “Afia, what happened? What happened that you’re here but my son isn’t? What happened?”

We cried together. We’d both lost something precious. They went to see his body without me. They made plans without me. I was still in the hospital bed when my husband’s elder brother came to ask me for the keys to the house. I told him, “We lost everything.”

I was still in my hospital bed when he came back to tell me, “We’ve closed the door to secure everything in the house. From here, go to your parents’ house. You’ll hear from us.”

The whole thing sounded strange, but I didn’t have the strength to ask questions or fight back. They didn’t come to see me again, though they were in the hospital many times to make arrangements for my husband’s body. By the time I was discharged, they’d already planned the funeral without me. While in their family house asking questions, I heard whispers behind my husband’s death.

My arm was in a sling. My face hadn’t completely healed. My heart was bleeding raw. I fought back. My family confronted them. We had to break the door to my own house to be able to get some clothes to wear. They came at me, questioning why I had to break the door. They threatened to bring the police on me for stealing my own clothes.

I attended my husband’s funeral like a stranger. They didn’t even allow me to read the widow’s tribute. The funeral came to an end, and they shared my husband’s properties without involving me. The shame and the pain were too much. It wasn’t even about the properties but how they consistently accused me of being responsible for my husband’s death.

So when they went for everything in the house and asked me to come and pick my clothes, I threw myself on the floor and dragged my ass on the bare floor and invoked my husband’s ghost to be my witness. I called out his name three times and said, “If indeed I’m the reason behind your death, don’t let me see the sun rise tomorrow, but if I’m innocent, you know those who are persecuting me. Deal with them. Let everything they’ve stolen from us be a curse upon them.”

They were there watching me when I peed at the spot where I dragged my butt. I picked up a few of my things and left. Honestly, I did what I did out of pain. I saw it in movies and decided to do it too. I didn’t believe it was going to work, but I felt it was enough to let them know I was innocent. I nearly died too, so how could they accuse me?

On my husband’s one-year anniversary, they didn’t invite me, but I went there all the same. They pushed me out of the house and called me evil. Little did they know, my husband’s elder brother had suffered a severe stroke for close to four months. My husband’s father was also fighting for his sight.

They had gone to see a prophet, and he told them their son was avenging what they did to me, so they should come to me with an apology. Because they refused, my husband poked his dad’s eyes and gave his brother, who championed my persecution, a stroke. The next target was his mom.

Despite all these revelations, they decided not to come to me but instead moved around seeking fortification against my curse. I’m very feisty but get scared easily. When I heard the story, I asked my mom what I should do to free them. I even talked to my husband’s spirit at dawn, begging him to stop the nonsense. My mom told me, “Let them come first, and we’ll take it from there. They better return everything they took from you.”

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They haven’t come. They are still battling unknown diseases in different forms and shapes. His brother is still down. His dad’s sight keeps getting worse. His mom is currently standing scared, but pride won’t allow her to ask for forgiveness. I wish there was a way I could release them without them coming before me. I’ve forgiven them long ago. They took things but not my life or the life of my child. The lies couldn’t become the truth because the truth always stands.

—Afia

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