While we were dreaming of becoming pilots, engineers and lawyers, my husband’s dream when he was young was to become a Catholic priest. When I was in primary school, I wanted to become an engineer but the dream changed when I got to junior high. If you asked me I would tell you I wanted to become a pilot. It changed again when I went to SHS. I was refined by age so my dream got refined too. I knew what reality meant so I pegged my dreams to the reality of my circumstances. I wanted to become a nurse. That was more achievable than becoming a pilot. My husband, throughout all the phases of life, wanted to become a Catholic priest.

His father was a catechist and his mother was a cook for their parish priest, a position that got him closer to the catholic priest for him to dream such a dream. He developed the character for his dreams; very respectful, obedient and recited the Angelus at noon every day.

He missed his chance at the seminary when his father died right after JHS. His mother followed just before he could graduate from the SHS. He went to live with his uncle. That was when his dream of becoming a catholic priest changed. His uncle hated it; “Your mom and dad are dead,” his uncle reminded him. “You’re their only son. If you become a Catholic priest, who’ll name their children after them?”

When we met after university and he told me this story, I told him, “I would have moved from one heartbreak to another in relationships, thinking I have bad luck in love. Not knowing, the one God created for me had become a Catholic priest. I’m grateful to your uncle.”

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He was a virgin when I met him. I was his third serious relationship. He was my sixth or ninth serious relationship, I don’t know. I loved his innocence and for so many months at the start of our relationship, I felt unworthy to be the one to take his virginity but he insisted he wanted to do it before his thirty-third birthday, so, I spread out for him while I watched him try to find his way in. Once he was in, he sighed. Minutes later he was done.

“Wow.” That was all he said. A year later, we were married. “Wow.” That was all I said the first day we moved in together.

Six years later, we had two kids, a beautiful family and a problem. My husband found himself a side chick. That was not the problem. I knew he had a side chick but I was not angry about it. That was the problem.

My husband went to work so early and came back very late in the evening. He wouldn’t help with the kids in the morning and wouldn’t play with them like he used to in the evening. Most evenings, when the kids were sleeping, we would sit in the corridor and talk the whole night away. He loved listening to my stories so he made space for us every evening but things changed. He used tiredness as an excuse to escape talking to me in the evening.

His dressing changed and the amount of time he spent on his phone increased. When a man changes or deviates from the norm, he tries so hard to cover up his tracks. In so doing, he becomes an open book. Unless you don’t want to read him but the stories he tries to hide are mostly written boldly on his forehead.

I went through his phone and saw the name of the lady. They were working colleagues in the same office who texted each other while in the office because they didn’t want their colleagues to know about the affair. The things they talked about were funny. I read them and felt like it was coming from teenagers in love.

My husband talked about sex freely, something he couldn’t talk to me about, whether good or bad. The lady called him good in bed which I knew she was lying. She was saying it to massage his ego. My husband confessed to her that she was the second woman he had ever slept with. I should have been angry but I felt a mixture of pity and happiness for him.

I wished I could say the same to him, that he was my first guy or second, or fourth or even fifth. I couldn’t because I didn’t dream of becoming a catholic nun when I was young. Maybe I was happy to know I didn’t marry an angel but married a man who was capable of committing adultery just like I dated a married man during my formative years.

The only part I got concerned about was when I realized the lady was using a complicated dark art of flattery and lies to extort money from my husband. My husband was too inexperienced to know and it broke my heart. Had it not been that, I wouldn’t have let my husband know that I knew he was cheating.

So one weekend, when he had time to spend in the house with us, I told him, “You’re paying too much for an affair this young. The girl is lying to you but your priesthood state of mind won’t let you know it.”

He denied the affair with his lips but the look on his face told a different story. “See, I’m not angry. I’m only concerned that you’ll part with money easily because of her lies. I’ve read your chats. Every word of it, except the ones you deleted. I’m not judging you. I’m only saying if you continue paying this much and this often, your children will be out of school very soon.”

When he resisted my invitation to talk about the affair, I let him go. I didn’t mention it again or nag about it. I continued being a wife in the best way that I could and played the mother role to kids who didn’t ask too much of me. But I could see he was battling with his conscience. He came back to normal at some point. We started having our nightly corridor conversations and pretended everything was alright. One evening he opened up.

He talked about the girl the way a boy would talk about his first crush. He talked about their first date and how they started seeing each other. He didn’t propose but the girl did it overtly and he fell for it. When he caught himself confessing his sins, he stopped abruptly and asked, “Why am I talking to my wife about my girlfriend?”

After the confession, I asked him, “How’s she taking the breakup? Is she hurt? Is she fighting to have you back?”

“I don’t know,” he answered. “We talk. It’s not the normal kind of talk but I’m the one who’s fighting not to have her back into my life. I nearly destroyed my family and that’s enough.”

It Will Be Difficult For Me To Commit To One Person

I wanted to hug him but the two of us aren’t the hugging lovey-dovey type. We sat quietly for a while until he got up and entered the bedroom. I followed. When we slept, he put his hand around me but I wished he would pull me in and hold me tight as if he never tried to let this love go.

— Mandy

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