23/07/2025
Set Me Free: A True Story of Love, Betrayal, and Survival
I met Edith in church in 2010. She was soft-spoken, beautiful in that calm, understated way that makes your heart slow down just to admire the simplicity of it all. Our first real meeting happened outside the church, when she walked into my office to sell packet shirts. She smiled shyly and asked if I’d be interested. I wasn’t so much interested in the shirts as I was in the person selling them. That day marked the beginning of something — something I never thought would one day break me.
Our little talks blossomed into something deeper. We spoke often, about life, about faith, about dreams. There was something pure in the way our relationship grew — no s*x, no rush, just companionship. We married in December 2011, under the eyes of God, surrounded by hope, and family, and quiet prayers whispered for a bright future.
But I quickly learned that love, no matter how sincere, doesn’t shield you from the harshness of reality.
After our wedding, things changed. Intimacy, the kind a husband expects from his wife, was painfully absent. Any attempt at s*x left her crying in agony. She would hold herself tightly, trembling and apologizing through tears. I was confused, frustrated, but I loved her, and so I endured. We saw doctors and eventually discovered she had ovarian fibroids. Then, more truth came tumbling out.
She had undergone two major surgeries before we met — one for an ovarian cyst, another for her appendix. She never told me before marriage. Maybe she was scared. Maybe she thought it wouldn’t matter. But it did matter — not because I blamed her, but because her body had become a battlefield long before I entered her life, and I had no idea.
During the fibroid surgery, the doctors found adhesions binding down one of her ovaries. The discovery devastating: her chances of getting pregnant were close to impossible except a miracle happened. When her mother heard this, desperation set in. She dragged Edith from one traditional healer to another, and I — holding onto the last thread of hope — funded every visit, paid for every herbal concoction, every mysterious ritual, clinging to the hope that something might work.
Nothing worked.
Eventually, we turned to IVF. It felt like our last shot. But even that came with conditions. Edith was advised to undergo a tubal ligation to increase her chances of getting pregnant — another surgery, another wound. We prayed. We hoped. We waited. The result?
Failure.
And that broke her. Edith sank into a deep, choking depression. She would sit for hours staring at nothing. Her laughter — the soft one I first heard in church — became a memory. I watched the woman I loved slowly disappear before my eyes.
And me? I smiled in public, I reassured her, but I was dying inside. I was a husband without a wife, a man with no child, and a dreamer watching his dreams turn to ashes.
Our home became silent. Love turned into sympathy. Passion turned into pity. And slowly, our bond turned into burden.
There are some kinds of pain you can’t explain. You just carry them.
One day, she told me to let her go. She said she couldn’t bear children for me and I deserved to remarry. But I refused. I held onto love. I begged her not to give up. I now realize… maybe that was my mistake. I thought love could fix everything.
She became angry, aggressive, and suspicious.
Then came the storm.
She began accusing my family of plotting to replace her with a “fertile” wife. Nagging turned into shouting. Quarrels became daily. She grew aggressive. One day, I had to flee my own home to stay alive. She beat up and almost stab a female coursemate who visited me. Another day, she stormed into my office and assaulted a groupmate while we worked on a school presentation.
Her mother? She turned the entire truth on its head. She claimed I was the reason Edith couldn’t conceive. That barrenness ran in my bloodline. She told my family to take me for a medical check-up. She said I should divorce her daughter. That they were tired of me.
I did just that — I filed for divorce. I needed peace. I needed life.
Then Edith began to beg. She said I should ignore her mother. But the damage was already done — not just to the marriage, but to my soul. She refused to sign the divorce. Instead, she spread more lies — that I had connived with her doctor for the tubal ligation, that I had remarried, and even sued another innocent woman who had nothing to do with me.
She is demanding for ₦14 million for damages.
Since 2015, we’ve been dragged from one courtroom to another. Ten long years. No justice. No peace. No closure.
This is not just a story. This is a cry.
A cry from a man who gave everything. A man who stood by love, by faith, and by his vows. A man now fighting for his freedom — mentally, emotionally, legally.
I seek your prayers.
I seek your support.
I seek your voice.
That the evil hands of Edith and her mother be removed from my path. That the truth be revealed. That peace returns to my life.
Life can be cruel. People can change. Lies can become weapons. But I believe in God. I believe in healing. And I believe that one day, I will be free.
I don’t hate Edith. I never did. If anything, I pitied her, I prayed for her, I forgave her. But sometimes, love isn’t enough. Sometimes, the story you hoped would end in joy becomes a painful lesson in acceptance and letting go.
She was my wife. She was my pain. She was the love that taught me that not all love stories are meant to last — but they still deserve to be told.
