This is the first part of a two-part series. Link to the next part is at the end of the story.
Dear Eve,
“I used to think I was rich, that I was leading a good life, until my husband died in 2020. He left me with seven children, no assets, no savings, nothing but heartbreak and regrets.
I got married when I was just 16 years old. It was an arranged marriage. At the time, my husband was a bus driver in Duste, Abuja, and he had come home to Yola for Sallah. I was spending the holiday with my older sister, who was pregnant and married to the uncle I was visiting.
He saw me, liked me, and spoke to his uncle. Consequently, things escalated. My sister asked if I liked him, but I didn’t know what to say. How do you like a man? What does that even mean?
She told me he was a good man with a respectable job from a good family. My sister pointed to her own life, asking if I saw how well she was living. She said his family knew how to respect women, and since he worked in Abuja, he would take me with him to the big city after we married. She said many other things, and by the time she finished, I was convinced that marrying him was a good choice.
Our families met and talked. Before he went back to Abuja, we were engaged. Soon after his return, he sent me a gift through a relative who was coming home. It was a Super Wax wrapper, which was, and still is, a very big deal. In those days, very few people could afford one, but I had one.
There was also a pair of shoes, two rolls of waist beads, and a jar of body cream. I was ecstatic, but my sister was even happier. She had known he was a good man, was sure that he would take care of me. “See how he’s already taking care of you even before you enter his house,” she teased.
Kabiru, my husband, returned home after two months, and our wedding was set for three months later. He sent me messages and gifts through anyone coming home and sent things to my family as well.
The rainy season that year came earlier than expected, and it rained throughout our wedding festivities. We got married, and I moved into his home, a place he built away from the family house. This was something very few men did.
Kabiru and I were happy together. He was kind, gentle, soft-spoken, and rarely got angry. I got pregnant a month after our marriage, right around the time he had to go back to Abuja. I had to stay behind because of the pregnancy, as he hadn’t yet made provisions for me to move in with him.
He came home at intervals. I had our first son in 2000, and when he was three months old, we moved to Abuja with his father. It was a one-room apartment with a makeshift wooden kitchen outside. But it was enough for me.
When our son turned one, Kabiru sent me to learn tailoring. He didn’t want me to be like the other women in the village, he said. He wanted me to have something to do so I could make my own money.
It was a good plan, and I started tailoring school but stopped soon after I discovered I was pregnant again. I was often sick, battling morning sickness. Caring for my son and doing household chores was a lot for me. Kabiru helped when he could, but he was often away.
I stopped going to tailoring school because I couldn’t keep up. If I had known life would change so drastically, I would have kept going. No matter how hard and tough it was, I would have kept going. At least I would have had skills, something to keep me afloat after my husband’s death.
I had twins, a boy and a girl. In just three years of marriage, I had three children. My life became even busier. There was little time for me to focus on anything other than the kids. Kabiru was earning well, and we moved into a two-bedroom apartment with a living room and indoor kitchen. We were living the lives of rich people.
Whenever our relatives visited, they would remark that Kabiru was wasting his money on expensive clothes and putting his son in school instead of buying cows and farming.
My sister told me many times to convince my husband to buy cows and invest his money in farming. She said I would be securing assets for myself and my children should anything happen to him. We would have an inheritance to fall back on.
Kabiru asked me to ignore what people were saying. He said the most important thing was education. He could tell, having seen many things and worked with different people as a driver, that education was soon going to be an essential thing, and without it, you couldn’t progress.
I agreed. Simply hearing my son speak good English and having his teachers talk about how smart he was was enough for me.
In 2006, the twins were finally old enough for school, and I thought I could get a break. Or so I thought, until I became pregnant again. I cried when I found out. I wasn’t ready for a new baby. What I wanted was to do something for myself.
I was ready to build myself, learn tailoring, and start making my own money. Just like the other women in our compound with businesses and jobs. I wanted to be like them.
That was the first time Kabiru and I had a big fight. He was so angry he nearly sent me home because, in his words, my “eyes were starting to open too much,” and I was “starting to misbehave.” My sister came down to Abuja to mediate and scolded me.
In private, she said I should be happy that Kabiru hadn’t gotten another wife despite having a lot of money. She said I shouldn’t be crying but celebrating that I was giving birth to kids who would inherit their father’s property and wealth.
She spoke to me at length and promised to secretly help me get a birth-control herb that would prevent me from getting pregnant after I had my baby. I finally calmed down.
Kabiru and I made up, and everything was good again. I knew I was having twins this time because I was going to the hospital for antenatal care. I had my twins in 2007. When a tenant moved out of a three-bedroom flat in the compound, we moved in.
I didn’t know much about Kabiru’s finances then. I knew he had his own bus and a small Peugeot car, that he also had bikes that other people were working for him with, remitting money to him daily. He told me he’d gotten land somewhere and was building a house.
He took me to see it once and gave me the papers to keep safe, said it was for me and my children.
When I brought up the topic of learning tailoring again, Kabiru became incensed. We had five children, he was taking care of us well, and he gave me everything I needed. What did I want to work for? Was living in the city starting to get to my head?
I let the topic slide but promised myself that wouldn’t be the end of it. My sister brought the family planning herb to me. I told Kabiru about it, and even though he wasn’t too pleased because, in his words, he didn’t mind more children, he was okay with it.
We stopped using protection, certain the herb would work. But it failed.
I got pregnant again when my second twins were just over a year old.”
Continues in the next part…
This is the first part of this story. Read the next part(s) and other series here.
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