My name is Adaeze. I used to think that being chosen by a rich man was the peak of life’s blessings. I thought I had arrived. But sometimes, what glitters most, imprisons the deepest.
They say love is blind. But I now believe it’s more accurate to say love blinds you—especially when money walks in wearing a Rolex and a fresh Tom Ford cologne.
I was 26 when I met Chuka Nwankwo, and everything about him screamed arrival. Not just his presence, but his power. The way people paused when he spoke. The way he tossed his car keys to the valet like he owned the whole city. I still remember the first time I saw him—at Ogechi’s wedding in Lekki.
I was seated at the table closest to the dance floor, sipping Chapman and scrolling through my phone when he walked up. Dark-skinned, tall, clean-shaven with a commanding smile. He didn’t introduce himself immediately. He just said, “You don’t belong here.”
I looked up, confused. “Excuse me?”
He smirked. “I mean, this party is beneath you. A woman like you should be in Dubai shopping or at a yacht party in Cape Town.”
That was his idea of a compliment. Arrogant. Daring. I should have rolled my eyes. But I laughed. That’s how it started.
His name was Chuka Nwankwo. Owner of a logistics firm, or so he said. He never gave too many details, just enough to impress. Within a week, he had sent flowers to my office, showed up at my apartment with a new iPhone, and made dinner reservations at the most expensive places in Lagos.
My friends were skeptical. “Adaeze, slow down. This man moves too fast,” Chioma warned.
But I was smitten. Here was a man who called me “queen,” who never let me lift a finger, who opened car doors and sent me surprise credit alerts. I thought, Why not? Isn’t this what we all pray for?
Looking back now, I realize it wasn’t love. It was grooming.
He began subtly. A comment here, a suggestion there. “That dress is too tight, Ada. You don’t want men looking at you like that.” “Why are you still talking to that your male colleague? You know how men are.” “You’re too beautiful to be in a bank job—you should let me take care of you.”
At the time, I interpreted it as protection. I thought he was just being possessive because he loved me too much.
When he proposed six months later, I said yes with tears in my eyes. He gave me a diamond ring and took me to Dubai for our honeymoon. Two weeks after we returned, he told me to resign from my job. “My wife doesn’t need to work. I’ll take care of you,” he said.
I hesitated. I loved my job. But he insisted. And I, like a naive little bird flattered by a golden cage, gave in.
I did it.
I resigned.
At first, it felt like bliss. He gave me access to anything I needed. Netflix, DStv, spa days at home, a personal chef, even a driver. I didn’t have to stress about anything. He made sure my wardrobe was full of designer outfits. He bought me books because I loved to read. Every corner of the house was comfortable. Everything… except the freedom to step outside.
It began with him asking me to avoid certain places. “No need to go to market—just give the cook a list.” “Church? Watch the service online, I already paid for the high-speed internet.” “Why go to the salon when the stylist can come here?”
Then came the rules.
I was not allowed to go anywhere unless I had his permission. Not to see my mother. Not to check on my old colleagues. Not to attend weddings. Not even to walk around the estate without telling him first. Sometimes, even when he was out of town, I’d have to wait hours to get a text back saying yes or no.
“Don’t you trust me?” I asked one evening, after he said no to me attending my cousin’s introduction ceremony.
“It’s not about trust. It’s about safety. And discipline,” he replied.
Discipline. That word hit me like cold water.
He didn’t stop me from watching TV or reading. In fact, he encouraged it. “You can stay busy at home,” he would say. “Anything you want, I’ll provide.” And he did. Except my right to exist outside of him.
The house became a palace and a prison.
The neighbors knew nothing. On the outside, I looked like the perfect kept woman. I waved at the security men through the window. I smiled at deliveries. But behind the gates of our mansion, I was just a bird in a golden cage—perched, polished, and silent.
I began to shrink.
There were no beatings. No visible scars. But the silence, the isolation, the absence of choice—it all became louder than any slap.
I remember once trying to sneak out just to breathe fresh air outside the compound. I wore a hoodie and tried to take a walk. The security guard stopped me. He said Oga instructed that I should not leave without authorization. I returned inside and wept in the bathroom.
That day, I stared at my reflection in the mirror. My skin glowed. My hair was well-styled. My fingers adorned with gold rings. But my eyes were hollow. The Adaeze who once had dreams of starting her own fashion brand, the girl who used to laugh uncontrollably at lunch with friends… was fading.
And still, I told myself: He loves me. He provides. He just wants to protect me.
But protection that demands submission isn’t protection. It’s possession.
I didn’t know it then, but I was slowly reaching my breaking point.
A Coolvalstories Original
