People envy what they see on the outside. They don’t ask questions—they just assume.
To the world, I was the girl who had it all.
A mansion with four bedrooms, marble floors, and a walk-in closet bigger than my entire childhood apartment. A fridge stocked with imported wine. Brunches served on gold-rimmed plates. Ankara from Ghana, lace from Vienna, perfumes from Paris. But deep within me, something was dying. Slowly. Quietly.
Freedom.
There’s a certain pain that comes with being alone in a beautiful space. The kind of loneliness that doesn’t come from a lack of people, but from a lack of self. I had everything except myself. My thoughts were no longer my own. I couldn’t make decisions without wondering what Chuka would say. Would he approve? Would he be upset?
Even my appearance became his property. “Don’t wear red lipstick. It’s too loud.” “Tie your hair. It makes you look more homely.” “You don’t need makeup. You look fine just as you are.” At first, it felt like affection. Then I realized I was being erased in layers. Stripped of identity under the guise of love.
I remember one Sunday morning, I told him I wanted to go to church. A real church, not YouTube. I missed singing in the choir, holding hands during prayer, hearing people breathe the same faith I once held onto.
His reply was casual, almost dismissive.
“Why do you want to go outside when you already have everything here? Even God lives in this house with you.”
I laughed, because it sounded ridiculous.
He didn’t.
I watched him walk out of the living room without another word, leaving me there… feeling guilty for even asking.
Guilt. That was his favorite tool.
He never needed to shout. He never needed to threaten. He just withdrew. Gave me silence. Coldness. And that silence would haunt me worse than anger ever could.
Some nights, I would curl up in bed and listen to the rain, imagining what it would feel like to sit outside in the compound, barefoot, soaked, and free. Other nights, I’d cry into my pillow and then quickly fix my face before he came in—because tears irritated him.
“Why are you always moody?” he asked one night. “You have everything a woman could want.”
I wanted to scream. I wanted to tell him that what I wanted wasn’t material. I wanted connection. Autonomy. A life of my own. But instead, I smiled and said, “I’m just tired.”
Tired.
That word became my shield. My mask. My lie.
The few people who still tried to reach out—I pushed away. Not because I didn’t want them, but because I didn’t want to explain. I didn’t know how to say, Yes, I’m living in luxury, but I can’t even decide when to step outside my gate.
Chioma never gave up, though. My stubborn cousin. She sent messages. Voice notes. Funny memes. Prayers. Sometimes, just a single sentence: “I miss you. Please tell me you’re okay.”
I never replied. But I read them. Over and over again. They were my lifeline.
One day, I found myself staring at the sewing machine he had bought me months ago. “Since you love fashion, you can design from home,” he said. But even that came with rules. “No clients visiting. No social media promotions. Just private work.”
I never touched it.
Because my creativity needed oxygen. And I was suffocating.
I began having anxiety attacks. Small things—like the sound of the front gate opening or my phone ringing—would jolt me out of sleep. My chest would tighten. My fingers would shake. I thought I was dying. But the truth was, I was just waking up. Slowly.
I began journaling again—writing in secret. I kept the notebook hidden under the vanity drawer in the guest bathroom. Writing became my rebellion. The one place I could still be me.
And that’s when the first spark of resistance appeared.
I wrote one sentence that changed everything:
“This is not the life God intended for me.”
I stared at those words for a long time. Then I wrote them again. And again. It became a daily ritual. A prayer. A declaration.
I didn’t know how or when. But I knew—I couldn’t live like this forever.
I began planning. Quietly. Carefully.
I memorized Chuka’s travel schedule. I started watching the house staff—learning who was loyal to him, who was just doing their job. I built a bond with Mama Nkechi, the housemaid. She was quiet but kind. One day, I gave her one of my rings and said, “Please keep this for me. Just in case.”
She didn’t ask questions. She just nodded.
It was a small step. But for the first time in years, I felt like I had taken back a sliver of control.
And that was all I needed to keep going.
