The plan wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t even smart.
But it was mine.
I had no grand escape mapped out with a GPS tracker or a burner phone and fake identity like in the movies. All I had was desperation… and courage that had taken years to grow.
The night I chose to flee was ironically the quietest night we’d had in weeks. Chuka had returned from work unusually exhausted, muttered something about how “everyone in this country wants to be spoon-fed,” and passed out on the living room couch.
I watched him sleep.
And for the first time in our marriage, I didn’t see a man—I saw a wall. Cold. Unmoving. Solid. A barrier between me and the life I wanted.
I took it as a sign.
I quietly slipped into the guest room where I had hidden a change of clothes beneath the bed frame. Jeans. Sneakers. A simple black T-shirt. No makeup. No jewelry. Just me.
Raw. Undone. Finally real.
I stood before the mirror one last time. Not to mourn what I was leaving behind—but to commit to memory the version of me who had survived all these years without losing her mind.
And then I whispered, “Thank you for holding on.”
I tiptoed past the hallway, clutching my phone and the small brown envelope containing my documents—birth certificate, NIN slip, bank token, and a few hundred-dollar bills I had saved from random birthday cash gifts over the years.
I reached the backyard.
The night was still. The sky was dark, but oddly peaceful. Even the moon felt like it was rooting for me.
I pulled out the bag from behind the water tank and slung it over my shoulder.
Then I knocked gently on the kitchen door—two taps, pause, one tap. It was the signal I had agreed on with Mama Nkechi.
She opened, her eyes glassy. She didn’t say a word.
She handed me a paper bag with small chin-chin and bottled water.
Then she held my hands..
“I will tell him you went to your sister’s house for two days. He won’t suspect anything. That’s enough time for you to vanish.”
I hugged her. “Thank you.”
She wiped my tears and whispered, “Run. Before you change your mind.”
I walked to the junction barefoot, holding my shoes in one hand. I didn’t want the sound to alert anyone.
Once I reached the main road, I flagged down a keke. I lied and said my phone had died and I needed to use the driver’s to call someone urgently. He hesitated, but gave it to me.
I dialed Chioma.
Three rings.
“Hello?”
“It’s me.”
“Jesus! Ada?! Where are you? Are you okay?!”
“I’m out. I left him.”
There was a moment of silence. And then she whispered, “Good girl. Where are you? Send me a landmark.”
Twenty minutes later, her car pulled up. I climbed in. She looked at me like I had risen from the dead.
“You’ve lost weight,” she said, brushing a finger across my cheek.
I smiled weakly. “But I found myself.”
We drove in silence for a while.
And then I cried.
Hard. From a place so deep I didn’t know existed. I cried for every ‘yes’ I said when I wanted to say ‘no.’ For every dream I buried. For every call I ignored. For every lie I told myself just to survive.
I cried because I was finally free.
Not safe yet.
But free.
That night, I slept in Chioma’s spare room. On a modest mattress, under a noisy ceiling fan. No gold. No imported sheets. No soft jazz playing through a hidden speaker system.
Just peace.
And peace was loud.
I woke up the next morning and opened the window. The scent of akara from the roadside seller flooded the room. I smiled. For the first time in forever, I didn’t have to ask for permission to open a window.
It was the tiniest act of freedom.
But to me, it was everything.
Chuka didn’t call that day. Or the next. He probably still believed I was at my sister’s place. When he eventually realized I was gone, he called once. Just once.
I let it ring.
No voicenote. No message.
Typical.
Two days later, he sent a short text: “You’re making a mistake.”
I replied: “The only mistake was staying this long.”
He didn’t respond.
And I didn’t care.
I had been invisible in a mansion for years. I was done being a well-decorated prisoner. I didn’t know what the next chapter held. I didn’t have a job. I didn’t even know how I’d start over.
But I was free.
And freedom was worth everything.
