They don’t tell you that freedom is messy.
It’s not a clean break. It doesn’t come with instant peace or overnight joy. No—freedom comes in fragments. Like little pieces of glass scattered on the floor, waiting for you to walk barefoot across them before you can feel whole again.
The first week away from Chuka, I slept like a soldier at war—one eye open, flinching at every creak of a door, every shadow that moved.
I kept expecting him to show up. To shout. To drag me back. But he never came.
Instead, I was left alone… with my fears, my guilt, and the overwhelming silence of a life I had to rebuild from scratch.
Chioma’s apartment in Surulere became my sanctuary. It wasn’t grand. The walls were chipped in places, the tap in the kitchen leaked when you twisted it too hard, and the fan made a soft rattling sound at night—but it was real. Honest. Free.
“Sleep,” she said. “You’ve been through worse.”
I did. Not well. Not at first. But eventually, I started sleeping without waking up to check if the door was locked five times.
She would leave early in the morning for work—Chioma worked as a radio presenter and freelance voice-over artist—and return in the evening with food and gist.
And every evening, we’d talk. About anything and everything.
I told her things I’d never said aloud. About how Chuka would frown when I laughed too loudly. How he hated me wearing anything above the knee. How he once told me, “A woman who’s seen by too many men loses her value.” And how I believed that.
“I was so stupid,” I said one night.
“No,” Chioma said, gently but firmly. “You were in love. And desperate to be seen.”
That hit me.
Because that was it.
Before Chuka, I was just Adaeze from Ogbunike. A simple girl who wanted the best for herself . Then he came along—rich, confident, charming. And he saw me.
At least I thought he did.
He didn’t. He saw a project. A moldable, manageable woman he could shape to his liking.
And I let him.
But not anymore.
By the second week, I started going out.
At first, just short walks down the street. Then to the market with Chioma. Then to a nearby café where she introduced me to a woman named Bisi—another survivor of an emotionally abusive marriage.
“We should start a group,” Bisi said with a grin. “Caged Wives Anonymous.”
We laughed. A deep, healing laugh.
That day, I made my first new friend in three years.
It felt like the sun had come out in my heart.
I didn’t want to be a burden on Chioma, so I began applying for jobs—anything at first: admin roles, retail, even reception. I didn’t care. I just wanted to earn. To stand. To breathe on my own again.
I also started writing. Short reflections. Poems. Journal entries. I wrote about my marriage, my pain, my regrets.
And then, something strange happened.
One day, Chioma read one of my entries and said, “You should post this online.”
I blinked. “Why?”
“Because someone out there needs to know they’re not alone.”
I was hesitant. But that night, I created a page and uploaded one of my pieces anonymously.
Title: The Day I Chose Myself.
It got 67 views.
Then 400.
By the end of the week, I had 1,000.
Women started messaging me.
“I’m living your life.”
“How did you leave?”
“I wish I had your courage.”
I cried reading them.
Not because I felt powerful—but because I finally understood something:
My pain had purpose.
And if sharing it could free even one other woman, then maybe it wasn’t all for nothing.
Then, one afternoon, I got a call from a small lifestyle magazine looking for a contributor for a column on “Life After Love.” They had seen my page. They wanted me to write.
I nearly dropped the phone.
It wasn’t much money, but it was mine. And it was writing. My voice. My truth.
That night, I cooked for Chioma. Just rice and peppered turkey. But we danced around the kitchen like we had won the lottery.
“I’m so proud of you,” she whispered, hugging me.
And I believed her.
Because I was finally proud of myself too.
Lessons I’ve Learned So Far:
-
Money can never buy peace. Chuka gave me everything except myself.
-
Red flags don’t turn green after marriage. They become bigger.
-
Love without freedom is just a well-decorated prison.
-
You don’t have to be hit to be abused. Emotional control is just as deadly.
-
Rebuilding is painful, but it’s worth it.
