It was a Tuesday. Ordinary in every way.
I had just returned from the cyber café after submitting my latest article to the magazine. I felt good—no, confident. I had written about reclaiming your voice after emotional abuse, and the editor had responded with one word: “Powerful.”
I was humming as I unlocked the gate to Chioma’s compound. The breeze was kind that day, the sky clear. I had started walking a bit straighter, smiling a little more at strangers. I was starting to believe the worst was behind me.
But I was wrong.
He found me.
Chioma was out on a voiceover job. I was alone. I had just reheated jollof rice and was setting it down when I heard the knock.
Three knocks. Calm. Firm.
I froze.
Something about the rhythm chilled me.
I peeked through the curtain.
It was him.
Chuka.
In a crisp white kaftan. No smile. Just that calm, unnerving stillness that always came before the storm.
My hands began to shake.
How did he find me? Did someone tell him? Was he tracking me?
I stepped back from the window, heart slamming against my ribs.
I considered hiding—but where?
He knocked again. This time harder.
“Adaeze, I know you’re in there,” he said, voice low. “Open the door.”
I didn’t move.
He waited.
I could hear his breath.
Then, softly, he said, “I came to take you home.”
Home? The word made me sick.
I wanted to scream at him: You mean the golden prison where my soul withered?
But I stayed silent.
“I forgive you,” he added. “You were confused. I’m willing to let this go. Let’s start over. I’ve missed you.”
Forgive me?
My fingers curled into fists.
That was Chuka in a sentence—he burned your house down, then offered you a glass of water and called himself a hero.
I reached for my phone, heart racing, and texted Chioma:
“He’s here. Chuka. Outside.”
Then I turned off all the lights and waited.
Eventually, he stopped knocking.
There was silence. Long, terrifying silence.
Then the handle turned.
Locked.
He rattled it.
“Adaeze,” his voice snapped. The softness vanished. “Open this door before you make me do something we’ll both regret.”
I didn’t move.
I couldn’t even breathe.
Then, a car pulled into the compound—Chioma’s voice rang out:
“Gett off my property before I scream this entire street awake. You don’t scare me. She’s not your prisoner anymore.”
He looked stunned. He wasn’t used to being spoken to like that.
His eyes darted between the two of us—me at the window, Chioma outside
His mask slipped.
The rage was there.
“Keep her,” he spat. “She’ll come crawling back when the world chews her up and spits her out.”
I stepped forward and said calmly, “I’d rather be chewed and spat than caged and silent.”
He stared at me—truly looked at me—for the first time in forever.
And what he saw scared him.
Because I was no longer the scared, obedient wife.
I was a woman who had survived him.
And he hated that.
Without another word, he turned and walked away.
We watched until his car disappeared down the street.
Then Chioma collapsed beside me on the couch, breathing hard.
“I knew this day would come,” she said.
“So did I,” I whispered. “But I’m glad it came now. I was ready.”
And I was.
Because that day, I proved to myself that I didn’t just run.
I chose me.
And I would keep choosing me—every single day from now on.
Aftermath
He tried calling. I blocked him.
He sent messages. I ignored them.
He even tried reaching my family, but I had already spoken to my parents, and to my surprise, they supported me. Even my father, who once said a woman’s pride is in her husband’s name, simply said: “Your peace is more important.”
That meant everything.
I began therapy. I joined a support group for emotionally abused women.
I kept writing.
I kept healing.
Every day wasn’t easy, but every day was mine.
And that was more than I ever had with Chuka.
Lessons I Learned This Chapter:
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Abusers don’t want partners. They want possessions.
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You don’t owe anyone your silence, especially when they’ve hurt you.
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Courage isn’t the absence of fear—it’s walking through fear with shaking knees.
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Your healing might threaten them—but it will liberate you.
