This is Oyin’s story, as told to Boluwatife

I experienced the worst heartbreak of my life without warning on a random Tuesday afternoon in 2024. 

I was lying on my bed, absent-mindedly scrolling through Instagram. I had just finished replying to a work email and decided to “rest my eyes.”. Then a familiar smile stopped my thumb mid-air.

It was Kunle, my boyfriend of six years, on BellaNaija’s Instagram page.

The caption read something like: “Love is sweet! #KunleWeds…” I didn’t read the rest at first. I was too busy staring at the pictures.

There he was in a cream agbada, leaning into a woman I had never seen before. She was wearing a matching cream aso-oke, laughing into his chest like she had every right to be there.

I blinked and refreshed the page. Surely my eyes were playing tricks on me. But the post was right there, no matter how many times I refreshed it. I zoomed in on his face to be sure I wasn’t mistaken. I wasn’t. It was Kunle.

My Kunle. My “we’re-getting-engaged-before-the-year-ends” Kunle.

I even checked the date, as if it might have been from years ago, and I somehow missed it. It was posted twenty minutes earlier, and already, comments were pouring in. “So beautiful!” “God, when?” 

I forwarded the link to his Instagram DM without typing anything. I didn’t trust myself to add words. The message delivered, and I waited hours, staring at my screen at intervals for the “seen” icon.

When it was almost midnight, and he still hadn’t seen the DM, I called him over the phone. I called three times, but he didn’t pick up. I went to check his WhatsApp and saw that his profile picture had disappeared. He had blocked me. Confused, I went to his Instagram account, and it said, “User not found.”

That was when the confusion began to turn into something colder. Because if this was a misunderstanding, why was he blocking me everywhere?

And if it wasn’t a misunderstanding, then who had I been in his life for the past six years?

****

This story is culled from a weekly series exclusive to the Â鶹ĘÓƵ Daily Newsletter.Ěý for more stories like this.

Life comes at you really fast. 

You read stories of people sharing how they discovered that their partners were seeing someone else, and you never think that can happen to you. I never thought that could one day be me. Yet, here I was. 

The worst part is that we were fine. 

Kunle and I were one of the most steady and comfortable couples you’d ever meet. We hardly fought and shared the same sense of humour. Whenever we hung out with mutual friends, we almost always ended up driving everyone to fits of laughter because we were always cracking jokes.

We met at a mutual friend’s convocation celebration. It was also my convocation, and I’d gone to this friend’s canopy to take pictures with him. In the confusion of arranging to take pictures, Kunle mistakenly spilt his Chapman on my white dress and wouldn’t stop apologising. 

He asked for my number to “dryclean the dress,” and I told him I would consider it. He texted the next morning: “How’s the dress? And how’s the girl inside it?” It was corny, but I loved it.

Somewhere between late-night calls and weekend visits, he became my person.

Six years is not a small thing. It was years of inside jokes, of learning the exact tone of his voice when he’s stressed and falling asleep together over the phone. I even met his family, and his sister often called me “our in-law.” 

Earlier that year, in March, we went ring shopping. We often talked about our future and, over the years, had both agreed that 2024/2025 was the most realistic period for us to settle down. By then, we would have worked for a while and saved up some money. 

So, when Kunle had asked that we visit a ring shop so he’d know my preferences, I thought, “This is it. The proposal will happen this year.”

That was in March. The BellaNaija post went up in October.

How did he go from planning a future with me to getting ready to marry someone else in seven months? How come I had no idea?

I needed to find answers, so I did the first thing that came to mind.

****

Since Kunle had blocked me everywhere on social media and even phone calls, I did the next best thing: I started spam-calling him.

I spent a week calling him every day with different numbers. Once he picked up and realised it was me, he’d block the new number too. I sent him several messages, pleading for him to explain what was happening. When he didn’t respond, I resorted to sending curses. He didn’t reply to those either.

I also tried catching him unawares at his house, but somehow, he was never there on the few occasions I went. When all my attempts at reaching him failed, I turned to his sister, Bimpe.

Bimpe and I were somewhat close. We had hung out together without him a few times, and I often gifted her on her birthday and on random occasions. She had even once joked that she’d choose me in the divorce if Kunle messed up. If someone had answers for me, it’d be Bimpe. 

When she picked up, I didn’t waste time. “Bimpe, what is going on?”

She didn’t need to ask me what I meant. Instead, she let out a heavy sigh and swore she didn’t know the girl either. She said Kunle had just started bringing her home a few months back. At first, the family thought it was nothing serious. Then suddenly it was introductions and wedding plans.

“A few months?” I remember repeating, like maybe if I said it slowly, it would hurt less.

Bimpe said she didn’t know how to tell me. That it wasn’t her place, and she kept hoping Kunle would explain it himself. 

She “didn’t know how to tell me.” 

After six years of being with her brother and regularly visiting her family’s house. I had a cordial relationship with everyone in that family, and yet no one saw it fit to tell me the truth. 

In the “months” since he started bringing this other woman home, I still visited them a few times and ate with them. I can’t imagine that they were smiling with me while actively planning a wedding behind my back. 

I asked Bimpe a question, “When he brought her home, did you mention me to her?”

She didn’t say anything in response. That silence told me everything I needed to know. No one had fought for me. I had simply overestimated my place in that family for all those years.

I hung up, and the tears finally came. I cried so much, my eyes were bloodshot. I had to take sick leave from work for days. I didn’t feel like myself for weeks; it felt like my heart was breaking several times a day.

And then, in the middle of that heartbreak, I made a decision that shocked even me.

I decided I would attend the wedding.

****

This story is culled from a weekly series exclusive to the Â鶹ĘÓƵ Daily Newsletter.Ěý for more stories like this.

My friends and siblings tried to talk me out of attending the wedding. 

They kept saying, “Oyin, what do you want to do there?” “Is the heartbreak not enough? Do you want to embarrass yourself on top of all that?”

I didn’t have a clean answer for them, and I still don’t really know why I went. I guess a part of me wanted to see it with my own eyes, to confirm it wasn’t a bad dream. Also, if anyone needed to be embarrassed, it should be Kunle, not me. 

So, I made my findings and discovered the wedding date and venue. I bought new outfits, had my hair done and even hired a professional make-up artist. I arrived at that wedding looking like a million dollars.

When I walked into the church, I felt eyes on me almost immediately. Some of our mutual friends attended the wedding as well, including some of Kunle’s coworkers who knew we were dating. I’m sure the gossip was hot that day. Everyone probably expected me to create a scene and give them even more to talk about. Me, I was just there to enjoy myself.

Kunle saw me just as the ceremony started, and his face changed. The confidence disappeared, and his smile tightened. He looked like a man waiting for chaos. I didn’t give him any.

After the church programme ended, I followed everyone to the reception hall. I even greeted his mum politely and hugged Bimpe. Both of them were just staring at me as if I’d grown two heads. 

I found my seat, and when the food came, I ate to my fill. I must have stopped every usher that walked by to collect a new plate of food and small chops. When it was time to dance the couple in, I joined the crowd and danced as if there were a prize for the best dancer. 

At this point, even the bride had noticed something was off. I’m not sure if she knew me or if she just noticed the way Kunle was staring at me with fear in his eyes. Both of them were uncomfortable and didn’t dance as much as they should have. They just signalled the MC to stop the music and continue with the rest of the programme.

Throughout the rest of the day, Kunle kept stealing glances at me while I tried as much as possible to avoid his eyes. Honestly, despite my outward bravado, my heart was breaking inside, and it took everything in me not to break down and cry. When I couldn’t hold it in anymore, I left the party and went home. 

That night, he sent me one message. “I’m sorry.”

Just that. I stared at it for a long time. Then I put my phone down and went to sleep.

****

It’s been over a year since all this happened. 

On the outside, I look fine. I go to work and laugh with my friends, but I’m still nursing pain in my heart.

Betrayal changes a person’s life so much. I don’t believe in promises anymore. When a man tells me he likes me, my mind immediately starts producing imaginary red flags. Instead of feeling flattered by compliments, my chest tightens, and I get scared.

I hate that about myself. I used to love freely. Now I analyse everything, and it’s exhausting.

Sometimes I replay the last year of our relationship, looking for clues I missed. Was she already there when we went ring shopping? Were there late replies and “busy weekends”  that I ignored?

I don’t think I’ll pursue a relationship anytime soon. Trust feels like a weird concept, and I don’t even trust my own judgment anymore.

The scariest part isn’t that he betrayed me. It’s that I’m not sure I’ll ever be the girl who believed in forever so easily again.

I don’t know which loss hurts more.

*Names have been changed to protect the subject’s identity.

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This is Favour’s story, as told to Boluwatife

I was sorting laundry in the bathroom when my phone buzzed with a WhatsApp notification.

It was an unknown number with a DP of a woman I didn’t recognise. I almost ignored it until the first line of her message appeared as a preview:

“Favour, you don’t know me, but I need to tell you the truth about your husband.”

My heart skipped, and I opened the message with fear lodged in my throat.

The woman introduced herself as Maria. She said she’d been with my husband, Joel, for five years, and attached a photo of a small boy who looked disturbingly like him. The boy even had his dimples.

Then came the part that made my legs go weak:

“Joel told me you knew about us. He told me he stopped sleeping with you because he’s no longer attracted to you and can’t get it up anymore. But that’s a lie. He has an STI.”

I froze. An STI? Cheating? A whole child?

My breath shook as I scrolled.

It was true that Joel and I hadn’t been intimate for almost the entirety of our marriage. We’ve been married for 10 years, and 7 years ago, he suddenly became impotent. We bought countless medications, but nothing worked. We even secretly adopted our two children when people started whispering about our childlessness. All the while, he had a child?

Maria’s final line felt like an earthquake in my stomach: “He’s lying to both of us. Call me before he warns you.”

Before I could even process my thoughts, Joel walked into the house.

***

This story is culled from a weekly series exclusive to the Â鶹ĘÓƵ Daily Newsletter. for more stories like this.

I waited until the kids were asleep before I confronted Joel.

I stood in front of him in our bedroom, my phone in my hand and betrayal burning my throat.

“Joel,” I said, “who is Maria?”

He froze like someone had splashed cold water on his face. “Babe… don’t listen to that woman.”

“She said you have a child with her,” I whispered. “She said you told her you stopped touching me because you no longer find me attractive. But you were sleeping with her?  How could you do this to me? After all these years of covering your shame and lying to our families that the kids are biologically ours?”

He tried to step closer, but I stepped back.

“You made me lie for years,” I said, my voice trembling. “I faked pregnancies to protect you. You said you were impotent. We even stopped trying because you claimed it made you uncomfortable. Now I know you just didn’t want me anymore.”

“Favour, it wasn’t like that. Please, let me explain,” he said, eyes red.

“Explain what?” I shook my head. “That you hid a whole child? That you let people call me childless for years while you were living another life in secret?”

He dropped to his knees.

“Favour, I beg you. I didn’t tell you because I was scared. I didn’t want to lose you.”

He explained that he had contracted Herpes from a random woman and stopped sleeping with me because he was scared of giving it to me. Apparently, he didn’t know how to bring up the idea of using a condom without me finding out he’d cheated. 

I asked about the situation with Maria, and what he said chilled me to my bones.

***

When Joel and I got married, I thought I’d hit the jackpot.

Growing up religious, my mum had drilled the importance of finding the “right man” into my head for as long as I can remember.

I didn’t have boyfriends in secondary school or university. I was determined that the first man I’d ever give my heart to would be my husband. Marrying Joel was like the fulfilment of that decision, and I felt so lucky. 

He was my first love, my first kiss, my first everything. I loved him deeply and was prepared to weather whatever storm life threw at us together. It was why I didn’t flinch even when he became “impotent” or when he suggested adoption without involving our families. I thought we were in it together.

But that night, as I stared at the man I’d loved for ten years, I felt everything crack.

I watched him silently as he explained how he started seeing Maria. Apparently, abstaining became too difficult for him, and she had mistakenly gotten pregnant.

What blew my mind was the fact that he had knowingly infected her with Herpes for his own selfish desires. It was the height of wickedness.

I realised he was a stranger. A man who consciously lied, cheated and denied his wife for years couldn’t be the man I fell in love with.

That was when I made my decision. I was leaving.

By morning, I’d packed a small bag for the kids and told them we were going to Grandma’s house. I avoided Joel’s eyes as he stood in the hallway, looking like a man watching his world fall apart. He’d begged me on his knees all night, but I couldn’t breathe in that house anymore. 

I drove out of the compound, tears blurring my vision. But halfway to my mother’s house, my phone vibrated.

Joel’s elder sister was calling. She never called me this early.

Something was wrong.

This story is culled from a weekly series exclusive to the Â鶹ĘÓƵ Daily Newsletter. for more stories like this.

***

Joel called both families immediately after I left the house and told them I’d taken the children away because of a “disagreement.”

By afternoon, both families were gathered in my mother’s parlour: his father, his sister, my siblings and even an elder from our church. They didn’t know the extent of our disagreement. My mum was already saying something along the lines of, “Why will you just leave home because of a fight? When did you start that one?”

I smiled sadly. “Mummy, this isn’t just any fight. Did Joel tell you he has a child outside our marriage?”

Gasps filled the room, and everyone turned to Joel while he bent his head in shame. Or maybe it was embarrassment. Whatever it was, I no longer cared.

With a shaky voice, I explained everything to our families. How he had made me believe he was impotent, how we lied about my going abroad to deliver when we’d actually adopted babies and the revelation about Maria and her child.

By the time I finished speaking, you could hear a pin drop in the room.

After about three minutes of silence, his sister shot up. “Joel, is this true?!”

He covered his face and whispered, “I didn’t know how to say it. Please beg her to forgive me.”

The church elder looked at me and asked, “Favour, what do you want to do?”

I told him all I wanted to do was find a place I could go with my children. I didn’t intend to forgive him and play “happy family” after everything. I’d already wasted 10 years of my life; I couldn’t waste even more.

While the church elder and my mum tried to beg me to take things easy, Joel’s dad asked a question that made us all stop in our tracks.

“Where is Maria and the child now?”

***

While the families busied themselves with calling Maria and trying to arrange a peace meeting, I felt absolutely nothing.

Wait. That’s not entirely true. I felt intense anger and pain, but I was more concerned about how I was going to start a new life with my children. 

When Joel’s father told me they were inviting Maria for a proper family discussion, I simply said, “I won’t be there, sir.” And I wasn’t.

I heard later that they agreed to support Maria and the child. Good for them.

As for me, the first thing I did after moving in with my mum was a comprehensive STI test. When I confirmed I was healthy, I found a decent apartment in town and told Joel to pay for it.

He didn’t argue. He simply asked for the amount and which of my accounts he could send the money to. When I told him, he made a final attempt to convince me to return home:

“Favour. I have sinned against you. I’m sorry. Please forgive me and come back. Let’s think of the children.”

“You still have access to the children,” I said. “But forget anything about me and you. You have the mother of your child to worry about.”

He sighed and ended the call. Minutes later, I received the alert for the amount I asked for. It felt like the final nail in the coffin. He had accepted we were over.  

Ten years gone in just a few weeks. What would the next few years look like for us?

This story is culled from a weekly series exclusive to the Â鶹ĘÓƵ Daily Newsletter. for more stories like this.

***

It’s been three years since the Maria incident, and sometimes I’m shocked at how normal my life feels now. Peaceful, even.

Joel and I never officially divorced; mostly because I haven’t seen the need to go through the court stress. If he ever plans to remarry, he can start the process with his own money.  

I don’t know if I can say I’ve forgiven him, but I don’t carry anger anymore. That doesn’t mean I’m interested in giving him another chance. That will never happen. He might even still be with his Maria.

We’re cordial, though. The kids visit him regularly, and I make sure he pays every bill he’s supposed to. We adopted them together, and they bear his name. They’re his responsibility, and fortunately, he handles that without argument. 

My friends sometimes ask if I’ll ever consider love again, but I just laugh.

Love? As in romantic love? That’s the last thing on my mind.

These days, I’m learning how to show up for myself and my children. I enjoy finding new hobbies and watching my kids grow. That’s all I need.

Sometimes, I remember everything that happened and wonder at how far I’ve come. It’s a miracle I didn’t lose my mind back then. Maybe it’s something I should be grateful for. I went through the fire and came out stronger. 

At the end of the day, I didn’t lose anything.

*Names have been changed to protect the subject’s identity.

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This is Stella’s story, as told to Boluwatife

The day my husband died, I lost my son, too.

It happened fast, before I even understood what grief meant. 

My husband, Patrick, and I had woken up on the same bed that morning, and we’d done our usual morning routine: devotion and a quick breakfast of tea and bread before he left the house for work, while I took our seven-year-old son, Joseph, to school. 

It was a normal morning. No sign to warn me that I’d get a call four hours later from the good Samaritan who’d taken my husband to the hospital when he noticed a crowd around a bleeding man on the floor. Apparently, the okada my husband took had been thrown off the road by a trailer, and while the okada rider survived, my husband lay on the floor, slowly slipping away. 

Before I got to the hospital, my husband was already dead.

While I was still in shock, people were already moving in and out of the house. I remember sitting on the floor in the sitting room, holding my wrapper tight, when someone asked, “Where’s Joseph?”

At first, I thought he was with one of the neighbours’ children. My neighbour had picked him up from school while I tried not to die from pain. But evening came, and I still didn’t hear his voice; something inside me dropped.

My husband’s mum and cousin had come to the house that afternoon because he was buried on the same day. I called my husband’s cousin, and her response confirmed my suspicions.

“Mama has carried him. In our family, we don’t leave our children outside. You will remarry one day. We can’t leave our brother’s only child with you.”

I thought she was joking. I laughed a little, waiting for her to say, “I’m joking.” But she didn’t.

That was the moment I realised my child was gone. They’d stolen him right from under my nose. 

***

When I first met Patrick, I thought love could fix anything.

We met during our NYSC year. He was quiet and gentle, and he cared for me in a way no one ever had. When I met his mother, I didn’t need anyone to tell me that she didn’t like me. It was obvious in her body language. But I brushed it off. 

I thought, “It’s fine. Once she sees how much we love each other, she’ll come around.”

She never did.

She said I wasn’t “her type of wife.” I was from a different tribe, and my parents were late. But Patrick didn’t care, and I took that as proof of destiny. 

We stubbornly got married. Patrick’s mother frowned throughout our wedding day, but I didn’t let it get to me. I told myself our love would be enough.

For a while, it was. We had Joseph, and Patrick worked hard. But love doesn’t buy diapers. It doesn’t stop a mother-in-law from believing you’ve “stolen” her son.

And when Patrick died suddenly, all that love turned to dust. I thought my life was over. 

If only I had known my troubles were just beginning.

***

It took me almost three long, humiliating months to get my son back. 

At first, I tried talking to my mother-in-law. She refused to pick my calls. Then I went to the family house with one of Patrick’s uncles, but she didn’t let us enter her compound.

“He’s my son’s child,” she said through the gate. “We’ll take care of him. Don’t worry. Just go and live your life.”

How do you tell a mother that she should comfortably leave her child with you? What kind of care did she want to give my child that I couldn’t? Why couldn’t I even see him?

There was no kind of begging I didn’t do. I told her I didn’t intend to keep her grandchild away from her. I even suggested letting him live with her for the holidays. Instead, she told me I didn’t have a job and was unfit to provide for the child. She even told me to “go and marry another man and have another child”.

That was the day I decided to go to the police.

It turned into a mess. The officers followed me to the village, and things got loud. One of Patrick’s cousins tried to stop them and ended up in a cell overnight. It was shameful for everyone, but I didn’t care anymore. I just wanted my son.

When they finally brought Joseph out, he ran to me. He said, “Mummy, are you coming to take me home?”

I said yes, even though I didn’t know what “home” meant anymore without Patrick.

Mama shouted as we left, “Don’t ever bring him back here!”

At the time, I didn’t realise how serious those words were, or how much I would come to regret my actions later.

***

Getting Joseph back felt like a victory, but it came with scars I didn’t expect.

My relationship with Patrick’s family was finished. Nobody spoke to me again. The cousin who spent a night in jail still won’t answer my calls. Mama blocked my number completely. I couldn’t even ask them for help, not for school fees or advice.

At first, I thought I’d figure it out. I still had some savings from when I quit my job a year ago to focus on my family. All I needed to do was find a job before my savings finished.  

Finding a new job wasn’t as easy as I expected. It seemed like my master’s degree and years of experience didn’t matter in the job market. I eventually settled for a job at a pharmacy. I just needed to survive.  

My new job came with long work hours, and my neighbour, Aunty Rose, helped me pick Joseph up from school sometimes. 

Then Aunty Rose travelled, and everything started falling apart. I took permission to leave work early far too many times. My boss said, “Madam, I understand, but business is business.” That was it.

It’s been almost two years since my husband died. I’ve tried different other jobs, and have now turned to selling thrift clothes online, but it still feels like everything is working against me. Without support from anyone, it’s hard to juggle survival and child care. I sometimes skip meals so Joseph can eat.

Sometimes, when I watch him sleep, I wonder if I didn’t make a mistake in how I handled the situation. 

I reached out to Patrick’s family again recently, to try to mend things. I didn’t expect the response I got.

***

When I started a family with my late husband, I thought it was my opportunity to get what I never had.

Growing up orphaned with no siblings was incredibly lonely, and I dreamed of finally having family ties when I got married.

I think that’s why I still tried to make peace with Patrick’s family even after all they’d done to me. I called them recently. Patrick’s uncle first, then his younger sister and cousins. No one picked up. 

I even sent a text to Mama, just saying “Good evening, ma” so it wouldn’t sound like I was begging. She read it and didn’t reply.

I expected insults or even warnings never to call again. But I didn’t expect silence. Even if I were the worst person on earth, at least Joseph is their blood. 

I guess I can’t blame them. I embarrassed the whole family that day with the police. To them, I crossed a line that can’t be uncrossed. Maybe they think I’m ungrateful. Maybe they’re right.

Joseph has been asking questions lately. “Mummy, why don’t we visit Grandma?” “Why doesn’t Aunty call me again?” I tell him Grandma is busy, that everyone is just far away. But sometimes he looks at me like he knows I’m lying.

At night, when the house is quiet, I find myself scrolling through old pictures; birthdays, weddings and family functions — even Patrick’s funeral. Everyone was there then. Now it’s just me.

***

Sometimes I still dream about Patrick. 

In those dreams, he’s alive, sitting at the edge of the bed, telling me everything will be okay. And for a few seconds after I wake up, I almost believe it.

If he were here, I know things would be different. He always had a way of calming his mother, of making people listen. Maybe Joseph would still have both sides of his family. Maybe I wouldn’t be this tired and broke all the time.

But he’s gone, and all I have is this small boy who looks more like him every day. Sometimes, when Joseph laughs, it feels like Patrick is still somewhere close, reminding me why I fought so hard in the first place.

Still, there are nights I lie awake wondering if I made the right choice; if love and pride blinded me to what was best for him. I can’t ask for help anymore, and I can’t turn back time.

So I keep going, one day after another. Because that’s all I can do now — hold on to the child I fought for, and hope it’s enough.

*Names have been changed to protect the subject’s identity.

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