COURTED FOR 18YRS

REAL LIFE STORY 1

I got married to my husband after 18 years of courting.

I know this may sound unbelievable, but it happened to me. After 18 years of dating my husband, I finally got married to him—and I am still facing the worst tragedy of my life.

My name is Kemi. I met my husband during my primary school days. Back then, I was a smart and hardworking girl, and I have grown into a smart and hardworking woman.

We grew close as teenagers. When others mocked him for being poor, I defended him. When his family turned their backs on him because he refused to join their farming business, I stood by him. They called him stubborn, lazy, ungrateful. But I believed in his dreams. He wanted education. He wanted more. And I was determined to make that possible for him.

Our courtship was not the kind filled with roses and candlelit dinners. It was filled with sweat, tears, and sacrifice. I worked twice as hard just to keep him afloat. I farmed until my hands blistered. I sold vegetables in the market. I took on odd jobs—anything to earn enough money for his schooling, feeding, clothing, and rent. Many nights, I went to bed hungry just so he could have a decent meal before studying.

When he gained admission into an engineering college, I was the happiest woman alive. I remember sitting outside the school gate, staring at him from a distance, whispering to myself: “One day, all this suffering will be worth it. He will take care of me. We will live a better life.”

Four years later, he graduated. Then he got a job as a mechanical engineer. I should have been proud—and I was—but deep inside, I expected gratitude. Not gifts, not money, but acknowledgment. A recognition of the years I had laid down for him.

But he only gave me words. He told me I was his angel. His backbone. His everything. I held on to those words like treasures. They were all I had.

A few weeks before our wedding, his elder brother called me. His voice was rough, almost bitter.

“Kemi, listen to me. If you marry my brother, you will regret it. He is lazy. He will never take care of you. If you insist, whatever happens after, you will face it alone.”

I laughed it off. I thought it was jealousy. His family had hated him for leaving farming. I believed their warnings came from anger, not truth. Oh, how wrong I was.

We moved to Lagos after the wedding, and for a few years, life seemed perfect. We had two beautiful daughters. I took up fashion design since I couldn’t attend college. My little shop was doing well, and my husband’s salary from his engineering job kept us comfortable.

But during my third pregnancy, the cracks began to show.

At first, it was little things—delayed contributions to house expenses, excuses about salary cuts, complaints about his boss. I didn’t take it seriously. I thought it was just stress. But gradually, he stopped providing altogether.

I prayed. We were Christians, born-again believers, so I never suspected cheating. I told myself it was a phase, but my heart knew something was wrong.

Then one morning, while waiting for a taxi to take the kids to school, I saw him. My husband. Instead of heading toward his office, he took a completely different route. My heart skipped. Where was he going? Why lie about work?

The next day, I followed him. My body shook with fear and curiosity. And then I froze.

He walked straight into our church. Not his office. Not a site inspection. Church.

I stood outside, confused, watching as he joined a prayer session with a few members. Why hadn’t he told me? Why lie, day after day?

That night, I cooked his favorite meal. I needed answers.

After dinner, I asked casually, “How was work today?”

He smiled. “Work was fine.”

I pressed further, my voice soft but sharp. “Are you sure? Is everything okay at work?”

His face betrayed him. The mask slipped. He sighed heavily, then dropped the bombshell.

“Kemi… the pastor’s wife told me God revealed I must resign from my job and serve Him full-time in church.”

I felt the world crumble under me. My voice cracked. “Tell me you’re joking.”

But he wasn’t.

I tried reasoning with him. “At least use your savings to start a business. Something to feed your family.”

He snapped. “Don’t you understand? Working for God means I cannot do anything else. My life belongs to Him now.”

Tears welled in my eyes. “I am pregnant. We have bills to pay—school fees, rent, feeding. How do we survive?”

His response cut me like a knife.

“That’s why you are my helpmate. You’ll figure it out.”

I couldn’t believe my ears. The man I sacrificed everything for was asking me to carry his burden again—but this time, not for a dream of a better life, but for a reckless decision dressed as “service to God.”

Months passed. I gave birth. But the lack of proper care during pregnancy affected my baby. She was frail, unable to crawl, sit, or play like other children. Each time I held her, guilt consumed me. My sacrifices had once lifted him up—but now, they had crushed my child.

Hunger crept into our home like an uninvited guest. My children’s eyes grew hollow. Their bodies thinned. They looked like orphans—despite having two living parents.

I kept silent for as long as I could. I didn’t want outsiders in my marriage. I didn’t want people to say, “We warned her.” But the day my daughter fainted from hunger, I broke. I knew silence was killing us.

I stared at my husband, the man I once adored, and wondered:

How did I end up here? How did I marry a man who could watch his family starve in the name of serving God?

The warning I ignored had become my reality.

I had married the wrong man.

Hunger became our daily companion. The pots in my kitchen turned cold, and the aroma of food became a memory for my children. Their once-bright eyes now carried a question they could not voice: “Mama, why are we suffering?”

I tried everything I could. I picked up sewing jobs even while nursing my newborn. I sold clothes, mended torn fabric for neighbors, even begged shop owners to give me scraps I could turn into something sellable. But no matter how much I tried, it was never enough.

The worst part? My husband would leave home each morning dressed neatly, Bible in hand, heading to church as though nothing was wrong. Sometimes he would even come home late, claiming he was “busy in the Lord’s vineyard.”

One evening, after the children had gone to bed hungry again, I broke down in front of him. My voice shook with anger and tears.

“Do you not see your children? Do you not hear their cries? Even animals feed their young. What kind of father are you?”

He looked at me, unfazed. His face was calm, almost self-righteous.

“Kemi, you lack faith. God will provide. You just need to believe more, pray more.”

My heart shattered. This was not the man I fell in love with. This was a stranger—hiding his irresponsibility behind God’s name.

Days turned into weeks, and then came the night that broke me.

My second daughter, barely five years old, fainted in the compound while playing with her friends. She hadn’t eaten all day. I screamed, neighbors rushed in, and someone offered to drive us to the hospital.

At the hospital, the doctor shook his head in pity.

“Madam, your child is malnourished. Her body lacks strength. She needs proper feeding, vitamins, and rest. This is serious.”

Shame burned through me. Malnourished? My child? I wanted to vanish.

When I told my husband, his response was a dagger to my soul.

“This is the devil testing us. The church will pray for her.”

Pray? Was prayer food? Was prayer medicine? I wanted to scream. I wanted to shake him until sense returned to his head.

That night, as my children slept beside me, their tiny breaths shallow from hunger, I wept silently. I remembered his brother’s words from years ago: “If you marry my brother, you will regret it.” And here I was, living that regret.

Still, I kept quiet to the outside world. I feared judgment. I didn’t want people to say, “We told her so.”

But one afternoon, my neighbor, Mama Esther, walked into my room. She had seen enough. She looked at me with eyes full of concern and said,

“Kemi, you are killing yourself in silence. A woman can be strong, but she cannot carry a dead weight forever. Speak. Do something.”

Her words pierced me. For the first time, I admitted aloud what I had been too ashamed to say.

“I am suffering. My children are suffering. And my husband has abandoned us in the name of serving God.”

She hugged me as I broke down in her arms. It was the first time I felt seen in years.

But that small relief was short-lived.

Two weeks later, the landlord came knocking. Our rent had expired, and there was no money to renew it. I begged for time, but he refused. The humiliation was unbearable—being threatened with eviction in front of neighbors who once admired us.

I turned to my husband, hoping the reality would finally shake him.

“They will throw us out. Where will the children sleep? Please, do something!”

But he stood tall, Bible clutched in hand, and said,

“If God wants us to remain here, He will touch the landlord’s heart. If not, we will move where He leads.”

I stared at him, numb, realizing the truth: I was alone in this marriage.

That night, as I held my weak baby in my arms and listened to the steady drip of water from our leaking roof, a thought crept into my mind—a dangerous, unholy thought: What if I walked away?

For the first time in eighteen years of loyalty and sacrifice, I considered leaving.

But could I? Could I abandon the man I had built my life around? Could I face the shame of the world calling me a failure?

I didn’t have the answers. But deep inside, I knew this was only the beginning.

Days blurred into weeks, and survival became my daily mission. I mended clothes, borrowed money from neighbors, and sometimes went without food so my children could eat. Yet my husband walked around with the pride of a “man of God,” his Bible under his arm, his shirt ironed, while his family starved behind closed doors.

The children began to notice. My eldest daughter, barely nine, once asked me in a whisper:

“Mama, why doesn’t Daddy love us enough to buy food?”

Her question stabbed me deeper than any knife. How could I explain to a child that her father loved “God” more than his own blood?

One evening, while folding laundry, I overheard my daughters whispering among themselves:

“Daddy doesn’t care for us anymore.”
“Mama is the only one who tries.”

Tears stung my eyes. The truth was out, even in their young hearts.

That night, I confronted him again.

“Your children are growing cold towards you. They see your neglect. They are losing respect.”

Instead of reflection, he turned it on me. His eyes narrowed.

“So you’ve started poisoning them against me? You want them to hate their father? You are the Jezebel in this home!”

The words knocked the wind out of me. Jezebel? Poisoning the children? When all I did was cover for him?

But things were about to get darker.

A few days later, Mama Esther pulled me aside. Her face carried pity mixed with hesitation.

“Kemi, I don’t want to hurt you, but people are talking… about your husband and the pastor’s wife.”

I laughed nervously. “That’s impossible. She’s a prophetess.”

But her silence told me otherwise.

That night, I watched my husband more closely. He came home late, smelling faintly of perfume that wasn’t mine. He carried a glow, the kind of glow men get when they’re not burdened but excited by a secret.

My heart pounded with suspicion, but I swallowed it. I wasn’t ready to believe it. Not yet.

Until the day I saw them.

I had gone to the church quietly, hoping to ask the pastor for help with my children’s school fees. But as I approached, I froze at the sight before me. My husband and the prophetess stood too close, their laughter soft, their hands brushing. There was an intimacy between them that no prayers could justify.

I staggered back, my knees trembling. My mind screamed, “No, this cannot be.”

The man I gave eighteen years. The man I built from nothing. The man I suffered for… was now sharing himself with another woman, hiding behind God’s name.

I went home broken, my chest heavy with a pain words could not describe.

For the first time, anger replaced sorrow.

This was no longer just suffering. This was betrayal.

Dear readers, what do you have to say in Kemi's situation, let see in the comment section.

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