Painful Desire: In God’s Time

“Sarcastically she asked why didn’t you just die like my children you witch from the pit of hell, shebi you have added juju to your witchcraft to keep Sani tied to you? Enjoy your moment, soon Sani’s eyes would open wicked woman.”  

BY HAUWA NOROH ALI

My marriage to Sani was a dream spun from the pages of a fairy tale. We met in university: I was a wide-eyed first-year student, and he was a dashing final-year gentleman who stole my heart.

He was everything I had ever wished for. We made promises under the stars, whispering our dreams for a shared future. After he completed his NYSC, we had our formal introduction, and my bride price was paid. Sani became my world, my everything.

When I finally graduated with a second-class upper, my dreams seemed to be within my grasp. Our wedding was nothing short of a wonder—a celebration draped in splendour and love.

Every detail was carefully crafted, from the exquisite decorations to the gourmet meals prepared by the finest chef in the country.

It was every girl’s dream wedding, and as I stood beside Sani, my heart brimmed with hope. The future shimmered before us, filled with the promise of laughter, children, and a life wrapped in joy.

Our plan was simple: bask in our love during the first year of marriage, then welcome our first child by the third year. But as they say, “Man proposes, and God disposes.” Fate had a different script for us.

One year turned into five, and still, there was no child. Doctors, with sympathetic smiles, assured us that nothing was wrong with either of us, urging patience and hope. We clung to that hope, but it frayed with each passing year.

We visited countless hospitals, tried treatments that promised miracles, endured herbal concoctions, and whispered fervent prayers into the night. Yet, after eight long years, the love story that once glowed so brightly began to dim.

Arguments erupted, harsh words hurled like glass shards, splintering the fragile heart of our marriage. I watched the life I had imagined disintegrate, crushed by the guilt of not being able to give Sani the gift of fatherhood.

Desperation whispered in my ear, and I made the most excruciating decision of my life: to find another wife for my husband, someone who could give him the children he longed for.

The thought gnawed at my soul, but I was resolute. Yet convincing Sani proved nearly impossible. His voice, thick with grief and defiance, echoed through our home: “If God has destined us to be childless, then so be it.” But I was relentless.

For a year, I pleaded, enlisting the support of his mother, sisters, and even my own family. I begged on my knees, desperate to release him from the burden of childlessness. Eventually, Sani, heartbroken and weary, surrendered.

We found Maryam—a girl with beauty that seemed as innocent as a summer bloom. Her eyes held a sweetness that made you believe she could never harbour cruelty. I led the procession of women to ask for her hand, sparing no expense in the ceremony. With a heavy heart, I promised her parents I would treat her like a sister, a daughter even.

Three months after the wedding, Maryam became pregnant. My joy was as sharp as a blade, slicing through my heart. Sani looked lost, whispering to me in the dead of night, “I wish it were you.” But I swallowed my pain and replied, “This is God’s will.” The first ultrasound revealed twins. I smiled through my tears, while Sani’s sadness deepened.

I insisted that Maryam deliver the twins in America, and despite Sani’s objections, I wouldn’t back down. The babies were born with all the fanfare I could muster, and four months later, we returned to Nigeria. But the bliss I had envisioned soured.

Maryam’s family practically moved in, and I was pushed further away from the children. Maryam’s demeanour transformed, and arrogance dripped from every word she spoke. She began to wield her motherhood like a crown, and I became an intruder in my own home.

Sani’s irritation with her grew palpable, though he still fulfilled his duties as a husband. He avoided her when he could, and I understood why. Maryam became increasingly demanding, but when Sani refused to indulge her whims, she was forced to come to me to solicit for help in convincing him and anytime she came blackmailed me saying “Is this how you would treat your sister? You are so full of empty promises, Aunty promise and fail”.

Our relationship had deteriorated into a tense, hostile silence. She called me a witch to my face, accusing me of devouring my unborn children and warning that I should not harm hers with my witchcraft.

Servants whispered to Sani about the cruelty I endured when he was away. He was enraged, but I begged him to let it be—for the sake of the children. In secret, he brought the twins to my side of the house, and in their laughter, I found a glimmer of the love I had thought was lost forever this life I lived for about four years.

Yet one afternoon, as I asked one of the children for a simple glass of water, Maryam intervened with a sneer. “Send a dog instead,” she spat, “because that’s all you deserve.”

“After devouring all your children with your witchcraft, you want to turn mine into slaves. You are lucky Sani is wrapped around your finger; don’t worry I will soon chase you out of this house. I am the woman in this house,” she laughed. “What would you call yourself? A man, right? See, I am pregnant for a second time, unlike you who is like the Dead Sea—anything you take in dies.”

Tears flooded my eyes as I confronted her, my voice breaking. “Did I curse myself with childlessness, or was it God’s will?” The silence that followed shattered whatever strength I had left. Taking my keys, I left the house, seeking solace in my mother’s embrace. She held me as I wept, whispering that God saw everything, and His judgment would come.

Maryam revelled in my absence, parading herself as the lady of the house. But Sani was with me every day, a broken man, holding onto me like a lifeline. I fasted, I prayed, I begged God to ease my suffering and vindicate me. Maryam, high on her own pride, flaunted the children on social media, boasting of her motherhood and Sani’s lineage.

She went ‘live’ on Instagram on the twins’ birthday, driving while dancing and not paying attention to the road. She never saw the truck that came crashing into her.

The accident stole three innocent lives. Maryam survived, but with a broken leg and a shattered womb. I crumbled under the grief, mourning the children I had come to love as my own.

Me who thought I could fix everything, how was I going to pacify Sani while I was lost in grief? I had made the impossible possible—he had tasted fatherhood, now it was just a mirage. I was lost as it was the most heart-breaking moment of my life. I questioned God, asking what I had done to deserve this torment.

I had endured Maryam’s abuse and cruelty, the pain of being treated like an outcast in my own home for years, just so my husband could have the children he longed for.

And now, after all the suffering, I was back to square one. The grief suffocated me, and I sank into a darkness so deep I could barely breathe.

Maryam, however, seemed more upset about losing her womb than the children. She raged that if Sani had allowed her to move abroad with the children, away from me and my witchcraft, she would still have her children and the ability to conceive.

Life moved on for Maryam. She began consulting doctor after doctor, desperate for a solution to her infertility. She knew that without the cover of the children, her excesses might not be tolerated. All these years, she had not established relationships with the family; she had used the children as a shield to lord over the house.

Meanwhile, I fell apart. I stopped eating. I couldn’t sleep. The sadness wrapped around me so tightly that I had to be admitted to the hospital. It took three weeks of counselling and care to bring me back from the brink.

When I returned home, Maryam’s taunts continued, each word a blade carving new wounds in my soul. I endured Maryam’s insults. She still called me a witch, a childless curse upon their lives. But I grew numb, warning Sani not to divorce her unless she requested it.

We lived in that toxic, suffocating tension. Sani tried to shield me as best he could, but the weight of the situation bore heavily on us both—a house thick with tension, the air suffocating with grief and resentment.

On the first anniversary of the children’s death, Maryam demanded a trip to Dubai instead of honouring their memory. Sani’s refusal was met with the cold reality that the life we had built had unravelled beyond repair and marked a turning point in our already strained existence.

Sani, who had grown weary of her constant demands and manipulations, refused firmly. His voice was resolute, a shadow of the man he used to be, but now carved with pain and loss.

Maryam threw a fit, hurling insults with a ferocity that made the walls of our once-loving home seem to shudder. Her voice, once sweet and deceivingly soft, was now jagged, cutting into every hope I had left for any semblance of peace. She berated Sani for failing her, for failing their lost children, and for ruining her life.

“I was supposed to be a queen,” she screamed, her voice cracking. “I would still have everything if it weren’t for you, and that witch you call your first wife!” The accusation was sharp and familiar, but this time, Sani’s patience broke.

“Enough!” he thundered. His voice echoed in the empty halls, silencing everyone within earshot.

Maryam stumbled back, her eyes wide with surprise. Sani had reached the end of his endurance, and for the first time, he spoke words that I had never thought I would hear. “You have tormented the woman I love beyond what any human should bear.  If not that I promised not to divorce you except you asked for it I would have done that right now, so if you wish to leave, then leave.”

Maryam fell silent, her lips parted in disbelief. The threat of divorce hung in the air like a heavy, unspoken curse, and she realized she had pushed too far. Her power, built on the illusion of a perfect family and the shield of motherhood, had crumbled.

I remained a silent observer, my heart aching at the cost of our fractured lives watching the raw pain in Sani’s eyes, in a soft voice he said, “call the mallam for the memorial prayer”. My heart was light for he had respected my wish for a prayer ceremony.

Mallam and family members gathered for the memorial prayers, Mallam also said some prayers that invoked peace and blessings. His voice rose in prayers, and the room felt heavier, as though the universe itself was paying attention.When he finished, he turned to us with a gentle smile. “Your suffering is seen,” he said. “Your story isn’t over. Hold onto each other, for the blessings that have been withheld will soon return in a way you cannot yet imagine.”

His words felt like a salve to my weary heart, and I clung to them desperately. They were the first glimmers of hope I had felt in so long. I didn’t understand what he meant, but I chose to believe in his wisdom. After the prayers, as I helped clean up, I collapsed. Panic engulfed Sani; he thought God was about to take me, too.

Terror engulfed Sani, his cries echoing through the hospital. “Not again,” he wept, mourning the possibility of losing me, too. When the doctor emerged, his words shook us to our core. “Do you believe in miracles?” he asked. We nodded, too stunned to speak. “Congratulations,” he announced. “You are four months pregnant.”

Tears flooded my eyes. Fifteen years of barren sorrow, and God had blessed me at last. I hung my head in regret because at that moment, I realized I had tried to change destiny. I had played God and forgotten in all my careful planning that God makes everything perfect at his own time. Yes, indeed, He had shown me mercy by proving that God’s ways were not ours and His will should be sufficient for us.

Fifteen years of sorrow my joy was restored; my prayers had been answered with this gift. Sani wept, holding me close, his love for me never more apparent.

As we returned home, the joy I carried was shadowed by Maryam’s shrill voice “The men of the house have arrived, the living being that carries the dead sea has returned”.

Sarcastically she asked why didn’t you just die like my children you witch from the pit of hell, shebi you have added juju to your witchcraft to keep Sani tied to you? Enjoy your moment, soon Sani’s eyes would open wicked woman”

Sani looked at her, his voice steady, unwavering. “Maryam,” he said, “now it’s your turn to send the dogs.”

…Hauwa Noroh Ali, atrained journalist, writes from Abuja