Breaking Free

Every Monday night, our home changed. Dishes rattled as my husband, Tundi, returned from work. His eyes, once warm, now burned with contempt as he loomed over my wheelchair. I froze, hands trembling in my lap, while our three children watched in horror. It was a ritual I had come to dread.

“Sorry,” I whispered. I had nothing to apologize for. Four years ago, a car accident left me paralyzed—the same day I had rushed to pick up our youngest daughter, Funka, because Tundi had forgotten.

“Sorry means nothing,” he spat, knocking over the pot of jollof rice I had spent hours preparing. Red grains scattered across the floor like drops of blood.

“Look at this pathetic dinner. Look at this pathetic house. Look at you, Yatunde.”

Femi, our oldest, stood up. “Baba, stop!” he shouted. Tundi turned on him. “Sit down. This is between me and your mother.”

I motioned for Femi to sit. We had lived this nightmare for months, and I could see the pattern—but I didn’t understand why.

By day, Tundi was normal, even caring, helping me into my wheelchair. But by night, he transformed.

“The food is still hot,” I said, voice trembling.

“I’ve already eaten,” he sneered. “With someone who knows how to please a man.”

The words cut deeper than any knife. Our children stared at their plates, frozen with fear. “Go to your rooms,” I said softly. Funka began to cry. “Now,” I insisted. Reluctantly, they obeyed.

When the children left, I wheeled closer to Tundi, who poured himself whiskey. “What has happened to you?” I asked. “Who are you seeing every Monday?”

His laughter chilled me. “Finally figured it out, have you? And what will you do about it? Crawl after me?” He mimicked my wheelchair movements. Something inside me snapped.

“Tell me her name,” I demanded.

He straightened, a cruel smile playing on his lips. “Zanob. Unlike you, she can dance for me. She can run to meet me. She doesn’t need to be carried like a child.”

Each word was meant to wound—and it did. Yet beneath my pain, a cold resolve grew.

“She asks about you,” he continued. “She finds it exciting to know I put you in your place before I go to her on Mondays.”

“You beat me for her entertainment,” I whispered.

“Sometimes I record it,” he said, showing me his phone. “She especially likes it when you cry.”

I lunged from my wheelchair, sprawling to grab his phone. He stepped back, laughing. “This is what I married—a crawling worm.”

He left, slamming the door. I remained on the floor, rice sticking to my clothes, tears streaming. But these were not tears of defeat. As I pulled myself back into my wheelchair, Femi appeared in the hallway.

“I heard everything, Mama,” he said, his young face hardened. “We need to leave tonight.”

“No, my son,” I said. A plan was forming. “No, he won’t. But by the time I’m done, he’ll wish I had killed him instead.”

I pressed record on my phone, capturing Tundi’s confession: the beatings, the mistress, everything. This was no longer about a cheating husband. It was about a man who abused a disabled wife for another woman’s pleasure. I promised myself: next Monday would be different.

The next Monday, I dressed carefully in a tailored navy dress, one I hadn’t worn since before the accident. Ngozi, my cousin, arrived with her cousin Namdi, a broad-shouldered man with kind eyes.

“Can you wait in the car?” I asked Namdi. “If a black Toyota Camry arrives, send Ngozi a text.”

At the apartment, I pressed the bell. The door opened to a woman in a silk robe.

“I’m Yatunde, Tundi’s wife,” I said, voice steady.

“May we come in?” I asked, gesturing. The woman stepped aside, letting us inside. The apartment was luxurious—our furniture.

“How long?” I asked.

“Two years,” she replied defensively.

“Two years?” I snapped. “My accident was four years ago. He started cheating while I could still walk.”

I played the recording. She gasped. “I didn’t know he was recording you. He said he put you in your place.”

“Where exactly is that? Beneath his fist?”

The sound of a key turned the lock. Tundi entered, bouquet in one hand, champagne in the other.

“Hello, husband,” I said calmly. “Surprise.”

He froze. “How did you find this place?”

“Don’t blame her,” I said. “She didn’t know I was coming.”

“You shouldn’t be here,” he protested.

“Clearly,” I replied. “This is a place for joy, not Monday rage.”

I told him: the children would stay with me. The house was ours. By the time I was done, he would have nothing.

As we left, Officer Musa from Ibadan Central Police Station escorted us to safety. Tundi arrived in his black Toyota but was powerless.

“Step back, sir,” the officer said. “Your children are going with their mother to a secure location.”

For the first time, I felt no fear, only pity for a man who had destroyed his life and ours.

Funka’s small hand found mine. “Are we going to be okay, Mama?”

“Yes, my sunshine. We’re already more okay than we’ve been in a very long time.”

Six months later, we lived in safety. Seven nights without fear. Seven mornings waking to peaceful children.

Even Tundi’s mother came, angry and defensive. I told her calmly: “Your son destroyed himself—and nearly destroyed my grandchildren. They have their family now—and it’s me.”

That night, as I sat with my children, I realized: we were free. My wheelchair had not made me weak. It revealed my true strength.

The sun set over Ibadan, painting the city gold and crimson. Somewhere, Tundi contemplated his crimes. Somewhere, a future stretched before us, unwritten but undeniably ours.