she betrayed me with my bestfriend(painful story)

How did we get here?
That is the question I ask myself. How did we get here? How did our marriage reach this point where we can barely stand the sight of each other? Or, more honestly put, where you can’t stand the sight of me.
Ter, you used to love me. You used to…
Our anniversary was on the 19th of this month…just a week ago…but it came and went like any other day…any other day in this new reality of mine…of ours. You didn’t even bother coming home that day. That had been the 3 rdnight you spent out of our home. And I know you were with her…or one of4th them…
You stopped hiding your affairs long ago. It almost seems like a joke when I remember those early days of your indiscretion, when you used to actually make an attempt to hide your affairs from me. It is laughable for me to remember how you used silly aliases for your women, and went through extra trouble to make sure I never found out about them…But now, you rub them in my face. Now, the whole world can see my shame. Of how I have lost my husband to better woman than I…to women who have been able to give you what I haven’t been able to…a child.
We used to be partners in this infertility journey of ours. You used to be my rock, my champion, my fighter…the person who held me up when I felt the weight of our struggle was too much for me to bear. Remember how you would cradle me in your arms and rock me as I cried, after every failed cycle. Remember how you always tried to make me laugh when I thought the dark cloud would never lift. When did you stop being my sunshine, Ter? When did your patience start to wane? When did your steps lead you to search elsewhere for what I couldn’t give you?
Somehow, someway, I lost your love. I stopped being your angel…your prized possession. I remember those days when you went crazy if I was even bitten by a mosquito. But today, you don’t think twice before attacking me with your fists…
I will never forget that first day you hit me. I will never forget the shock I felt when your fist connected with my face, sending me sprawling to the ground. I will never forget how I couldn’t even cry…so great was my shock. My Ter had hit me? No, it couldn’t be. It had to be a mistake. But it hadn’t been. And that blow had been followed by another, and then another, culminating with your hands around my neck, strangling the life out of me. I honestly thought I was going to die that day. As I struggled for breath, I honestly thought that was going to be my end. But you had let go just in the nick of time, storming out of the house, leaving me lying on the ground. Did you think of me as you drove away? Did you worry I might not survive my wounds? Did I cross your mind at all, while you were with her? I reckon I didn’t, because I didn’t see you for the next three days. Your first marathon stretch out of the house. But it wouldn’t be your last. No, instead, it marked the turning point for our new normal.
And it was all because of her…the first person who was not just one of your random text and Facebook messages…the first person who posed a real threat to our marriage. It’s funny, because I actually thought she was the worst that could happen. If only I could see that there would be many more of her…many, many more.
If only I had known that the beatings would also become a constant part of our lives. If only I knew that first night would open the floodgates to the attacks…the abuse. After that night, hitting me became your favourite pastime. It became your good morning greeting, and good night salute. It didn’t matter what I said, or didn’t say, your hands, and even legs, always found a way to connect with my body. Now, I walk on egg shells around you…never knowing what to say that could trigger the time bomb you have become.
I used to think it was all my fault. I used to think I had driven you away because of how unattractive I had become. I know I look nothing like the woman you married eight years ago. In 2001, I had been a beautiful, happy go-lucky 27-year-old, looking forward to a lifetime of love with my husband. But over the years, my weight has crept up. I used to blame it on the fertility drugs and the stress…but the truth is that food has become my friend. My only friend. Today, I am about 20kg heavier than the woman you married. The light has extinguished from my eyes, and I have become a shell of the woman I used to be. I used to love life…but now, I only live for you. I only live for pleasing you…for thinking up ways to lure you back to me…
But I have failed woefully.
You haven’t touched me in over a year. Before, we would still have sex, even though I was aware of how much I disgusted you. Such a far cry from the early days, when you had been tender…and loving…and passionate. Our lovemaking transitioned from that, to fast and violent thrusting sessions, with you not interested in pleasing anyone else but yourself. Remember when your mission, your only mission, was to make sure I got maximum satisfaction? Remember how that was once more important to you than your own pleasure? But you soon turned me to the woman grateful for even those quick, violent thrusts. Even if I hurt from the pain caused by not being sufficiently lubricated, I still tried to do everything I could to please you…
And then it had all stopped. And then…the miscarriage happened…
Now, you can’t even bear to touch me. I disgust you. Even without the privilege of a baby in my arms, my body still carries the marks from that pregnancy. The stretch marks have compounded an already bad situation…and now, even the sex has gone. Now, I am left with nothing.
I haven’t been able to turn to anyone. With my family living far away, and my friendships all destroyed, I have been left with nobody. Except…
I hear you moan, and my attention is drawn back to our current situation. My hands are shaking, as I watch you writhing on the floor, your shirt drenched in your blood. Even with my quivering hands, I haven’t let go of the knife I hold.
You weren’t even my first choice…not even close.
I remember those early days, back in the 80s and early 90s, when our families would worship together in Holy Cross Cathedral, Lagos. So many of us were fascinated by your family’s exotic good looks, largely arising from your mixed parentage. There was no teenage girl in Church who didn’t have a crush on your brothers. Tall, lean, and with eyes colored somewhere between green and hazel brown, your brothers were the most gorgeous things I had ever set my eyes on. And one especially…Atoo.
If I’m to be honest, Atoo was the reason I went to church those days. I would be seated on our usual pew, waiting for your family to make its grand entrance. Somehow, Atoo always led the pack. He was always the first to bounce in through those big brass doors, casting flirtatious smiles at the many girls waving at him from their pews. I would literally melt to butter seeing that smile and those twinkling green eyes, wishing he would just notice me, even if it was for only a day!
But he never did. I was an incredibly awkward looking teenager, who was pretty much all skin and bones; flat chested, flat buttocked and way too tall for her age. As the only girl in a home of 6 kids, I didn’t have the slightest clue how to make myself look feminine or attractive enough to catch his attention…or anyone else’s for that matter. So, even when Atoo and the rest of your brothers chatted with my own brothers after Mass, I would just linger around awkwardly, not knowing how to flirt to save my life.
You? I didn’t even notice you. In fact, I always thought Atoo was the first of your family’s 4 sons…until that day I realized you weren’t their driver, or a visiting cousin, and that there were actually 5 of you. With you, it was like your mother’s Romanian genes went into full recession. Whilst your brothers were cool and suave, you were just as awkward as me; tall, with oversized glasses and a face full of pimples. I remember how shocked I was when my brother, Buchi, introduced you as ‘them Atoo’s oldest brother’, and I had almost passed out when you had smiled, revealing a mouth full of metal. Good heavens! On the way home, my brothers and I joked about how you were the ‘born troway’ of your family, because you were absolutely nothing like the others.
And then in 1992, your family had abruptly stopped coming to church. We were stunned to hear that your father had taken another wife, a young woman from your home state of Benue, giving your Romanian mother a ‘take it or leave it’ choice. It was the biggest shock ever, especially as your father was a Knight in the church. My parents were proper scandalized by it all. We heard that your mother, having fallen out with her family in Romania, had had no choice but to remain in Nigeria following the end of her marriage. So, she had chosen to move you guys to a smaller house, somewhere on the mainland…where exactly, nobody knew.
A few years later, 1994 to be precise, my father got a Government appointment and my family relocated to Abuja, leaving my brother, Buchi, and I alone to finish our studies in Unilag. While in Unilag, I somehow outgrew my awkwardness, and blossomed into an attractive young woman. I dated, as was the norm with girls my age, and by my final year, was in a serious relationship with a classmate of mine. By the time graduation came in 1996, and I had to move to Abuja to be with my folks, my boyfriend, David, actually proposed. I was over the moon, and even though ours was a long distance relationship, first of all with him being in Lagos, and shortly after with him off to the United Kingdom for his Masters, I was so thrilled at the thought of becoming his wife in the near future.
Until January 1999, when he had dropped the bombshell on me, by e-mail of all things! He had written about how he had fallen in love with someone else, and apologized profusely for wasting my time.
I had wept buckets. It felt like my heart had been ripped out of my chest. I could barely even breathe! I blamed my parents for not sending me to the U.K, as I had requested. If I had been there, David would not have left me. I was angry that all my brothers had been given the privilege of leaving the country, but I hadn’t. But I knew it wasn’t because they were trying to be mean or wicked. With my immediate older brother, Buchi, only having just left for his post-graduate studies the year before, there was no way my folks could afford to send another one there. And my other brothers there were not financially strong enough to take on my additional expenses.
So, I had nursed my heartbreak, consoling myself with the fact that, at 25, I was still young and would surely meet someone soon. I had a decent job with an NGO, and I knew life would continue after David.
I remember how excited my mother had been that day. She had just returned from a trip to Lagos, and was brimming with excitement over whom she had flown with.
“Guess who was on my flight! One of the Tsumba boys!”
Upon hearing your surname, my heart had leapt as I remembered my teenage crush. “Atoo?!” I had squealed.
Mom shook her name. “No, Tersur! You know, the oldest.”
I had racked my brain, trying to remember. “Oh! The born troway?”
The look my very Catholic mother gave me could have turned me to stone, so I had stifled my laughter.
“He was very excited to see me. In fact, he was even the one who recognized me. He looks so different from how he did then.”
I nodded, but my attention span had already reached its limit with this gist. Seeing that she was losing me, my mother quickly sped to her point.
“He asked after you!” she said, falling just short of winking at me.
I had guffawed. “Me? Like he, or any of his brothers, even know my name!”
“He asked after you s-p-e-c-i-f-i-c-a-l-l-y!” my mother said, animatedly buttressing her point.
By now, I was beginning to spell a rat.
“He’s in Abuja for a week, on some kind of training. I have invited him for dinner this Saturday…so you better be nice!”
One part of me wanted to be anywhere but home that Saturday, but I admit that I was curious. I wanted to see if you still looked as bad as I remembered. In hindsight, I should have left the house. God, I should have left…