My name is Usman Bello. I am 44 years old. I am from Sokoto State. I was married for 17 years. I have six children.
This is my divorce diary.
I married my first wife, Maryam, when I was 27 years old.
She was everything a man from our place would pray for.
Respectful.
Hardworking.
Quiet.
The kind of woman that greets you properly, kneels slightly, and says:
“Sannu da zuwa, ya gida?”
(Welcome, how is home?)
I loved her.
Wallahi, I truly loved her.
We built our life from nothing.
When I married her, I was just a small trader in Sokoto market.
No shop.
No capital.
Just determination.
Maryam stood by me.
If I made ₦1,000, she would manage it like it was ₦10,000.
She never complained.
Never compared me to other men.
Never disrespected me.
People used to say:
“Usman, ka samu mace ta gari.”
(Usman, you got a good woman.)
And I knew it.
Years passed.
Business grew.
From a small table… to a shop.
From a shop… to two shops.
Then contracts started coming.
Life became comfortable.
That was when my problems started.
You see, in our society, when a man becomes successful, people start reminding him of things he was not thinking about before.
“Usman, ya kamata ka kara aure.”
(Usman, you should marry another wife.)
“Ka daina zama da mace daya kamar talaka.”
(Stop living with one wife like a poor man.)
“Yara sun yi yawa, kana bukatar karin mata.”
(You have many children, you need more wives.)
At first, I ignored them.
But pressure is a dangerous thing.
Especially when it comes from people you respect.
My mother said it.
My uncles said it.
Even my friends started mocking me.
One day, my mother said:
“Maryam ta tsufa yanzu… ka nemo wata yarinya.”
(Maryam is getting old now… find a younger wife.)
That statement stayed in my head.
I started looking at Maryam differently.
Not with love.
But with comparison.
That was my first mistake.
I married my second wife, Zainab, when I was 38.
She was 22.
Young.
Beautiful.
Full of life.
The day I told Maryam, she just said:
“In sha Allah.”
(God willing.)
No argument.
No tears.
That silence… I misunderstood it.
I thought it meant acceptance.
It didn’t.
The day Zainab entered my house, everything changed.
At first, I tried to be fair.
One night here.
One night there.
Money, attention, time.
But fairness is not as easy as it sounds.
Zainab wanted more.
More time.
More money.
More attention.
And she knew how to get it.
She would laugh.
Play.
Dress in ways that attracted me.
Maryam?
She remained the same.
Quiet.
Reserved.
Distant.
Slowly, I started spending more time with Zainab.
Maryam didn’t complain.
Not once.
That made it worse.
One day, I asked her:
“Ba ki da matsala ne?”
(Don’t you have a problem?)
She said:
“Idan kai kana jin dadi, ni ma na ji.”
(If you are happy, then I am too.)
But her eyes told a different story.
The house became divided.
Children started noticing.
Zainab would complain:
“Ba ka sona kamar yadda kake son Maryam a da.”
(You don’t love me like you loved Maryam before.)
Maryam would say nothing.
Silence again.
But silence… is never empty.
One night, everything exploded.
Zainab accused Maryam of witchcraft.
Yes.
Witchcraft.
She said:
“Wallahi tana min sihiri!”
(I swear she is doing magic on me!)
I was shocked.
Maryam just looked at her and said:
“Allah ya isa.”
(God is sufficient.)
That night, the house turned into a battlefield.
Relatives came.
Accusations flew.
Insults everywhere.
I was confused.
Angry.
Torn.
Instead of calming things down…
I made the worst decision of my life.
I chose sides.
I sided with Zainab.
Why?
Because she was louder.
Because she demanded more.
Because I was weak.
I confronted Maryam.
Accused her.
Raised my voice at her for the first time in 15 years.
She didn’t argue.
She just said:
“Usman… ka canza.”
(Usman… you have changed.)
That sentence… I will never forget it.
Days passed.
Tension grew.
Maryam became a stranger.
She stopped eating with us.
Stopped talking.
Stopped… living.
One evening, I came back and didn’t find her.
Her things were gone.
She left.
No drama.
No fight.
Just… left.
She went to her father’s house.
When I got there, her father looked at me and said:
“Mun baka amanar ‘yarmu… amma ka kasa.”
(We entrusted you with our daughter… but you failed.)
I had no words.
Maryam came out.
Calm.
Composed.
She said:
“Usman, na gaji.”
(Usman, I am tired.)
That same sentence again.
I begged.
For the first time in my life… I begged.
She shook her head.
“No.”
The divorce happened quietly.
No shouting.
No drama.
Just the end of 17 years.
Zainab?
Things didn’t get better.
The same problems.
The same complaints.
The same chaos.
That was when I realized:
The problem was not Maryam.
It was me.
Today, I am 44.
Divorced from the woman who stood by me when I had nothing.
Living with regret.
And every time I sit alone, I hear her voice:
“Usman… ka canza.”
