My name is Musa Ibrahim. I am 41 years old. I am from Borno State. I was married for 11 years. I have three children.
This is my divorce diary.
I met my wife, Hafsat, in Maiduguri during a wedding ceremony.
You know how weddings are in the North—noise, laughter, aunties scanning every young man and woman like they are in a marketplace. That was where I first saw her.
She was sitting quietly among her friends, not laughing too much, not talking too much.
Just calm.
Simple.
Different.
I told my friend, “Wallahi, waccan yarinyar akwai nutsuwa a tattare da ita.”
(That girl has a calmness about her.)
He laughed and said, “Kai Musa, kada ka fara. You always say this.”
But this time, it was different.
I approached her the next day through her elder brother. In our place, you don’t just walk up to a woman and start talking nonsense. There is a way things are done.
Her family agreed to meet mine.
Everything moved fast.
Too fast.
Within four months, we were married.
At the beginning, Hafsat was everything I wanted.
Respectful.
Soft-spoken.
Obedient.
If I say, “Ki kawo ruwa,” the water would appear before I even finished the sentence.
I used to boast to my friends:
“Matata ba kamar sauran mata bane. Ita ta san yadda ake zama da miji.”
(My wife is not like other women. She knows how to live with a husband.)
I thought I had won in life.
But there is something I did not understand then:
A person can obey you… and still not love you.
The first sign came after our first child.
Hafsat changed.
Not drastically.
Just… slowly.
She became distant.
She stopped laughing the way she used to.
She stopped asking me about my day.
Even her eyes changed.
At first, I ignored it.
After all, women go through a lot after childbirth.
“Haihuwa ba wasa bane,” my mother used to say.
(Childbirth is not a small thing.)
So I was patient.
But patience has a limit.
One evening, I came back from work and greeted her:
“Assalamu alaikum.”
She replied, “Wa alaikum salam.”
Nothing more.
No smile.
No eye contact.
Just… cold.
I asked, “Lafiya? Me ke damunki?”
(Are you okay? What is wrong with you?)
She said, “Babu komai.”
(Nothing.)
That “nothing” became the most dangerous word in my marriage.
Years passed.
We had three children.
From outside, everything looked fine.
But inside my house…
There was no peace.
Hafsat stopped sharing my bed regularly.
At first, she had excuses.
“I am tired.”
“The baby is crying.”
“My body is not strong.”
I understood.
But it didn’t stop.
One night, I said to her:
“Hafsat, ni ma mutum ne fa.”
(Hafsat, I am also a human being.)
She kept quiet.
That silence… it broke something inside me.
I started getting angry easily.
Small things would irritate me.
If food had too much salt, I would shout.
If the children made noise, I would get furious.
Deep down, I knew it was not about the food or the children.
It was about rejection.
My friends started noticing.
One of them said:
“Musa, kana da mata amma kana rayuwa kamar mara aure.”
(You have a wife, but you are living like a single man.)
I laughed it off.
But it was true.
The truth finally came out on a hot afternoon.
I came back home earlier than usual.
Hafsat was not expecting me.
I heard her voice in the room.
She was on the phone.
Laughing.
The kind of laughter I had not heard in years.
I stopped.
Listened.
Then I heard a man’s voice.
My heart started beating fast.
“Subhanallah… me ke faruwa ne?”
(What is happening?)
I pushed the door open.
She froze.
The phone fell from her hand.
I picked it up.
The call was still active.
I put it to my ear.
“Hello?”
Silence.
Then the line went dead.
I looked at her.
She couldn’t even look at me.
I asked one question:
“Waye wannan?”
(Who is that?)
She started crying immediately.
That kind of crying that tells you the truth is worse than you imagined.
After hours of silence, she finally spoke.
She told me about a man.
A man she knew before we got married.
A man she loved.
A man her parents rejected because he had nothing.
She said:
“Na yi aure da kai ne saboda dole… ba don ina son ka ba.”
(I married you because I had no choice… not because I loved you.)
I felt like the ground opened under my feet.
Eleven years.
Eleven years of marriage.
And I was just… a replacement.
I shouted.
I broke things.
I cried.
Yes… I cried.
Because that kind of pain does not respect whether you are a man or not.
She continued:
“I tried… wallahi na yi kokari… amma zuciyata ba ta tare da kai.”
(I tried, I swear I tried… but my heart is not with you.)
I asked her:
“Why did you stay all these years?”
She said something I will never forget:
“Saboda yara.”
(Because of the children.)
That answer destroyed me more than anything else.
So I was just…
A provider.
A father.
But never a husband in her heart.
The worst part?
The man was still in her life.
All these years.
I couldn’t breathe.
I felt like a stranger in my own house.
That night, I left.
I went to my friend’s house.
I couldn’t sleep.
I kept hearing her words in my head:
“Ba don ina son ka ba…”
The next morning, I went back home.
Sat down.
And said:
“Hafsat… na sake ki.”
(Hafsat… I divorce you.)
She didn’t cry.
That hurt even more.
No begging.
No pleading.
No “don’t leave me.”
Just silence.
I gave her the second and third divorce later that day.
It was over.
People blamed me.
They said:
“Why didn’t you forgive her?”
“Men are supposed to be strong.”
“Think about your children.”
But I ask:
How do you stay where you were never loved?
Today, I am 41.
Divorced.
Living in Maiduguri.
Taking care of my children.
I have learned something:
Not every marriage is built on love.
Some are built on pressure.
On fear.
On obligation.
And those ones…
They eventually collapse.
