06/02/2025
I woke up this morning with a heavy, troubled soul. Tears gushed down carelessly as I recounted how I ended up in this marriage in the first place.
Five years ago, I was brimming with happiness, excitement about the future. He ticked all the boxes every woman dreams of, and I felt like the luckiest girl on earth.
Oh, he spoiled me-lavished me with extravagant gifts. Heck! He bought me a brand-new Lexus for my birthday. My colleagues envied me, but my family vehemently opposed my marriage to him. Still, he extended his generous hands to everyone around me.
“Why do you love me so much despite my family’s resistance?” I asked one day when he whisked me away to Kenya for my birthday.
“You give me life. You are my life,” he replied, his eyes brimming with liquid love.
I felt it coursing through my veins.
I told him I wanted no intimacy before marriage, and he accepted. He promised to respect my wishes and would only touch me after I stepped into his home.
That night at dinner in Kenya, I yearned to give him a part of myself.
“How can you give me this much when I barely offer you anything?” I asked, guilt clouding my eyes.
He smiled gently. I leaned forward to kiss him, but he turned his face away.
“Let’s save this intimacy for marriage,” he spoke softly while rubbing my hands.
Tears streamed down my cheeks.
“God, this is it! Even if I don’t hear your voice regarding this matter, all the signs point to the fact that this is the man you have prepared for me,” I prayed as I settled into bed that night.
Upon returning home from Kenya, my parents summoned me to Lagos. I was working in Abuja.
“We appreciate all the gifts this man has brought us, but my spirit resists him for some unknown reason,” my dad declared emphatically.
“He’s a good person, but the Holy Spirit pricks my heart each time I envision you two together,” my mom explained, her voice trembling with concern. “Please don’t marry him,” she pleaded.
That night, I cried. Gradually, resentment toward my parents festered. They had urged me to marry, and now that I’d brought someone home, they were suddenly against him. I decided to cut off communication with them.
One morning, while heading to work, my spiritual parents called.
“Dear daughter, please meet us at the church office at 10 AM this morning.”
Panic surged through me. “What have I done?” I thought as I drove my black Lexus Jeep.
I took leave from HR for an hour and arrived at the church office.
“We haven’t found peace in our spirits since you introduced that man to us.”
Anger bubbled inside me, but I masked it. That man, whom they distrusted, had single-handedly funded the last church project without fanfare. He was always there for the church.
“We will not let his gifts blind us spiritually,” they concluded, devoid of emotion.
I felt shattered. I froze, vowing never to return to that church again.
Everyone was against my ‘God-sent.’ It was utterly absurd.
Five years into our marriage, I had traveled to over 20 countries. Many mornings, I would have breakfast in one country, lunch in another, and dinner somewhere else.
My husband was the social butterfly, posting daily about our life together, and I would watch as women drooled over his affection for me.
However, by our fourth year, my happiness began to wane. My husband was rarely home. I felt lonely. We didn’t have a child, and my worries mounted.
This continued until our fifth anniversary, prompting me to seek solutions in strange places, all in vain.
One Saturday, a long-lost friend from university urgently requested to see me.
I welcomed her into my home.
“My wedding is in two weeks, and I’ve been told I need to perform certain rituals if I am to enjoy my marriage,” she said, her eyes filled with worry.
I felt a chill. “Rituals?”
“Yes, or perhaps I didn’t use the right words. Pardon me,” she replied. “There are just certain things I need to accomplish quickly.”
“Like what?” I asked, my heart racing.
“I need to forgive your husband,” she said, her eyes glistening with tears.
I stared at her in shock.
“For what?” I demanded, eager for answers.
“He was the one who r@ped me when we were in school.”
“God forbid!” I screamed.
“Yes, and I have a child by him,” she said, pulling out a picture from her bag. “This is my son,” she said, extending her hand toward me.
“I cursed him that day. I swore he would never have a child outside of this one.”
I was speechless. I looked at the picture, then at our wedding portrait on the wall. The boy bore an uncanny resemblance to my husband. I collapsed to the floor, weeping.
“Do you have a child?” she asked.
I remained silent.
“Please tell him I forgive him. I need to move on with my life,” she said as she prepared to leave.
I sat there, dejected. It felt as if my soul had departed from my body.
“My husband? A r@pist? It can’t be,” I screamed.
“Here is my number,” she said, placing a small piece of paper on the table.
Memories of our university days flooded back. I recalled how she had suddenly vanished from school, leaving no trace.
Lost in thought, my phone rang. It was my husband.
I didn’t answer.
I retreated to the bathroom, soaking in the tub for hours.
“Lord, but I told you about him,” I cried.
“Child, but you didn’t listen,” a clear voice replied.
I packed my bags and as I approached the door, we met.
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Thank you for reading, “Rotten Gold” by Prisca Popoola. Kindly drop your thoughts below.
