Part 3: Release

PART III

I stood in the bathroom, staring at the test in my shaking hands. Two lines. One bold, the other faint, but enough to confirm what I already feared. My breath caught in my throat. I was pregnant.

My whole body went cold, sweat dampening my skin even though the room wasn’t hot. The walls felt like they were closing in, tilting, spinning. I gripped the sink to steady myself as panic spread through my chest like wildfire.

What am I going to do? The question pounded louder than my heartbeat. My mind went straight to Dubem—his charm, his kisses, the way he made me feel wanted. But I couldn’t ignore the other side of him—the paranoia, the need to control everything, the threats that still echoed in my head. He wasn’t the same man I had fallen for, not anymore. Could I really have a baby with someone who could love me today and destroy me tomorrow?

Without realizing it, my hand pressed against my stomach. I yanked it away almost instantly, ashamed of the fleeting tenderness I felt. A part of me wanted to protect the tiny life just beginning inside me. Another part of me wanted it gone, to save myself before I was tied to Dubem forever.

No. I couldn’t tell him. Not yet. Not when I didn’t even know what I wanted for myself.

With trembling hands, I grabbed my car keys, stuffed the test kit into my bag, and rushed out of the house. On the way, I tossed the evidence into a roadside bin, as if throwing it away could erase the truth. But I couldn’t run from it. Not really.

At the medical lab, my legs felt heavy as I walked in. The blood test confirmed it—positive. The word mocked me from the page. I moved on autopilot, agreeing to an ultrasound as though it might somehow give me clarity.

Lying on the cold exam table, I watched the monitor flicker to life. Tears rolled down my face as I stared at the blurry image on the screen. This should have been one of the happiest moments of my life, but it wasn’t. If Dubem had remained the man I once fell in love with, maybe I would have felt safe enough to smile, to celebrate. Instead, it felt like a punishment—like life was mocking me, turning what should have been joy into a cruel reminder of how wrong everything had gone.

“Are you okay?” the sonographer asked gently, noticing my tears.

I forced a smile through the ache in my throat. “Yes… They’re tears of joy. My husband and I have been trying for a baby.” The lie rolled off my tongue too easily, but it tore at me inside.

Later, sitting in my car, I held the sonography printout in my lap. Two weeks pregnant. The words blurred as fresh tears burned my eyes. I pressed my forehead against the steering wheel and sobbed quietly.

A part of me wanted to keep it. Another part begged me to let it go.

I didn’t know which side of myself I would listen to. All I knew was that, whatever choice I made, nothing in my life would ever be the same again.

I used to hear women talk about finding themselves pregnant by the wrong man, and honestly, I never felt much sympathy for them. In my head, I’d think, How could you not see it coming? But there I was, sitting across from Imani, trying to imagine what it felt like to be in her shoes, and suddenly, I understood.

She sat hunched over, shoulders shaking, her sobs barely audible. My heart broke for her. Her only “crime” was letting her guard down, trusting when she should have read between the lines. I reached for the tissue box on the table and handed one to her. “Here,” I murmured softly. She wiped her eyes, and I gently squeezed her hand, a silent way of telling her she wasn’t alone. “Breathe first,” I whispered. “Then talk.”

Inside me, though, a storm was brewing. God knows I wanted to keep the baby. I weighed every option, turning it over in my mind until it hurt. I had never imagined myself in a position where abortion was even on the table. But here I was, deciding I’d have to go through with it—and without Dubem ever knowing. I told myself we could have another child someday, maybe if things miraculously got better between us. But tying myself to him with a baby now? That would be signing my own sentence for emotional torture.

I’d seen it happen before—women thinking a baby could soften a man’s heart or make him stay. In reality, it only chained them tighter to their pain. Dubem wanted a child, yes, but not out of love. He wanted one to lock me in, to keep me tethered to him forever. My parents didn’t raise me to be a fool, and I wasn’t about to become one now.

Two days later, my plan was set. Everything had to be perfect. I told Dubem my father had called, asking me to come home urgently for reasons he hadn’t explained. Dubem knew better than to stop me from seeing my family, so he agreed and even bought gifts for me to take to them. He had no clue what I was really planning.

My family knew about Dubem. My mum was especially fond of him, but they’d never met him. Only my older sister had, back when he was still an “angel” and before things fell apart. I’d never told her how much had changed.

At work, I requested a sick leave, saying I needed to travel for urgent medical care but would work remotely. It was approved instantly—three full weeks. I’d never asked for time off before. I was one of their best staff, so HR didn’t question it.

Dubem thought I was only going to be away for two weeks. That was deliberate. He was already grumbling about us being apart for so long, and I couldn’t risk him getting suspicious. Two weeks with my family sounded believable. In reality, it gave me the time I needed—for the procedure, for healing, for breathing again.

I had already spoken confidentially with a doctor friend, who prescribed what I needed based on how far along I was. The plan was in motion. All that was left was to see it through and pray it would free me from the trap I’d almost walked into.

I landed in Enugu two hours after leaving Dubem’s house. What should have been a forty-five-minute flight turned into a delay, the kind that only Nigerian airlines are famous for. By the time we touched down, I was drained, but seeing my oldest brother, Kodili, waiting at the terminal with a huge smile made my chest loosen a little. He’s five years older than me, but we’ve always been close, closer than I am with any of our other siblings. I had missed him. For a moment, I wanted to blurt everything out—to tell him what I was going through living with Dubem. But I knew better. Kodili wouldn’t take it lightly; he would have gone after him without a second thought.

At home, my parents and younger brother welcomed me with so much love, and for a moment, I almost broke. The warmth, the hugs, the laughter reminded me of who I was and what I came from. 

All I could think was: Why am I putting up with Dubem’s madness when I have all this love here? But love, or maybe obsession, does strange things to people. It blinds you, ties you to pain, and has a way of making you forget sense.

Later, I slipped out to the pharmacy. I bought the medicine my friend had prescribed along with a pack of pads—everything I needed for what had brought me back to Enugu. That night, I would end the pregnancy.

I waited for everyone to fall asleep before I took the pills, following the instructions carefully. They had warned me the bleeding would be heavy, so I laid out towels and settled on the floor, my heart hammering as I waited.

At 1:13 a.m., pain tore through me. Sharp, twisting cramps woke me up and almost knocked the air out of my lungs. The bleeding started, heavy and frightening. The blood came fast—too much, too red. I’d never seen so much blood in my life. I thought I was going to die right there on the floor. I pressed my hands to my abdomen and bit into my pillow to keep from screaming. Tears soaked into the fabric as I groaned quietly, praying I wouldn’t die that night.

The pain lasted for days, excruciating and crippling. I had never experienced anything like it. In those moments, I hated Dubem with everything in me. Yet beneath the anger was guilt. I kept wondering if I had committed a sin I could never be forgiven for. Would God forgive me? Would I ever forgive myself?

I still think about that night every single day. My child would have been over a year old now, probably walking, babbling, maybe even calling me “mama.” He never saw the light of day because his mother wasn’t ready to have him. Maybe he would have had a good life. Maybe. I tell myself I made the best decision for me, but it doesn’t erase the memory.

I watched as tears streamed down Imani’s face, her guilt spilling out in silence before her words could even catch up. It wasn’t just the story she told—it was written in her eyes, in the way her voice faltered, in the way her fingers clutched the tissue like it was her last shield. She paused, wiped her face, and then, with a shaky breath, continued.

Within a week, my strength returned, and I slipped back into the warmth of my family. It felt good to laugh with them, to eat my mother’s food, and feel like myself again. But every time my mum asked about Dubem, my chest tightened. She would casually bring him up during our discussions, asking when he planned to visit, when he would officially meet the family and “do things properly” since we had already been together for months. “Typical African parent,” I thought, rolling my eyes inwardly. Always ready to fast-forward your life to marriage at the slightest opportunity. If only she knew the storm I had just crawled out of, she would understand why I kept my answers short. I couldn’t even imagine her finding out that I had been living with Dubem in Abuja. My parents raised me better than that, and my mother, deeply religious as she is, would have lost it completely. My sister was the only one who knew the truth, and she wasn’t going to snitch.

Meanwhile, I began to drift further away from Dubem. He kept calling, sending messages, trying to get me to open up. I told him I would be staying an extra week in Enugu instead of the two weeks I had originally mentioned, which only made him more restless. He couldn’t figure out what had changed because I had already confronted him for cloning my WhatsApp and unlinked my account from his sneaky monitoring. I even disconnected my Flo period app, just to reclaim my privacy.

When I called him out, he said he only did those things because he was insecure. He apologized for threatening me, claiming he never meant it and only said I’d “leave in a body bag” to scare me into staying. That was supposed to make me feel better. It didn’t. Yes, I was scared, but more than that, I was convinced the man had serious issues.

Being home gave me clarity. The distance, the love, and the peace from my family reminded me who I was before Dubem. I knew then that I couldn’t go back to the madness. I was done. After two weeks, I picked up the phone and told him straight: I couldn’t do it anymore. I needed to move on from whatever version of love he thought he was giving me. It wasn’t easy saying those words. I loved him deeply. But love had turned to poison, and I wasn’t about to drink it any longer. Dubem, of course, begged me to reconsider. He pleaded for us to meet in person, said ending things over the phone was unfair, not after all we had shared. His voice cracked with desperation, but my heart was already packing its bags.

When I returned to Abuja, I went back to Dubem’s house for the talk he insisted we should have in person. Truthfully, it was the last thing I wanted to do. But the moment I stepped inside and saw him, all the walls I had tried to build crumbled.

He stood there shirtless, dressed in nothing but grey joggers that hung low on his waist. Even now, I wonder if he had planned it that way, to disarm me before the conversation even began. His body was exactly as I remembered—sculpted, strong, every muscle cut with precision. The sight of him reignited something I had tried to bury.

He moved toward me with that easy confidence that always weakened my resolve. “I missed you, mama,” he said, his voice low, almost tender. I bit my lip without even realizing it, and I could see the flicker in his eyes—he had noticed. Before I could gather myself, his hands were on my face, and he kissed me hard, hungrily. It was the kind of kiss that made the room spin, made me forget why I had come in the first place. My body betrayed me instantly. I wanted him. God help me, I had missed him.

His mouth trailed down to my neck, teasing, lingering, before finding my earlobes. My breath caught, and I couldn’t hold back the soft moan that escaped me. Dubem knew exactly what he was doing, how to touch me, how to unravel me piece by piece.

He didn’t waste time with patience. My dress tore under his hands, fabric ripping like it had only been in the way. Heat flooded my skin as he freed me from it, his lips claiming me like I belonged to him. When his hands slid over my br£asts, unhooking my bra with a skill that felt too practiced, I arched into him helplessly. His mouth replaced his hands, teasing, sucking, and I cried out, surrendering to the fire that had already taken hold of me. Dubem devoured me like he hadn’t touched me in years, his hands finding their way lower, teasing me until my body was trembling under his. And every time his eyes met mine, that dark, knowing look said it all: I know you want this as much as I do.

When his fingers slipped lower, I gasped and gripped his shoulders, my nails pressing into his skin. He knew exactly where to touch—every spot, every reaction, every weakness. The way he touched me was intentional. The way he touched me wasn’t random; it felt deliberate, like he already knew what would make me shiver. Every move pushed me closer to the edge, my body giving in no matter how hard I tried to hold back.

I moaned into his mouth as he kissed me again, deeper this time, urgent and wild. The room was thick with the sound of our breathing, the small noises I tried to stifle but couldn’t. He was relentless, not giving me a chance to catch my breath, dragging me down with him into that same old fire I swore I had walked away from. “Say you missed me,” he whispered against my lips, his voice rough, demanding. I couldn’t speak; my body answered for me. The way I clung to him, the way I arched into his touch—I was undone, and he knew it.

He carried me to the couch and pressed me down like he owned every inch of me. The joggers came off easily, and when he pushed inside me, the world stopped. My back arched, my fingers gripped the fabric beneath me, and I cried out his name without meaning to. All the anger, all the distance, melted into raw, unfiltered desire. He moved with a rhythm that made me lose all sense of time. His lips found mine between thrusts, his hands holding me down like he couldn’t bear to let me go. I was torn between pushing him away and giving in to the desire I still carried for him. My body gave in before my mind could catch up. Each touch sent a shiver racing through me until I couldn’t resist anymore. I surrendered, shaking and breathless as the rush took over. A moment later, he released too, his body collapsing against mine. We lay there, skin damp and hearts pounding, holding on to each other in heavy silence.

When it was over, silence filled the room. My chest heaved as I tried to catch my breath, staring at the ceiling, my body still humming with aftershocks. He brushed his lips against my temple, murmuring how much he loved me, how he couldn’t let me go.

But lying there in his arms, I felt it—the tug-of-war between my body and my mind. My flesh had surrendered to him, but deep inside, a voice whispered that nothing had changed. And that truth stared me in the face. We lay on the floor breathing heavily like we had just run a marathon. I later realized we didn't even make it to the bedroom.

Dubem and I made up but deep down I wondered if I made the right decision loving this guy and coming back into his life. 

Afterwards, we lay there in silence, my body still trembling, his arm heavy across my waist like a chain. The living room smelled of sweat, desire, and something else I couldn’t name—maybe guilt, maybe regret. My heart was still racing, but not just from the s£x. It was the realization that I had fallen right back into his trap, the very one I promised myself I’d never enter again.

Dubem kissed the top of my head like nothing had happened between us, like the fights, the threats, and the darkness never existed. “This is where you belong,” he whispered, holding me tighter.

I closed my eyes and let him believe I was at peace, but inside, my chest ached. I hated how easily he could still bend me to his will, how my body betrayed me while my mind screamed for escape.

I thought of Enugu, of my family’s laughter, of the love that wrapped around me like a blanket when I walked through my parents’ door. I thought of the pills, the blood, the baby I never met. I thought of how free I felt when I made the decision to walk away. And now, here I was, tangled up with the very man I swore to leave behind.

I slipped out from under his arm as gently as I could and sat on the edge of the couch. My torn dress lay crumpled on the floor, a silent reminder of how quickly I had surrendered. I gathered the pieces and clutched them against my chest, staring at the wall. Dubem stirred, half-asleep, and reached for me. “Where are you going? Come back here,” he mumbled, his voice thick with drowsiness. “I just need some air,” I whispered, forcing a smile he couldn’t see in the dark.

In the bathroom, I turned on the tap and splashed water on my face. My reflection stared back at me—eyes swollen, lips swollen, hair a tangled mess. I barely recognized myself. I pressed my palms against the sink and took a shaky breath. I knew then that I couldn’t keep doing this. I couldn’t keep letting his touch erase my resolve, couldn’t keep mistaking passion for love. No amount of desire could fix what was broken between us.

That night, as Dubem slept soundly, I lay awake beside him, my mind racing. I loved him—God, I loved him—but I also knew love wasn’t supposed to feel like this. Not suffocating. Not dangerous. Not like a punishment disguised as passion. I stared at the ceiling, whispering silently to myself: This has to be the last time.

Mouth agape, I stared at Imani in utter disbelief. I was livid! This young lady had the chance to leave for good and start over but she went back! She freaking went back! Perhaps because of some good D. This man clearly knew how to get to her and he used it to his advantage. When would she learn? I was thinking about this when the words “Na so Una de do for relationship?” slipped out of my mouth. She had that spark in her eyes again but bowed in complete embarrassment when she noticed that I kept staring at her. They say “we listen but we don't judge,” but I judged, I judged Imani in that instant—a beautiful woman who had things going for her, knew what she deserved but chose to keep circling back to toxicity was what I couldn't wave off. She was loved at home, didn't suffer parental neglect or abandonment at a young age, which could explain her clinging to Dubem. I shut out my thoughts as I said, “Please, go on,” so we could wrap it up. 

The days after that night blurred into weeks, and before I knew it, a month had passed. I stayed, not because I wanted to, but because leaving wasn’t as simple as packing a bag. Dubem had a way of filling every space around me until it felt like I was breathing him in, even when I wanted nothing more than clean air. He was on his best behavior. Flowers showed up at my office, dinner was always waiting at home, and his phone calls turned sweet again, full of “I love you” and “You’re my everything.” To anyone else, it would have looked like the perfect relationship. To me, it was a cage lined with roses.

Some nights, lying beside him, I caught myself staring at his face while he slept. I would trace the sharp line of his jaw with my eyes and wonder how the same man who made me feel worshipped could also make me feel trapped. He’d shift in his sleep and pull me closer, and my heart would tighten with that same old mix of longing and fear.

The truth was, I was pretending. Pretending to laugh at his jokes. Pretending to want his hands on me. Pretending that I didn’t flinch every time his voice grew sharp when something didn’t go his way. I kept my mask on because I wasn’t ready for the storm that would come with taking it off. But cracks began to show. He noticed my silences, the way I lingered on my phone a little too long, the way my smiles didn’t quite reach my eyes. His questions turned sharper. “What’s wrong with you?” “Why are you acting distant?” “Are you seeing someone else?” Each time, I shook my head and played innocent, but the suspicion in his eyes only deepened. The more he pressed, the more I pulled away. And the more I pulled away, the more desperate he became to reel me back in. One evening, he grabbed my wrist a little too tightly when I said I wasn’t in the mood to talk. His eyes burned into mine, searching, accusing. I laughed it off, telling him I was just tired, but inside I felt something snap. I knew then I couldn’t delay the inevitable much longer.

By the fourth week, I was exhausted. Pretending takes energy, and I was running on fumes. I couldn’t keep loving him out of habit, out of lust, out of fear. I couldn’t keep selling myself lies just to survive another day under the same roof.

The night I finally confronted him, the air was heavy with silence. He had cooked, poured wine, even played soft music in the background. Everything was set up like a romantic evening, but all I felt was dread clawing at my chest. I waited until after dinner, until the plates were cleared and the music shifted into something slower. He reached for my hand across the table, but I pulled mine back.

“Dubem,” I said quietly.

His smile faltered. “What is it?”

My throat tightened, but I forced the words out. “I can’t do this anymore.”

He blinked, as if I had spoken in another language. “Can’t do what?”

“Us,” I said, my voice steadier now. “This relationship. It’s eating me alive, and I need to leave.”

The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on. His jaw clenched, his nostrils flared, but he didn’t say anything at first. Then he laughed—short, sharp, humorless. “You’re joking. After everything I’ve done for you, you want to walk out just like that?”

I held his gaze, refusing to shrink. “Yes. Because love isn’t supposed to hurt like this. I love you, Dubem, but I love myself more.”

His chair scraped against the floor as he stood, pacing, his hands running over his head. “So that’s it? You think you can just leave me?”

My chest pounded, but I stood too, pushing past the fear that had kept me prisoner for months. “I don’t think. I know. I’m leaving.”

For the first time in a long while, I saw something shift in his eyes—not anger, not charm, but disbelief. And I realized then that my power had never been in his hands. It had always been in mine, and I was finally ready to use it.

For a long moment, Dubem just stared at me, his chest rising and falling like he was holding back a storm. Then he slammed his fist on the table, the sound ricocheting through the room. I jumped, but I didn’t back down.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he said, pointing at me like I was a child he could command. “You think you can leave me after everything? After all I’ve given you?”

His voice was like thunder, shaking the walls, but inside me, something had shifted. The fear that used to hold me in place was gone. I didn’t see a man who owned me anymore—I saw a man desperate to control what he was losing. I swallowed hard, my hands trembling but steady enough to pick up my bag from the chair. “Dubem, I already left you in my heart a long time ago. Tonight is just me making it official.”

He laughed bitterly, pacing like a caged lion. “If you walk out that door, don’t ever come back. You’ll regret this. No man will love you the way I do.”

I looked at him, really looked, and for the first time I saw the emptiness behind the charm. I had mistaken control for love, obsession for care. I thought about the nights I cried myself to sleep, the threats, the suffocating jealousy, the guilt that had eaten me alive. Then I thought about my family’s laughter, the safe arms of my brother, the freedom of breathing air that didn’t taste like fear.

“I don’t want your kind of love,” I whispered. And before he could say another word, I walked out.

The walk to my car felt like a new world. My legs shook as I walked away, but each step felt lighter. By the time I reached my car, tears ran down my face; they weren't tears of sadness, but of relief. For the first time in months, I could finally breathe.

Life after Dubem wasn’t instantly easy. The first week, a part of me was scared he might harm me but the other part kept expecting him to call, to show up at my office, to send those long apologetic texts filled with promises to change. But the silence stretched, and eventually I realized that silence was a gift.

I focused on myself again. I moved out of his house completely, packed my things, and stayed with my sister until I found an apartment of my own. It wasn’t as big as Dubem’s house but it was mine. Every corner of it smelled like freedom.

At work, I threw myself into my projects and remembered how capable I was when I wasn’t drained by someone else’s chaos. My colleagues noticed the change—my laughter came back, my energy too. For the first time in a long time, I felt like me again.

My family, though they never knew the full truth, kept me grounded. My mum would call to check up, my siblings cracked jokes that made me laugh until I cried, and Kodili reminded me constantly that I deserved more than what I had settled for.

Some nights, the guilt of what I had done lingered. The baby I never had. The choices I made. I still thought about it, and maybe I always would. But slowly, I stopped letting that guilt define me. I started to see it as a painful lesson i learned from.

Dubem faded into the background of my story, just another chapter I had survived. His absence stopped hurting. One day, I woke up and realized I hadn’t thought about him in weeks. That was when I knew: I was free.

I didn’t need closure from him. Walking away had been the closure all along.

***

“Finally, she received sense,” I thought. Imani sat staring blankly, obviously reminiscing about all the time she spent with Dubem. “Thank you very much Imani for sharing your story. I'll notify you once it goes live,” I said, smiling as I packed up.

Bag in hand and ready to leave the café, I stared at her briefly and said, “I may not know much about being in love, but I do know that love isn't supposed to hurt, and I hope you find true happiness.” I walked out, hoping that was a good consolation and offered the empathy she wanted at the beginning of our meeting. 

The End.

Cover Art: artt_jayy 📸