Isolation

 

My name is Ore. I am from the western part of the Federal Republic of Nigeria. I am a businessman in my early fifties, and I have never been married.

At my age, bachelorhood is convenient. I enjoy the privileges of marriage without its responsibilities. Women have always come easily to me—young, old, educated, uneducated. I ring the bell; they respond. I have always seen women as gullible, as tools—people who survive on crumbs and mistake attention for love.

That perception changed the day I met Ola.

Ola is a woman in her early forties. Hardworking, intelligent, disciplined. She is a banker and a single mother. For the first time in my life, I experienced something unfamiliar: love. Not lust. Not control. Love.

She commands my attention without effort. She makes me feel young again. She makes me genuinely happy.

I am a workaholic, yet she makes me abandon meetings just to share a drink with her. Ironically, I—the man who once controlled women—became the one at her beck and call.

I asked her repeatedly to marry me.

“Say the word, Ola, and I’ll come see your people. I don’t want you as a girlfriend or a sexual partner. I want you as my wife.”

She always refused; politely, graciously, firmly.

Her past explained why.

Ola had once been married to a monster. A man who beat her, belittled her, humiliated her. A man who brought different women into their matrimonial bedroom and defiled its sanctity without shame. He slept with her friends, parading them before her to assert dominance—to prove that he was lord over her life.

When she tried to leave, he mocked her.

“You’re not submissive. You want to leave me for another cheating man? All men cheat. Let’s see how many men you’ll jump to before you find Mr. Perfect.”

He believed she would never leave.

She did.

She walked away with her daughter and never looked back. She changed her child’s surname, cut off mutual friends and family, changed her number, and vanished.

Even after escaping him, Ola remained imprisoned—emotionally. She believed all men were liars and cheats. She poured herself into her career, rising through the ranks at the bank. She allowed only friendship with me, yet I treated her as my woman.

I clothed her. Fed her. Played father to her six-year-old daughter. Bought her a car. Upgraded her phone to the latest Samsung whenever a new model was released. I listened to her ramblings, held her when she cried, watched her sleep in my arms.

Despite my urges, I restrained myself. I told myself it was respect. I told myself it was patience.

But then Ola healed.

She became social. She attended late-night events. She glowed. She invested in her appearance and became even more beautiful. She barely had time for me.

Fear gripped me.

I confided in my mother. She took me to a native priest.

The priest revealed that Ola was seeing a man she had met two months earlier, after I had waited two years. Enraged, I authorized a binding spell. She would never have peace with any man except me.

Soon, she returned; heartbroken. I pretended ignorance. For the first time in my life, I fought to keep a woman.

Then she met another man at work: wealthier than I. He showered her with money, took her abroad twice, lodged her in penthouses.

I returned to the priest. He turned the man’s heart against her.

She ran back to me for comfort.

Then I heard her daughter call someone “Daddy.”

It was her biological father—the monster—who had found them again. I heard the child’s voice over the phone:

“Daddy and mummy are getting back together! We’ll be One Big Happy Family!”

I lost control.

This time, I instructed the priest to cast a spell that would make Ola’s mouth and body smell—undetectable to her, repulsive to others. Ola, the most hygienic woman I had ever known.

I infiltrated her workplace, befriended her colleagues, painted us as inseparable. I spread rumors about her character. Slowly, she became isolated.

Still, some men saw through it. Some sensed spiritual interference. It became power against power.

Ola grew suspicious and began withdrawing from me. The priest said her spiritual protector was weakening his spells. To renew them, I fed her enchanted food at work, increased my financial support, took her clothes to the shrine to drain her finances.

Then she met a young Christian lady at work.

The girl led her to Christ and gave her Rhapsody of Realities.

I panicked.

As a man in the occult, I know the power of true Christians. I ensured Ola lost her job to cut off the connection. When things became unbearable, I presented myself as her savior. I convinced her to move in with me—so I could monitor her every move.

Whenever she proposed a business idea, I funded it; and spiritually crippled it. She became fully dependent on me.

Until the church girl returned.

Whenever they prayed, I felt heat/fire filling the house. I fled. The girl taught Ola to pray in tongues, to speak her future relentlessly.

I turned Ola against her.

They quarreled. The girl left: but she left seeds.

Ola did not stop speaking.

Suddenly, things shifted.

Her business flourished. Money never finished. She bloomed. She regained confidence. She became untouchable.

My love turned to hatred. My obsession turned to jealousy.

She no longer needs me.

She is stronger now; and I am powerless.

I talk to other women, but none compares to Ola.

She intimidates me.

She shines.

And I hate the light in her.

What do I do?

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