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“Naomi! Wait!” I called.
She ran fast, disappearing into the trenches ahead. It took me a minute to close the distance. I caught her by the elbow, gripping firmly enough to steady her before she fell.
She shoved me with one hand, summoning every ounce of strength she had. When she realized it was useless, she released our son.
“Naomi…” I said softly, my gaze lingering on the little boy before returning to her face.
“Run!” she ordered him. “Go To Granny, don't look back. Don’t stop.”
The boy took off immediately, on the verge of tears.
We had created a small spectacle. People were staring.
“Please, please don’t hit me,” she begged, struggling against my grip. “I’m begging you.”
“I’m not—”
“Please don’t take my child from me,” she sobbed. “He’s the only joy I have left. Please… let us go.”
I stared into her eyes as tears streamed down her hollow cheeks. She was painfully thin, her hand felt as light as air in mine.
My heart cracked. Every word she spoke bruised something deep inside me. I was rendered speechless. I couldn’t stand the sight of a woman crying, especially her. Her vulnerability undid me.
“Please,” she whispered. “In the name of God, let me go. Seeing you today was a mistake. I swear, I’ll never walk this street again. I’ll take another route. Please, sir.”
“Okay,” I said finally. “But at least let me drop you off. You’re not thinking straight, you could get hit by a car.”
“I’m fine,” she snapped. “Once I get away from you, I’ll be okay. I swear.”
I froze. “Do you hate me that much?”
She glared at me.
It took thirty minutes—no exaggeration—before she gave in. She only agreed after I proved I already knew where she lived, describing her neighborhood in detail. I promised not to cause trouble. I promised not to approach our son privately.
The drive was silent.
She never turned in my direction. Her eyes remained fixed on the window. I remembered her car sickness and lowered the windshield. The 2022 G-Wagon still smelled new, too new, and I didn’t want it to make her nauseous.
“You okay?” I asked.
She nodded without looking at me.
She was lying.
Her right hand clutched her stomach. Her shoulders were hunched, her jaw tight, her neck stiff. From one of the security courses I’d taken, her body language screamed defensive. I drove gently—the road was terrible anyway.
When I dropped her off, she didn’t say thank you.
I smiled. She still had that habit: never thanking me when she was upset. Her nostrils flared, her nose swelling slightly.
God, I had missed her.
“Please don’t come here again,” she said. “You already caused a scandal today. News travels fast. This is my home. I won’t let my family be disrespected because of me.”
I stared at her until she grew uncomfortable and looked away.
“Can I at least have your number?”
“No.”
It was abrupt, but expected. I chuckled. A smile tried to creep onto her lips, but she suppressed it.
Another thirty minutes passed. She claimed she didn’t own a phone. I brought out my latest device, unlocked it, removed the SIM, and handed both to her.
“Take it. I’ll call you on this.”
“No, thank you.”
“I’m not doing this for you,” I said. “We need to talk, and I need a way to reach you.”
She hesitated… then took it.
I watched her walk to her doorstep.
As I reversed, I saw her throw the phone to the ground and stomp on it.
I was furious. Sorry for my past actions, but furious about her ingratitude. That phone cost two million naira. Pride kicked in. I sped off, cursing under my breath.
She wouldn’t see me again. Let poverty consume her hair and skin for all I cared.
Or so I thought.
A week later, by 6:00 a.m., I was back—waiting outside her house. She woke early to teach. She fed and clothed the boy carefully. I prayed I hadn’t missed her.
I had narrated everything to my friend’s wife, hoping she’d help me understand women. Her response shocked me.
“Haaa! Just that? I would have given you correct igbati! (Slap). Then I’d bite you until I felt your bone, and scream ‘Ritualist! Ritualist!’ But it can’t be me. I’d never let a man trample on me like that. After all you did, she was still begging you? And you’re angry because of a phone? Someone you impregnated and beat up?”
I let her scold me.
Then I asked her to help me reconcile with Naomi.
“What’s your plan?” she asked. “Do you want to marry her?”
The question knocked the air out of me.
I had no answer.
“Abeg, if you don’t have plans for her, leave her alone,” she said. “You’re both victims of your past: young, ignorant, blindly in love.”
I left without help and decided to fix my mess myself.
Naomi ignored me when she came out; only because of the boy. She didn’t want him to know I was his father. They walked; I followed at a distance. She glanced back occasionally. Eventually, she stopped resisting my presence.
She taught at the same school, so I waited until closing time. Children peeked through the gate, smiling shyly.
She must have told them, “Go and check if the big black car is still there.”
By the time she came out, I was exhausted, and hungry. I felt foolish. I caught a flicker of sympathy in her eyes, but she walked past me.
Another day, she came home to find me seated with her mother. I had brought foodstuff worth over ₦650,000.
“What do you want with my daughter?” her mother asked.
“Her forgiveness. And access to my son.”
Naomi returned, poured water on me, and threw out everything I brought. I stormed off, swearing never to return.
Three days later, I was back; this time threatening legal action for custody. Fear softened her. She asked me to return the next day.
“You think I’m jobless?” I yelled. “I put everything on hold for my son, yet you keep pushing me away!”
Wham.
She slapped me.
I walked straight into my son’s room, grabbed his hand. He screamed. Naomi hit me with pillow-fists.
She begged me to let him go so we could talk.
We sat in my car. She cried.
“You hurt me, Frank. You shattered my heart.”
“I’m here for my son—not you,” I replied coldly.
“I still love you,” she said. “But I can’t have you around me. If you love your son, stay away from us.”
Our eyes locked.
She still loved me.
Did I love her?
“Please… just go.”
I pulled her close and kissed her head. She sobbed into my wrist, trembling as memories flooded back.
“I promised I’d never let you go,” I said.
“You broke that promise.”
“No,” I whispered. “It just took time. Even God's promise takes time. Sometimes...”
“You don’t love me anymore,” she said—not as a statement, but a question.
I stayed silent.
“You’re free, Frank,” she said. “You owe me nothing.”
She stepped out of the car.
She was broken. Hardened.
And I was more desperate than ever.
PREV> Illegitimate Childbirth ( Unwanted Pregnancy)
NEXT> Emotional Abuse
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ORATOR:
Single parenting is sometimes self-inflicted. Other times, one party simply walks away.
Allowing access to children should always come with clear boundaries. Not every broken union should be revisited for the sake of children, especially when the red flags are still blazing.
Neglect can create single parenting even within marriage.
If you’ve abandoned a child, this is your call to step up.
When last did you see your son? Your daughter?
If you cannot provide shelter, then provide presence.
Children are not disposable.
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