Emotional betrayal: How it feels to be a second choice

I travelled to my village in Ibadan during the Christmas holidays, hoping to reconnect with my family and perhaps find some peace of mind after a year full of challenges.

The moment I arrived, I was bombarded with issues, mostly stemming from family drama.

I had always felt that when you went home, there was an unspoken pressure to show success to prove that you’ve made it.

But this time, I wasn’t in that position. I didn’t have the car, the flashy things, or even much money to show off. All I had was my presence, my willingness to check on my family and give them the little I could.

But instead of appreciation, I faced judgment. I could feel the silent comparisons being made, the questions behind closed doors, and the unsolicited advice that seemed to echo in the air.

The whole experience left me feeling like I had somehow failed as though I hadn’t lived up to the family’s expectations.

In that moment, I regretted coming. But it was too late to go back.

As part of the tradition, I was assigned a village wife a woman from the village who would be taken to Lagos to start a new life.

I didn’t know much about Ajoke when I first met her, but she seemed like a decent person, someone who was just trying to escape the constraints of village life.

There was an expectation that she would come and settle down with me in Lagos, and we would both figure out this new life together.

She constantly complained about feeling restricted, wanting more freedom, and being unable to adjust to the new life I was offering her.

The nagging became a constant reminder that I wasn’t doing enough, that I was failing again this time, as a husband, or at least as a partner.

One day, I decided to grant her a little more freedom, hoping that it would ease her mind and allow us to build a better relationship.

Ajoke met her long-time boyfriend, Ali, who had been a part of her life even before I came into the picture. I had heard about him, but I didn’t think much of it. I assumed they were just friends. But I was wrong.

She disappeared for hours, and when I finally confronted her, she admitted that she had gone to meet Ali. She told me that he was the love of her life, that he had been there for her in ways I never could be.

The weight of those words hit me like a ton of bricks. All the effort, the compromises I had made to try and build a life with her they seemed worthless now. In her eyes, I was just a temporary solution, and Ali was the one she truly wanted.

That moment shattered something inside me. I realized I had allowed my kindness to be taken for granted. I had let her roam free, thinking that giving her space would make her happy, but instead, it had driven a wedge between us.

She had already made up her mind long before I even gave her the chance to go out.

Since that day, Ajoke has made it clear where her heart lies. She still lives with me in Lagos, but there’s a distance now an emotional barrier that feels unbreakable.

She nags even more, talks less to me, and when she does, it’s usually to complain or remind me of her love for Ali. I’m left in a strange limbo, unsure of what to do or how to fix things.

I think back to the Christmas trip to Ibadan and the way I felt when I first arrived in the village.

Back then, I regretted coming because I felt like I couldn’t meet the expectations of my family. Now, I regret ever allowing Ajoke into my life.