The bitter kola of betrayal: How Adeola crushed my dreams
I am Oluwatoyin, an energetic person with a high level of intelligence. I come from the ancient city of Ibadan.
My dreams were as vibrant as the patterned adire sold in Oje Market, and my spirit as lively as the drumming at a proper owambe. I had a vision: to become a teacher, to shape young minds, to bring light to the future of our community.
My path was clear, my heart was pure.
Then came Adeola. He was charming, a man with a smile that could melt the harmattan dust.
He spoke of love, of building a future together, of supporting my aspirations. He was a trader at Gbagi, and he painted pictures of abundant wealth and a comfortable home. My mother, Iya Bose, saw his apparent prosperity and his respectful demeanour, and she was pleased.
My friends, however, murmured words of caution—they had noticed his wandering eyes.
Adeola courted me with lavish gifts, with sweet words that wove a vision of a life filled with joy and security. “Toyin,” he would say, his voice a smooth baritone, “with me, you will lack nothing. Your dreams will thrive, your happiness will be assured.”
He knew my longing—for stability, for a partner who would cherish me.
I, foolishly, believed him. I abandoned my studies, putting my teacher training on hold. “After we marry,” he promised, “you can return to your books. I will support you.” I trusted him, my heart blinding me to the warning signs.
Our wedding was a grand affair, a celebration that echoed through the streets of our neighbourhood. But the honeyed words soon turned bitter.
He forbade me from leaving the house without his permission, insisting it was for my safety. He questioned my every move, his eyes laced with suspicion.
The promised support for my education never materialised. Instead, he insisted that my focus must be on domestic duties—on bearing him children, on being the dutiful wife.
The dreams I held dear were crushed beneath the weight of his expectations.
He began to frequent the local beer parlours, returning home late, his breath heavy with alcohol. His once-plentiful resources dwindled, his trading business faltering.
The comfortable home he had spoken of became a cage, a place of silent resentment and growing despair.
Then, one day, I discovered he had taken another wife—a younger woman from his village.
The betrayal cut deeper than any knife. He had not only stolen my dreams but had also stripped me of my dignity, my sense of self.
My life, once filled with promise, was now a barren landscape. I had traded my future for a lie, for a man who saw me as nothing more than an object. I was left with nothing but the bitter kola of betrayal, a constant reminder of my foolishness.
I had to rebuild. I returned to my studies, with the help of a distant aunt. It was difficult, but I had to reclaim my life. I learnt that true wealth lies not in material possessions, but in the strength of one’s character, in the pursuit of one’s dreams.
And I learnt that some suitors, like bitter kola, leave a taste that can never be fully washed away.
