HE BEAT DISABLED WIFE EVERY MONDAY NIGHT TO PLEASE MISTRESS,SHE FELT BETRAYED,SHE LEFT & GOT REVENGE

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Breaking Free

Every Monday night, the atmosphere in our home shifted dramatically. The dishes rattled in the cabinets as my husband, Tundi, returned from work. His eyes, once filled with love, now burned with disgust as he loomed over my wheelchair. I sat frozen, my hands trembling in my lap, while our three children watched in horror from the dining table. It was a ritual I had come to dread.

“Sorry,” I whispered, though I had nothing to apologize for. Four years ago, a car accident had left me paralyzed. It was the same accident where I had rushed to pick up our youngest daughter, Funka, from school because Tundi had forgotten it was his turn. “Sorry means nothing,” he spat, knocking over the pot of jollof rice I had spent hours preparing. The red grains scattered across the floor like drops of blood.

“Look at this pathetic dinner. Look at this pathetic house. Look at you, Yatunde.” I felt the weight of his words like a physical blow. Our oldest son, Femi, stood up. “Baba, stop!” he shouted, but Tundi turned on him. “Sit down. This is between me and your mother.” I motioned for Femi to sit back down. We had been through this ritual for the past three months, and I could see the pattern forming, but I couldn’t understand it.

Tundi would leave for work normal and caring, even helping me into my chair with gentle hands. But he returned like a demon possessed. “The food is still hot,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “Let me serve you.”

“I’ve already eaten,” he said with a smirk. “With someone who knows how to please a man.” The words sliced through me sharper than any knife. Our children stared at their plates, too afraid to move. “Go to your rooms, please,” I said softly. “But Mama,” Funka began, tears streaming down her face. “Now,” I insisted, and they reluctantly obeyed, Femi helping his little sister around the mess of rice.

When they were gone, I wheeled myself closer to Tundi, who was now pouring himself a large glass of whiskey. “What has happened to you?” I asked. “Who are you seeing every Monday?” His laughter chilled my blood. “Finally figured it out, have you? And what will you do about it? Roll after me?” He imitated my wheelchair movements, and I felt something inside me break.

“Tell me her name,” I demanded. He straightened, a strange smile playing on his lips. “Her name is Zanob, and unlike you, she can dance for me. She can run to meet me at the door. She doesn’t need to be carried to bed like a child.” Each word was calculated to wound, and they found their mark. Beneath my pain, something else was growing—a cold, hard resolve.

“She asks about you,” he continued, enjoying my pain. “She wants to know if you’ve suspected. She finds it exciting knowing I come home and put you in your place before I go to her on Mondays.”

“You beat me for her entertainment.” The realization made me physically ill. “Sometimes I record it,” he whispered, showing me his phone. “She especially likes when you cry.” I lunged from my wheelchair, falling to the floor. My useless legs sprawled beneath me, not in weakness, but in a desperate attempt to grab his phone. He easily stepped back, laughing. “This is what I married, a crawling worm.”

He stepped over me toward the door. “I’ll be late. Don’t wait up.” The front door slammed, and I remained on the floor, rice sticking to my clothes, tears streaming down my face. But these weren’t tears of defeat. As I pulled myself back into my wheelchair, I noticed Femi standing in the hallway, his young face hardened with anger. “I heard everything, Mama,” he said, coming to help me. “We need to leave tonight.”

“No, my son, we won’t leave.” I wiped my tears. A plan was already forming. “No, he won’t. But by the time I’m done, he’ll wish I had killed him instead.” I pulled out my phone and pressed record on the voice memo app, capturing Tundi’s confession about the beatings, the recordings, and his mistress, Zanob.

This wasn’t just about a cheating husband anymore. This was about a man who beat his disabled wife for another woman’s pleasure. As I cleaned rice from the floor, I made my first promise to myself: next Monday would be very different.

The morning after Tundi’s outburst, I woke with bruises blooming across my arms and a resolve burning in my chest. I caught my reflection in the mirror—a woman I barely recognized. My vibrant face now wore the mask of fear, my eyes holding shadows deeper than the night.

“Is Baba gone?” Funka’s small voice came from my doorway. I forced a smile, patting the bed beside me. “Come help Mama get ready.” As she helped me dress, her little fingers carefully avoided my bruises. I realized my children had learned to tiptoe around their father’s rage.

“Will Baba be angry again tonight?” she asked, her voice small. I cupped her face, my heart breaking at the fear in her eyes. “No, sunshine. Things will change soon, I promise.”

After sending the children to school, I sat alone in our living room, staring at the family photos lining our walls—15 years of marriage captured in smiling images. I dialed my cousin Ngozi’s number.

“Can you come over now?” I asked, my voice breaking. An hour later, Ngozi sat across from me, her face hardening as I revealed my bruises and played the recording of Tundi’s confession.

“I’ll call my husband’s brother. He’s with the police. We’ll have Tundi arrested today.”

“No police, not yet.”

“What? Why not?”

“Because I need more than justice, Ngozi. I need security for my children.”

“If Tundi is arrested now, his family will blame me. You know how influential they are in Ibadan. I can’t risk losing them.”

“What’s your plan?”

“I need evidence of everything—the affair, the financial situation, his violence. I need to build a case so airtight that when I leave, I take everything.”

“Everything?”

“Yes. The house, the children, his dignity.”

After Ngozi left, I wheeled myself to the bedroom I shared with Tundi. I searched through his things, finding nothing until I checked the pocket of his Sunday church suit. There it was—a receipt from Rison Blue Hotel in Victoria Island, dated every Monday for the past three months.

The next Monday, I dressed carefully, putting on a tailored navy dress I hadn’t worn since before the accident. At 10:00 a.m., Ngozi arrived with her cousin, Namdi, a broad-shouldered man with kind eyes.

“Can you wait in the car?” I asked Namdi. “If you see a black Toyota Camry arrive, send Ngozi a text.”

When we reached the apartment, I hesitated, but I shook my head. I had been turning back for too long. I pressed the bell. The door swung open to reveal a stunning woman in a silk robe.

“I’m Yatunde, Tundi’s wife,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt.

“May we come in?” I asked, or would you prefer we have this conversation in the hallway where your neighbors can hear?

She hesitated, then stepped back, allowing Ngozi to wheel me inside. The apartment was exactly what I’d expected—modern, luxurious, filled with new furniture. Our furniture.

“How long?” I asked, pointing to the photos on the coffee table.

“Two years,” she replied, crossing her arms defensively.

“Two years? My accident had been four years ago. He’d started cheating while I could still walk.”

I pulled out my phone, playing the recording of Tundi’s confession. “He told me you were abusive, that you manipulated him,” she stammered.

“Did you enjoy it?” I snapped. “Enjoyed it?” Even tears filled her eyes.

“I swear I didn’t know he was recording you. He just said he put you in your place.”

“Where exactly is that? Beneath his fist?”

The sound of a key in the lock echoed through the apartment.

“Zanob,” I said softly.

The door swung open. Tundi stepped inside, a bouquet of roses in one hand, a bottle of champagne in the other. His smile froze when he saw us.

“Hello, husband,” I said calmly. “Surprise!”

He carefully set down the champagne and flowers, his movements deliberate. “How did you find this place?” he asked, looking at Zanob.

“Don’t blame her,” I said. “She didn’t know I was coming.”

He turned to me. “You shouldn’t be here, Yatunde. This isn’t a place for you.”

“Clearly,” I replied, gesturing around the apartment. “This is a place for joy, for celebration, not like our home, which has become a place for your Monday rage.”

“You don’t understand.”

“Oh, I understand perfectly. Two years of an affair, 7 million naira transferred to Z Enterprises, Monday beatings to please your mistress. What part am I missing?”

He took a step toward me. “You’ve been spying on me.”

“I’ve been waking up,” I corrected.

He took a step back, realizing the consequences of his actions.

“I want you out of our house by tonight,” I told him. “The children will stay with me.”

“You can’t throw me out of my own house,” he protested.

“Our house,” I corrected, “purchased with our joint funds.”

I turned my wheelchair toward the door. “You should leave too, today. He won’t change. Not for me, not for you, not for anyone.”

As I wheeled myself toward the door, I finally allowed myself to tremble—not from fear, but from the adrenaline of confrontation.

“Are you okay?” Ngozi asked.

“No,” I admitted honestly, “but I will be.”

As we rode the elevator down, my phone buzzed with a text from Femi. “Mama, are you coming home soon? I’m worried.”

“On my way, my son. Everything is going to be different now. I promise.”

When we returned home, the house felt lighter. I busied myself reviewing the divorce papers Kem had helped me prepare over the phone. At 3:30, the children arrived home from school.

“Where’s Baba?” Femi asked.

“How much should I tell them?” I wondered.

“Come sit,” I said, patting the sofa beside me. “All of you, I need to tell you something important.”

“We all knew, Mama,” Femi replied, sounding older than his years.

“I’m so sorry,” I whispered. “I should have ended this sooner.”

“Good,” Femi said with unexpected vehemence. “He doesn’t deserve you, Mama.”

Funka climbed onto my lap. “Don’t cry, Mama. We’ll take care of you now.”

“No, my loves. It’s my job to take care of you, and that’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

After dinner, I wheeled myself to the master bedroom. I was surprised to find the room transformed. Tundi’s closet was empty, and on the bed lay a sealed envelope with my name written in his handwriting.

“I’ve taken what’s mine,” it read. “I’ll contact you through my lawyer about the rest. The children can stay with you for now, but don’t think this is over.”

The threat lingered between the lines. But something else struck me: the absence of any mention of love.

My phone rang, an unknown number. “Hello, Mrs. Yatunde,” a woman’s voice said. “It’s Zanob. I need to warn you.”

“Tundi came back after you left. He was angry. He smashed everything in the apartment.”

“Why are you telling me this?” I asked, suspicion edging my voice.

“Because when he was destroying the apartment, he broke my arm. I should have left the first time he pushed me. Don’t let him hurt anyone else.”

I sat frozen, processing her words. “We need to leave now,” I said.

“Why?”

“Tundi is coming with his brothers to take the children.”

Understanding dawned in her eyes. “How long do we have?”

“About an hour, maybe less.”

We gathered our belongings and prepared to leave. Just as we finished, headlights swept across the living room windows.

“Who is it?” Ngozi asked, peering through the curtains.

“Mrs. Yatunde,” a male voice called. “Officer Musa from Ibadan Central Police Station.”

I let him in. “A woman called the station. Zanob Muhammad. She reported domestic violence and made statements about threats against you and your children.”

“Is my husband being arrested?” I asked.

“We’re looking for him,” Officer Musa confirmed. “But in the meantime, I’ve been sent to escort you and your children to a safe location.”

Relief washed through me.

As we gathered our belongings, I caught Femi watching the officer with weary hope. “Is this real, Mama?” he whispered. “Will we really be safe?”

“Yes, my son. This is what justice beginning looks like.”

As we loaded into the police vehicle, Tundi’s black Toyota pulled up.

“What’s going on here?” Tundi demanded, storming toward us.

“Step back, sir,” Officer Musa stated firmly. “Your children are going with their mother to a secure location.”

“You can’t do that. I have rights.”

“Rights you forfeited when you began abusing your wife,” the officer replied coldly.

For the first time, I felt no fear looking at Tundi, only pity for a man who had destroyed everything that might have made his life worthwhile.

As we drove away toward safety, Funka’s small hand found mine in the darkness. “Are we going to be okay, Mama?”

“Yes, my sunshine. We’re already more okay than we’ve been in a very long time.”

Six months after the court hearing, I found myself at the threshold of a new beginning. Seven days of safety. Seven nights without fear. Seven mornings waking up to my children’s peaceful faces.

The shelter was nothing like I’d imagined. It had become a home, a place of healing. One day, as I helped Funka with her homework, a familiar car pulled into the driveway.

“Tund’s mother,” I whispered.

When she saw me, she fell silent. “You’ve destroyed my son,” were her first words.

“Your son destroyed himself,” I replied. “And nearly destroyed me and your grandchildren in the process.”

“I came for my grandchildren,” she said.

“They need their family.”

“They have their family, me, and they’re staying with me.”

For the first time, I felt a flicker of sympathy for this proud, difficult woman. She, too, had been betrayed by the man she thought she knew.

That night, as I sat with my children, I realized that despite everything, we were free. We were rebuilding, and I was finally facing the future on my terms.

My wheelchair hadn’t made me weak; it had revealed my true strength. The sun was setting over Ibadan, painting the city in shades of gold and crimson. Somewhere in that city was a cell where Tundi contemplated his crimes.

Somewhere was an apartment in Leki that would soon be sold to fund my children’s education. Somewhere was an office at the Ministry of Education where I would help make schools accessible for disabled students and teachers.

And somewhere, in every direction, stretched the future unwritten, uncertain, but undeniably mine.

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