A Wife's Plight

The church was alive with music. The choir’s voices soared over the pipe organ as white roses lined the pews, their scent mingling with the warm air of late August. Fans hummed overhead, pushing the fragrance of perfume, powder, and freshly ironed lace into every corner. Guests in bright gele and tailored suits leaned forward with expectation, their eyes fixed on the couple at the altar.

 Emelia’s palms trembled, though she clasped them tightly to hide it. The lace of her gown scratched lightly against her skin, reminding her of how little she could breathe in the bodice. It was not the dress that made her uneasy—it was the weight of the moment. Every word from the priest’s mouth felt heavier than the marble pillars surrounding them.

 “August, do you take Emelia to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

 The priest’s voice rang out, firm yet warm, echoing slightly in the high-ceilinged sanctuary.

 “I do,” August replied, his baritone steady, carrying across the church like a declaration of victory. His smile was wide, so full of certainty that it almost blinded Emelia.

 She glanced at him—his neatly trimmed beard, his well-tailored suit beneath the ceremonial sash, the confidence in his eyes. He looked like a man who had gained everything he’d ever wanted. And in many ways, he had.

 Emelia inhaled slowly. Her throat tightened as the priest turned to her.

 “And you, Emelia, do you take August as your lawfully wedded husband?”

 The pause stretched. For a moment, she could hear nothing but the pounding of her own heartbeat. The choir hummed softly in the background, the murmurs of guests hushed in anticipation. Somewhere behind her, her best friend Chisom leaned forward, her eyes sharp with encouragement—or was it warning?

 “I do,” Emelia finally whispered, her lips forming the words even before her heart agreed. The church erupted in smiles and nods, but inside her, unease coiled like smoke refusing to rise.

 August squeezed her hand. His palm was warm, firm, as if to anchor her to him. She returned the grip, though her fingers trembled slightly.

 The priest smiled broadly. “Then, by the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife.”

 The words seemed to seal her fate. The applause that followed was thunderous—hand claps, ululations, the metallic rhythm of spoons clinking on bottles, and the shrill voices of aunties shouting blessings in Igbo. The choir launched into a celebratory hymn as August lifted her veil and pressed his lips to hers.

 It was meant to be a kiss of promise, but Emelia felt more like a vow carved into stone.

 ______________________________

 Emelia paced the length of her bedroom, her bare feet brushing against the cool tiles. Her steps were restless, sharp, as though movement alone could quiet the storm inside her. She was agitated—troubled in a way that left her chest tight and her thoughts circling endlessly.

 For hours now, her mind had returned to the same question: Was August right? Could what he suggested truly be the only way out of their situation?

 The thought unsettled her. She didn’t want to do it—every instinct in her resisted—but guilt gnawed at her. August had given her so much: stability, comfort, a family name to stand on when she had none. Perhaps she owed him this much.

 She stopped, pressing her palm against the dresser, staring at her reflection in the mirror. Her face looked pale, thinner than she remembered, the weariness of the past three years etched in the faint lines around her eyes. Three years… The words echoed in her mind like a tolling bell. Three years of marriage. Three years of trying. Three years of unanswered prayers.

 A hollow ache gripped her chest as she thought of her parents. If they had been alive, maybe she wouldn’t feel so alone in all this. Orphaned young, she had learned to build her own strength, to survive without leaning on anyone. But now, even her strength felt like a brittle mask threatening to shatter.

 Her steps slowed, and she finally sank into the armchair by the window, the fabric cool against her skin. She exhaled shakily, closing her eyes as memories tugged at her—memories of a younger Emelia, of laughter and hope, of the day she met August.

 The man who, for a time, seemed like the answer to every prayer she had ever whispered. The man she had once called the dream of her life.

 __________________

 Emelia let her head sink back into the armchair, and as the shadows of the room stretched long, her mind slipped to the beginning—the day everything changed.

 She had been nineteen then, juggling part-time work and evening classes, walking home along the busy road that curved toward Ojodu. It was dusk, the sky painted orange and violet, and her body ached from exhaustion. She remembered clutching a nylon bag of groceries, her thoughts far away, when the world suddenly roared.

 A screech of tires. A blinding flash of headlights. The scream of a horn.

 Then pain. Sharp, jarring, all-consuming.

 She had collapsed onto the rough asphalt, the bag spilling open, tomatoes rolling into the gutter. Her breath caught, and before she could even gather her thoughts, voices rose around her—shouts, panicked murmurs, people rushing.

 And then she saw him.

 The car door flung open, and a man ran toward her. Tall, broad-shouldered, with sharp eyes that darted over her body in desperate concern. Behind him, a man—slimmer, younger—stumbled out too, shouting, “Bro, is she okay?!”

 That was how she met August and his younger brother, Tobi.

 She remembered the strong grip of August’s hands as he lifted her carefully, the way his cologne mixed with the metallic tang of her blood. He barked orders with calm authority, flagging down help, insisting she be rushed to the hospital immediately. In the haze of her pain, she clung to his voice—steady, commanding, safe.

 It was August who stayed at her bedside when she drifted in and out of consciousness. August who paid the hospital bills before she even had the chance to protest. August who reassured her that she wasn’t alone, that he would take care of everything.

 And he did.

 Days turned into weeks of recovery, and every time she opened her eyes, it seemed he was there. Tobi too, with his easy jokes and gentle warmth, like the brother she never had. But it was August’s presence that lingered in her chest—the man who had nearly taken her life, now saving it.

 What began with an accident slowly grew into something else. Gratefulness became dependence, dependence softened into affection, and affection deepened into love. By the time August asked her to be his wife, she no longer saw the accident as tragedy. She saw it as fate.

 Her fate.

 Emelia closed her eyes now, a bitter taste filling her mouth. Back then, she had thought it was the perfect love story—the kind that began in blood and tears, but blossomed into happily-ever-after.

 But sitting alone in her bedroom three years into the marriage, with August’s demand weighing on her chest, she couldn’t help but wonder if fate had tricked her.

 The hospital had smelled of antiseptic and faint despair, but to Emelia, it became a strange cocoon. She remembered the stiffness of the sheets, the drip that bruised her veins, the ache that made her body feel like it belonged to someone else.

 And yet, she wasn’t alone.

 Every morning, August appeared at her bedside with fresh fruit and a smile that carried reassurance. He spoke to the doctors, pressed envelopes into the nurses’ hands to ensure she was cared for, and told her over and over that her life mattered.

 “You’re safe now,” he would murmur whenever fear clouded her face. “I’ll make sure you heal. I’ll make sure nothing bad ever happens to you again.”

 Gratitude grew into warmth. Warmth into affection. By the time she left the hospital, leaning on his arm for support, she no longer saw him as the man who had hit her with his car. She saw him as her rescuer. And in the weeks that followed, when he confessed his feelings, her heart was already leaning toward him.

 She said yes when he asked her to be his wife. Yes, because she was alone in the world and he had become her everything. Yes, because he promised her safety. Yes, because he made her believe in a future where she would never feel abandoned again.

 And for a while, the promise felt real.

 But now, three years into their marriage, that promise was cracking.

 She pressed her palms over her face, trembling. She thought of the girl she had been, nineteen and broken on the asphalt, and the man who had saved her. He had lifted her from blood and pain into a new life. And now he was asking her to bleed again, in a way that no wound could ever truly heal.

 Emelia still pressing her palms against her temples, fighting back tears. She could still hear August’s words, broken and desperate.

 “You don’t understand, Emmy. It’s not just about me. I am my father’s first son. Do you know what that means? In my family—in our culture—if I don’t have a child, if I don’t continue the lineage, it’s not just me who fails. It’s my whole bloodline. It’s a shame they will never forgive.”

 He hadn’t raised his voice, but the weight of his Igbo heritage had thundered through every syllable. Emelia knew it was true. She had seen how the Echezona clan gathered every Christmas in their ancestral home in Anambra, a sea of uncles, aunties, and cousins. In that compound, the first son was not just a man—he was a pillar, a torchbearer.

 And August was that torchbearer.

 His father, Reverend Samuel Echezona, was not only a pastor but a man whose influence stretched from Lagos to Enugu, Abuja to Owerri. His crusades filled stadiums. His face beamed from television screens across the nation. To the world, he was a prophet of power. To his community, he was the lion of their lineage.

 And August… August was expected to carry that mantle. To lead not only the church but the family name into the future.

 But how could he, if he had no heir?

 Emelia’s chest tightened as she recalled the desperation in his eyes. “Do you know what my people will call me if this comes out?” he had whispered. “Nwoke na-adịghị ike. A weak man. A curse. And worse, they will call you barren. You, Emmy. They won’t care whose fault it is. You’ll bear the shame with me.”a

 His words had sliced through her like a blade, because she knew he was right. In their world, the woman always carried the heavier blame.

 And now, the impossible request hung over her like a stormcloud: Ethan.

 August’s cousin. His chosen solution.

 Her heart twisted at the thought. She didn’t want to imagine Ethan’s face, but it forced itself into her mind anyway—his quiet gaze, his steady presence in the family. Ethan was trusted. Reliable. And now, her husband wanted her to cross the one line she had vowed never to break.

 Emelia curled tighter into the armchair, her body trembling. She thought of her wedding day, of the Reverend’s booming voice as he declared their vows. She thought of the accident that had brought her into this family, and of the man who had rescued her from the ruins of her old life.

 Now he was asking her to ruin herself in return.