Too Late To Fix Us

By Adebanke Abel

Akanji and his wife, Omodara, were both educated, yet his understanding of a woman’s body after childbirth was severely flawed. To him, within three months, a woman should return to the trim, flawless figure he once admired. This belief wasn’t his alone; it was inherited, passed down like an unwanted heirloom from his father—a man who cheated on his wife with no remorse and openly disrespected her. Akanji grew up watching his mother shrink under the weight of ridicule, labeled as fat and flabby before family and strangers alike. But she never left. She had nowhere to go, no identity beyond being a wife. So Akanji learned young: this was how a man ruled his home.

When Omodara gave birth, her body didn’t immediately return to its former state. The doctor advised her to wait at least three months before resuming intimacy. That was when a version of Akanji she had never known emerged. He began to sneer at her, calling her fat, unattractive, unappealing. He compared her to his mother, his words razor-sharp, as though he was doing her a favor by pointing out the obvious. Omodara, desperate to please him, ignored the doctor’s warning. She gave in. And it landed her in the hospital.

That was the beginning of her unraveling. Omodara’s self-esteem crumbled like a house built on sand. Every stretch mark, every scar became a flaw she couldn’t unsee. She started wearing oversized clothes, avoiding mirrors, avoiding his gaze. She was disappearing inside herself, and even Akanji’s mother noticed.

“Don’t do to her what your father did to me,” she warned him one evening. “You may think you’re winning, but one day, you’ll understand the cost.” But Akanji wasn’t listening. His father had never lived long enough to regret his actions, so to him, that meant his father had been right. He began cheating, shamelessly. He never brought his mistresses home, but he answered their calls in Omodara’s presence, smirking when she looked away. She was powerless. Dependent. And when their daughter turned six months old, Omodara realized she couldn’t keep living like this. She put the baby in daycare and started looking for a job. Akanji, indifferent, refused to contribute a dime, claiming he didn’t even know if the child was his. It was her mother and, on rare occasions, his own, who supported her.

She found work as a personal assistant to a wealthy businessman. The job was demanding, but for the first time in a long time, she felt a sense of purpose beyond Akanji’s approval. She began working out, eating better, taking care of herself—not for him, but for her. She stood taller. Smiled more. The fear in her eyes dimmed. Akanji noticed. Her body wasn’t the same as before childbirth, but there was something about her now that unsettled him. She no longer flinched at his words. She no longer cried. She no longer begged. And that terrified him. But still, he never apologized.

Soon, one of his mistresses got pregnant. She gloated, swearing she would never let herself become a “wowo” wife like Omodara. Akanji believed he was still winning. But their daughter, now two years old, never got to enjoy a single peaceful day with him. He was always irritable, always shouting, like a man who had everything yet was missing something vital.

Then came the night of Omodara’s company’s end-of-the-year party. She received an award for excellence, a moment that should have been one of pure joy. She came home late, exhausted but fulfilled, only to find Akanji waiting. He accused her of disrespect. Of neglecting her duties. Then he gave her an ultimatum—quit the job or leave the marriage. Omodara didn’t argue. She simply walked past him and went to bed. By the time Akanji woke up, her bags were packed. Their daughter’s, too. He stood there, stunned. He had expected a fight. He had expected tears, pleading. Instead, there was only quiet resolve.

His mistress’s pregnancy was turning into a nightmare—her once sharp features swollen, her bleached skin betraying patches of deep, natural color. Regret began to gnaw at him, but his ego wouldn’t let him acknowledge it. He sneered, masking his panic. “Don’t come back when you get tired of the single mother life.” Omodara didn’t look back. She had been planning her escape for months. A new apartment, a new life—everything was already set. She left. And she never returned.

Akanji tried to convince himself he had won. That she would regret it. That she would come crawling back. But then his mistress gave birth.

And he saw, with painful clarity, that he had lost. She let go of herself completely. No longer caring how she looked, no longer bothering to impress him. But more than that, she gave him back every ounce of disrespect he had once dished out. For the first time, Akanji understood what he had thrown away. Omodara had never burdened him, never troubled him, even when she had every right to. 

He had discarded a woman who had only ever given, for an illusion that crumbled at the first touch of reality. It took him a year to finally admit he needed her back. But he had no idea where she lived. He went to his mother, hoping for help, but she looked him in the eye and said:

“I watched you break her. I won’t help you undo what she has built for herself.” Akanji was stunned. His own mother, siding with someone else over him. Desperation set in. He searched everywhere. Asked old friends, old colleagues. But Omodara had vanished from his reach.

Then one day, a letter arrived. Divorce papers.

Akanji stared at them for a long time, his hands trembling. He tried to call her, to reach her, to stop what he had started. But it was too late.

Omodara had moved on. Her boss, the man who had always admired her, had become a pillar of support. He adored her daughter, treated her like his own. Though she wasn’t ready for anything romantic yet, she felt something she had never truly known before—safety.

Freedom.

Value.

And she was never going back.