Over Sabi Husband and Army Wife

By Adebanke Abel 

The sun was already high in the sky, but Nkechi wasn’t in a hurry. She took her time rubbing cream on her arms, humming to herself as she adjusted her wrapper. Her husband, Ebuka, had been pacing the parlour like a caged animal, checking his wristwatch every two minutes.

“Nkechi! How many hours does it take to rub ordinary cream?” he barked, his forehead creased in frustration.

She rolled her eyes. “No be you say make I look good?” she replied, tying her scarf with deliberate slowness.

Ebuka scoffed and stormed outside. Typical Ebuka. Always acting like the world rotated at his command. A man who believed he was the smartest, boldest, and most untouchable human alive. No one, not even his wife, dared to question his decisions. His words were law, his actions unquestionable. He had slapped her three times since their marriage—his own twisted way of ‘correcting’ people. Even his younger sister, a married woman with kids, had received his ‘discipline’ before their mother intervened. But after Nkechi’s parents stepped in, he had stopped. Or maybe he was just waiting for another perfect excuse.

She sighed and finally stepped out of the house, her bag slung over her shoulder. They had a long journey ahead.The drive was uneventful until they got caught in slight traffic. Ebuka tapped the steering wheel impatiently. “These useless people will just block road anyhow,” he muttered. Just then, a small Toyota Corolla behind them rolled forward and lightly tapped their bumper. It was barely a scratch, but Ebuka’s temper flared instantly. Without thinking, he flung the car door open and stomped out, slamming it behind him. Nkechi remained in her seat, exhaling slowly.

“Sorry, sir! I wasn’t looking properly,” the driver, a woman in her late thirties, was already out of her car, hands pressed together in an apologetic plea. But Ebuka was not the forgiving type. “Are you blind? Na so dem take dey drive?” Before anyone could say ‘Jack,’ he swung his hand and landed a resounding slap across her face. Gasps erupted from bystanders. The woman staggered, holding her cheek in shock. She had barely recovered when another slap followed, sending her stepping backward.

“Oga, you no even gree hear sorry?!” someone in the crowd murmured, already pulling out their phone to record. But Ebuka was still fuming. He turned back to his car, ready to storm off, when he heard a car door slam behind him. Then another. And another. Three towering men, dressed in full military camouflage, emerged from the woman’s car. Ebuka froze mid-step.

“Na wetin happen for here?” the tallest of the soldiers asked, his voice thick with authority. The woman pointed at Ebuka, eyes still glistening from the sting of his palm. “He slapped me.” Silence fell over the street.

The soldier in front removed his beret, looked Ebuka up and down, and chuckled. “You get mind slap my oga wife?” 

“Oga soldier, abeg,” Ebuka started, his voice suddenly humble.

GBAM! A heavy fist met his stomach before he could complete his sentence. He doubled over, gasping for breath. Before he could react, another punch landed on his jaw, sending him staggering backward. The second soldier grabbed him by the collar, and before Nkechi could even unbuckle her seatbelt, they lifted Ebuka off the ground like a piece of luggage and threw him straight into the boot of their car before it slammed shut. The woman dusted her hands and walked back to her seat. The soldiers hopped into the car, and just like that, they drove off, taking Ebuka with them.

Nkechi blinked. For a moment, she was too stunned to react. Then, out of nowhere, laughter bubbled from her throat. She clutched her stomach, shaking as she laughed uncontrollably. Over sabi don buy market!

It wasn’t until she realized that they might actually kill her husband that she sobered up. She wiped tears from her eyes, took a deep breath, and started the car. She had to do something.

The police station was no help. “Madam, na soldier matter. We no fit put mouth,” the officer at the counter told her bluntly. She called a few of Ebuka’s friends and relatives, explained the situation, and then went home. There was nothing else to do but wait and pray.

By midnight, the door creaked open. Nkechi turned from the couch, where she had been dozing lightly. The sight before her made her gasp. Ebuka stood in the doorway, his once-proud face now swollen, battered, and smeared with dried blood. One eye was nearly shut, and his lips were cracked. His clothes were torn, and he walked like a man who had just fought a war and lost terribly.

Nkechi slowly got up, eyeing him from head to toe. “Welcome, sir.” She tried to hide the smirk tugging at her lips. Ebuka didn’t say a word. He lowered himself onto the couch with a wince. She grabbed a towel and a bowl of warm water, kneeling beside him. As she gently dabbed at his wounds, she couldn’t resist. Under her breath, she whispered, “Next time, slap a general’s wife well, make e sound.” Ebuka shot her a glare but winced immediately from the pain. She continued, this time barely holding back laughter, “Or maybe you go apply for soldier training, since your hand strong like this.”

Ebuka sighed deeply, closing his eyes. He was too weak to even argue. 

As she massaged him, her expression softened. Deep inside, she wondered—had this finally humbled him? Would this be the lesson he needed to stop treating people like trash? Only time would tell.