My wife is a Togolese. I met her when I travelled to the country to do some work. It was her beauty that drew me in. Also, I observed her from afar for a while and concluded that she was hardworking. She would hawk her goods from houses to construction sites and the marketplace. I also liked how humble and respectful she was.......CONTINUE READING THE ARTICLE FROM THE SOURCE>>>>>
Before long we were getting to know each other. I was attracted to her as much as she was attracted to me. So I didn’t waste time. I told her, “I want to marry you. Take me to your parents.” She was taken aback at my directness but she accepted my proposal.
Six months later, my family, church elders, and friends accompanied me to Togo to perform the traditional marriage rites.
Four months after our modest yet beautiful ceremony, my work in Togo was done. So we moved to Accra. That was when the marriage journey really began for me.
I sat her down to discuss our future, and we both agreed that she should first learn a trade before we start having kids. I wanted her to attain financial independence so she would pitch in once the kids start coming.
She chose to learn hairdressing and manicures. I said, “That’s good. I already have a container filled with provisions. So we will combine it with your hairdressing when you graduate.”
We lived in Mallam but I found her a reputable salon in Lapaz for her apprenticeship. I wanted her to learn from the best, you know.
To ensure everything was official, I brought two of her relatives from Togo and my elder brother to sign as witnesses to her apprenticeship agreement. The form clearly stated that she is a married woman and, as per the rules, had to be home by 4:00 PM. If there was ever a need for her to stay later, her madam was to inform me. Additionally, if she got pregnant during her apprenticeship, she would continue her training after childbirth without penalty.
I didn’t want her to get pregnant before her graduation so I suggested some birth control methods. She said it wasn’t necessary. “I have a regular cycle so we will use the natural method.”
We were fine for the first two years. She went to work and returned on time. She supported me in everything I did. All I had to do was discuss an idea with her. She would ask, “What do you need? How can I help?”
I was a happy man. I felt loved and respected. Our home was always peaceful or filled with chaotic laughter. “How did I live my life without you all along?” I would often tease her.
We were left with one year for her to complete her apprenticeship when she started changing. She would come home late—sometimes as late as 11 PM. When I asked, she always blamed her madam, saying she had to stay back to serve customers. I respected her madam so that was enough to silence me. Besides, I never suspected my wife of any wrongdoing.
I only got suspicious when the security on her phone became tighter than a spy’s. It was laden with complex passwords and patterns. That aside, she would ignore certain calls in my presence.
One evening, I was at Abeka around 6 PM when I called to ask if she was home. She said her madam had sent her on an errand and that she would be late. When I called her madam to verify, the woman told me my wife was at the shop, packing up to leave.
The inconsistencies in their stories got me curious enough to pass by the shop. It was closed. I expected to meet her at home but I didn’t. When she finally got home I didn’t ask her any questions. The plan was not to let her know I was on to her. I wanted to quietly watch her closely until I’d find something concrete.
Only for her to disappear one day.
It happened two years ago. We went to church on a Sunday as usual. During the sermon, she leaned in and whispered, “I am going to the washroom. I will be back soon.”
I nodded and gave her way to pass. After thirty minutes I realized she was still not back. I went to the bathroom but she wasn’t there. An hour passed but there was no sign of her. I walked around the church premises searching every corner I could think of. There was no trace of her.
Her phone was switched off. I rushed home hoping to find her but nothing. By morning, I was a ball of anxiety rolling around on two feet. I called her friends, her madam, and anyone who came to mind. They all didn’t know her whereabouts.
When I began to feel hopeless like bile in my stomach, I called her parents and told them their daughter had gone missing. They advised me to report the case to the police and I did.
After that, we organized a search party. Her family in Togo was understanding and supportive at first, but they grew uneasy when she didn’t turn up after a few days. They pointed fingers at me, “What did you do to our daughter?”
It took my church’s intervention and the testimony of a neighbour who confirmed that we were in church together when she left me behind. Without them, I might have ended up in jail for a crime I never committed.
Not a day went by that I didn’t think about her or wonder where she was. “God, I hope she is alive and well,” I would pray, “please bring her back home to me.”
My prayers were finally answered four months ago around 11 PM. There was a knock on my door. When I opened it, a frail woman stood before me. She wore an oversized dress and wrapped her head in a scarf. A small bundle of belongings sat on her head, and strapped to her back was a weak coughing baby.
She looked down, unable to meet my gaze. Then, in a trembling voice, said, “I’m sorry.” That was when I knew it was her. My wife, Yawa, had returned to me.
I was confused. I didn’t know whether to scream in excitement that she is alive and well or if I should weep at how malnourished she looked. In my haze, I let her in.
The moment she placed the baby on the sofa, she collapsed to her knees, sobbed, and pleaded for forgiveness. Between tears, she confessed everything.
Her madam had pressured her into dating a galamseyer who lavished gifts on her madam in exchange for convincing Yawa to run away with him.
He turned out to be a reckless man, who was married with four children. He had no other source of income apart from the hole he dug for his small-scale mining. Once she became pregnant, he abandoned her in a single room. She ended up selling sachet water on the streets of Ashaiman to survive.
As she spoke, I felt anger, and disappointment that a woman I married allowed herself to be treated like trash by another man. But I also felt pity for the helpless child caught in the mess she had created.
I let her stay the night and got cough syrup for the child. I didn’t want her to leave until I had taken her to her family to dissolve the marriage.
So I took her to the police station first to report her return. Then, I informed our church that she was back. From there, we went to Togo to see her family.
Her parents pleaded. They asked me to reconsider my decision to leave her. I left her there and told them I would think about it.
Then last week, her father called me. He said in their customs, a child born within marriage belongs to the husband unless he chooses otherwise. “Please forgive her and take her. She is sorry,” he pleaded once again.
Yawa too called me. “Even if you won’t take me back as your wife, help me complete my training.”
I have lost all love for her. I no longer see a future with her. But the boy—he is innocent in all this. I pity him. And now, I find myself struggling with a decision.
Should I help her complete her trade so she can at least build a future for herself and the child? If I do, it will have to be in her country, not here with me.
And most importantly, what legal action can I take against her madam? This woman has ruined lives, not just my wife’s but also those of other young girls under her care. My wife’s colleagues have complained about how she coerces them into relationships and collects money from the men.
I want justice. I want to expose her for what she is. But where do I start?
