The walk to liberation.

The strategy to handle the wolves in sheep's clothes has to be implemented.

But, how?

I can not remain under the same roof with these two stabbers.

I have to leave.

Just hearing them laugh in the room I once called mine, sleeping on my matrimonial bed is ripping my heart apart. 

Hmmm…

How did I get here? 

Did I enable my husband to treat me this way?

I guess I did. 

My husband, a Master Manipulator, thrived on chaos. 

I, however, preferred the serenity of a calm sea. 

We were mismatched porcelain and stone, forced together by some cruel joke of the universe.

He knew my aversion to drama, my quiet nature, and used it like a weapon. 

My hurt was his currency, my tears his trophies. Countless times, he'd push me to the edge, then smooth things over with gifts and empty promises. 

But today, something shifted.

I recall a particular Wednesday, another demand for pounded yam and white soup. 

I complied, the familiar rhythm of obedience numbing my soul. But before the yams could sing their soft, simmering tune, the gas ran out.

"No gas," I announced, a tremor in my voice.

"You didn't refill?" His tone, sharp as a broken blade.

I swallowed the retort, choosing the hot plate's slow embrace over another war. 

From the kitchen, I could hear his voice snaked through the walls, venomous whispers to another of his "friends." 

It was a punch to the gut, confirming the suspicions that festered like a wound.

A knock. 

My head spun as Master Manipulator flung open the door, revealing a woman, polished and smug, holding a steaming bag. 

His supposed friend, his secret shame, now an unwelcome guest in my own home.

I choked back a sob, retreating to the sanctuary of the kitchen, tears blurring the steam from the soup. 

The food was ready, my stomach churning with more than hunger. 

He devoured a different offering, a Banga soup feast his mistress served, leaving remnants of his betrayal on the table like mocking trophies.

Silence was my weapon now. 

I ate my solitary meal, anger simmering beneath the surface like a forgotten pot. 

Sleep offered no escape. His voice, dripping with feigned innocence, shattered the night. 

"Do you understand why I had my friend bring food?"

"Why?" I spat back, the storm finally breaking.

His reply, a smug dismissal, "Sleep if you do not know."

Later, in the cold, blue light of his phone, the truth unfolded. 

I saw a trail of messages, venomous and clear, his words branding me the villain, his mistress the savior. 

"I won't eat what she cooks," he wrote, the ink on the screen a mirror to the darkness in his heart.

But in that digital confession, a spark ignited. 

The years of manipulation, the suffocating silence, they all burned away in the furnace of his betrayal. 

This wasn't just hunger pangs gnawing at me; it was a revolution brewing.

This time with the co-betrayal of him and my sister, I would not retreat. 

This time, I would write my own ending, not with tears, but with the fierce heat of a woman reborn. 

The dawn would break. And with it, I would rise, no longer a wife, but a warrior claiming her freedom.

Morning came and as I woke up to the familiar scent of my home, a torrent of emotions swirled within me. My husband, Clemant, had dropped the bombshell about his "second wife" - my own sister, Ego. 

My initial outrage had been met with a cold, unyielding stone wall from Clement, leaving me heartbroken and lost. But Pastor and Mama's words, whispered in the church's quiet solace, had offered a lifeline.

"I have to do this"

Reaching their bedroom door, I took a deep breath, steeling myself. I was about to knock when my sister opened the door. 

I asked to speak with my husband. She rudely informed me that Clement left for work. 

I used the time to rehearse the script my pastor and his wife had meticulously drafted. It felt strange, almost theatrical, but their logic was undeniable. 

This wasn't about accepting polygamy, it was about strategizing, buying myself time and agency.

When Clement arrived, the air crackled with tension. 

I approached him calmly, the mask of sorrow firmly in place. 

"Clement," I started, my voice surprisingly steady, "about yesterday... I reacted terribly. The news was just so much to process."

His eyes narrowed, but I continued, "I understand your decision, even if it hurts. I want you to be happy, even if it is not with me."

He scoffed, as predicted, puffing out his chest. "You finally see reason, huh?"

Ignoring the barb, I pressed on. "But before Ego moves in, I need some time and things have to be... arranged."

His frown deepened. "What are you talking about?"

I outlined the plan, my voice gaining confidence with each point. 

Three months to prepare and get the house ready, a financial settlement, a transfer of some land – a tangible reminder of my worth, of what I deserved. But, I did not add the part of me getting a separate apartment.

Clement sputtered, objections tumbling out like dominoes. 

But I held firm, my newfound resolve surprising even myself. It wasn't easy. 

The next few weeks were a constant dance of emotions, masking my anger and hurt with a facade of cooperation. 

Renting a new place, choosing furniture, haggling over terms – each act felt like a brick laid in the foundation of my future, a future beyond the shadow of this unwanted "arrangement."

Three months flew by in a blur of activity and silent tension. 

The day Ego arrived, I welcomed her to the house they would now share. A hollow ache settled in my chest, but it was overshadowed by a different feeling – liberation.