A walk on thorns

Chapter 26| Out Of It...

Anisha’s POV

I sat outside, shivering uncontrollably on one of the weather-beaten beach chairs by the poolside. The night air was sharp, biting through my skin like icy needles, but the cold I felt was far deeper, far crueler. It sank into my bones, gnawed at my resolve, and left me trembling with a hollowness I could no longer contain.

Nadeera had made it clear, I wasn’t welcome in the house tonight. She swore on everything sacred that I wouldn’t step inside after what had happened. She hurled accusations like daggers, each one lodging deeper into my chest. According to her, it was all my fault, every last detail of the chaos. Worse, she claimed I had orchestrated it deliberately.

For the first time, I felt the weight of defeat settle fully on me. My strength, my endurance, my silent resilience, everything seemed to crumble all at once. I wanted to scream that it wasn’t fair, that I wasn’t strong enough to bear this anymore. But the truth was cruel and unwavering: there was no fairness here. There was only survival.

I know marriage isn’t meant to be easy. Perhaps I’m supposed to try harder, but shouldn’t the effort come from both sides? Mukhtar had already made his choice. Nadeera stood beside him like a triumphant queen, while I was cast into the shadows, a scapegoat for their misdeeds. They didn’t need me, I was just a prop, a placeholder for appearances. And yet, despite it all, I stayed.

Because where would I go? What life awaited me if I left? Who would want me, a discarded wife with scars etched into her body and a past stained by miscarriages and pain? A woman burdened by bruises, both seen and unseen, whose very presence reeked of failure? I’ve become a ghost of who I once was, my dreams buried beneath layers of regret and shame.

I know I am broken. Ruined. Sometimes I argue with Sabrina because I can’t face the truths she speaks. She’s always right, but admitting it feels like rejecting everything I was taught. How can Sabrina, a girl of just yesterday, be wiser than Baba, Mama, and the endless chain of aunts who raised me? How can they all be wrong?

I’m drowning in this conflict, torn between what I know and what I was conditioned to believe. And while others might stand in judgment, no one has the right. Not unless they’ve walked the path I’ve walked.

I’ve seen what happens to women like me, the divorcees of our family. For some, the humiliation is so unbearable they never return home. For those who do, the cruelty is relentless. They’re met with whispers, sneers, and accusations, their stories twisted into lies that strip them of dignity.

I think of Walida, my cousin. When her husband died in a tragic accident on his way to Lagos, she fought to stay in her home, to care for her children. But her parents refused, and her husband’s family only allowed her to stay until her iddah was complete. Even during that sacred mourning period, the rumors began. They said she was involved with another man. They said she was unfaithful, tarnishing her husband’s memory. Lies, cruel, baseless lies.

When her iddah ended, she was forced to leave her children behind and return to her father’s house. It wasn’t a home, it was a prison. Every misstep, no matter how small, was met with violence. Her father’s punishments were merciless, and her mother’s resentment spilled out in curses that clung to her like a second skin. When her father accused her of being responsible for her husband’s death, it was the final blow. The words spread like wildfire, carried by gossiping neighbors until her name became synonymous with disgrace.

And she wasn’t even divorced.

What hope is there for me, a woman people once envied, now pitied? Mama always said our family’s reputation rested on my ability to keep this marriage intact. I’ve clung to that string for so long, but it’s fraying, unraveling in my hands. I’m losing myself, piece by piece.