I Was a Wife Only When It Suited Them

 

I was married to my husband for three years. When we got married, he was working different jobs, hustling to make ends meet. I stood by him, believing in the man he was becoming, believing in us. Two years into our marriage, his life changed and he finally got a permanent job. I thought our breakthrough had come. I thought stability would bring us closer.

Instead, it broke us apart.As soon as he secured that permanent job, he started dating a woman from his workplace. Not long after that, he asked me to go home to my parents, pretending it was just a visit. While I was away, he moved out of our home and moved in with the new woman. Just like that, I was replaced. No conversation. No dignity. No closure.

Time passed, and I slowly learned how to survive the pain. Then tragedy struck. A year later, he passed away.

I was not told. My children were not told.

I only found out on a Friday, when I was told to bring the children because their father had died. Just like that. No compassion. No respect. No acknowledgement of the life we had built, or the vows we had made.

I was not acknowledged as his Makoti.

Not as his wife.Not even as the mother of his children.

I cried , not only because he was gone, but because I was erased. My children were erased. The pain was deep and humiliating. On the day of the burial, I did not attend the funeral. Not because I did not care, but because I was not recognised. I had no place there. I was made to feel like a stranger in a family I once belonged to.

Eventually, I found strength. I healed. I accepted the truth and learned to live with it.

Now, after his death, the same family wants me to be their Makoti.

They want to claim me now when he is gone.

They want to acknowledge me now , when it is convenient.

They want the title now after denying me respect when it mattered most.

I ask myself:Where were they when I was sent away?

Where were they when I cried alone?

Where were they when my children lost their father?

I was a wife when he was alive. I was a Makoti when he was alive. I deserved respect then and not now, when it suits them.

Some wounds heal, but some memories never forget. And this one reminds me that sometimes, being strong means refusing a title that once cost you your dignity.