Wale was the kind of man people praised openly.
He's calm, mature, and disciplined.
At work, junior staff feared him a little and respected him a lot.
He dressed well, spoke carefully, and never looked flustered under pressure. Even when others lost their temper during meetings, Wale would simply adjust his tie and say,
“Can we be logical for a minute?”
Sade used to admire that composure when they were dating.
Back then, it felt safe.
She only discovered after marriage that some people are calm because they have mastered silence… not communication.
The first sign came during their honeymoon.
A small argument over something forgettable. She couldn’t even remember what caused it anymore. Maybe it was about dinner plans. Maybe a comment that came out wrong.
But she remembered the silence afterward.
Two whole days in the same hotel suite in Accra.
Wale barely spoke.
He answered questions with nods.
Ate quietly.
Scrolled endlessly on his phone.
At one point, Sade stood near the balcony door staring at him.
“Wale… are you seriously not talking to me?”
Without looking up, he replied,
“I don’t like talking when I’m angry.”
At the time, she told herself it was just how he processed emotions.
Marriage teaches you quickly that habits are rarely temporary.
Three years later, silence had become a language in their home.
And Wale spoke it fluently and frequently.
Whenever he got upset, the house changed.
He would stop talking completely.
No yelling, no arguments... just absence.
A complete shutdown.
He would come home from work, carry their daughter immediately, throw her into the air until she squealed with laughter, kiss her forehead repeatedly, then walk straight past Sade like she wasn’t standing there.
Some evenings, Sade would serve his food carefully and leave it on the dining table.
An hour later she would hear nylon rustling in the kitchen.
Takeout.
He had bought food on his way home.
Again.
At first she used to cry openly.
“Please, can we just talk?”
“What exactly did I do?”
“Wale, this is too much.”
But she eventually noticed something.
The more distressed she became, the calmer he looked.
Almost satisfied.
And when she finally broke after days or weeks and apologized for peace to return, he would become normal again almost immediately.
Back to laughing.
Back to his playful self.
Back to being attentive.
As though nothing had happened.
The issue itself was never discussed.
Once peace returned, the matter died by force.
Whenever she tried revisiting it later, he shut it down instantly.
“You like dragging things too much.”
“Must everything become a discussion?”
“I thought mature people moved on.”
So they never really solved anything.
They only survived things.
Again and again.
Their daughter, Dara, was eighteen months old when the tire went flat.
Sade had just picked her from the creche, after work, and they were on their way home. Rain clouds were gathering, and the back road she took to avoid heavy traffic suddenly didn’t feel like a smart decision anymore.
The tire burst near a lonely stretch.
She parked shakily by the roadside and stared at it.
Then at her phone.
Three missed calls from her mother.
Low battery.
5:57 PM.
She hesitated before calling Wale.
They were currently in one of their episodes.
It had started because she complained that he barely spoke to her anymore unless he wanted food, sex, or peace and quiet.
That conversation had ended exactly how all such conversations ended.
Silence.
Still, she called.
No answer.
Again.
Nothing.
The third time she called, it rang briefly before disconnecting.
Sade swallowed hard and sent a voice note instead.
“Wale… please my tire is bad and it’s getting dark. I’m not familiar with this area.”
Message seen.
No reply.
The realization sat in her chest heavily.
He was teaching her a lesson.
Cars sped past.
The sky darkened faster.
Then headlights slowed behind her.
A black Camry parked.
The driver stepped out.
“You okay?”
He was tall, casually dressed, maybe mid-thirties.
Friendly smile.
Too friendly.
“I think so,” Sade said softly.
Within minutes he had changed the tire while cracking jokes about Lagos roads and corrupt mechanics. Somehow he made her laugh even though she’d spent most of the evening trying not to cry.
Before leaving, he glanced briefly at her wedding ring.
Then at the baby seat behind her.
“You sure you’ll be okay driving home?”
“I’ll manage.”
He smiled slightly.
“I’m Banky, by the way.”
She nodded politely.
“Sade.”
When he asked for her number, she almost refused.
Almost.
But something about the loneliness waiting for her at home made saying no harder than it should have been.
At first it was harmless.
A text.
“How’s your evening?”
Another one two days later.
“Hope work wasn’t stressful.”
Then random conversations.
Banky was easy to talk to. Effortlessly easy.
He listened fully when she spoke.
Asked follow-up questions.
Remembered details.
The first time he referenced a story she had told casually three days earlier, Sade stared at her phone longer than necessary.
Unlike Wale, who had forgotten her birthday the previous year until his younger sister reminded him.
It was just a matter of time before there was another issue, and Wale went silent again. This time, however, something had changed.
Sade didn’t chase him.
Didn’t beg.
Didn’t stand at the bedroom door crying.
She simply carried Dara, watched cartoons quietly, and replied Banky’s messages at night after putting the baby to sleep.
Wale noticed immediately.
Her silence irritated him now.
He became colder.
Coming home later.
Ignoring her more aggressively.
Leaving without explanation.
But for the first time in years, Sade wasn’t emotionally alone during the silence.
Someone was talking to her.
Someone was asking if she had eaten.
Someone was noticing her.
That was how the lines slowly blurred.
It wasn't dramatic... it happened quietly. BUT dangerously.
One Friday night, Wale came home unusually hostile.
This time he was not silent. He was cruel, INTENTIONALLY.
He complained about the house.
Complained about the baby crying too much.
Complained about dinner.
Then suddenly he looked directly at her and said:
“If I could go back in time, I honestly don’t think I would marry you.”
The room went still.
Even Dara stopped moving for a second.
Sade stared at him, waiting for him to soften it somehow.
He didn’t.
Instead he grabbed his car keys and walked out.
That was the first night he never came home.
Sade stayed awake till almost 2 a.m.
The TV was on mute.
The house was dark.
Her mind kept imagining accidents.
Hospitals.
Police stations.
She called him many times but he had turned off his phone.
When Banky texted,
“You okay? Your status shows you're online”
she ignored it.
Then he called.
The moment she said hello, her voice cracked.
“Hey… hey… what happened?”
“I’m fine,” she whispered.
But she wasn’t.
And he could hear it.
By the time she started crying properly, he was already putting on his shoes.
“I’m coming over.”
“No, don’t…”
“I’m coming.”
When he arrived, Sade looked exhausted.
Hair messy.
Eyes swollen.
Voice shaky.
Banky listened quietly while she talked.
Years of frustration poured out of her in pieces.
The silence.
The punishment.
The begging.
The loneliness.
At some point she stopped talking and just cried.
And at some point, he moved closer.
Then closer again.
And after years of emotional starvation, comfort became difficult to separate from desire.
The guilt came almost immediately afterward.
It was sharp, heavy., and suffocating.
Sade sat at the edge of the bed wrapped in silence.
Not Wale’s silence.
Her own.
Banky touched her shoulder gently.
“Sade…”
“Please go.”
He left peacefully.
But something had already shifted permanently.
Wale was away for three days.
Banky stayed close every single hour.
Following up with calls, texts, and voice notes.
Even when Sade ignored them.
And now there was history between them.
Wale came back on the fourth day like nothing had happened.
He walked into the apartment with the smell of outside still on him, dropped his keys on the dining table, carried Dara immediately, and started playing with her on the couch while cartoons played in the background.
Sade stood in the kitchen watching him quietly.
Part of her was relieved.
Part of her was angry.
Part of her felt sick every time she remembered what she had done three nights earlier.
Wale eventually glanced toward her.
“You didn’t cook?”
The normal tone almost annoyed her more than the silence.
No explanation.
No apology.
No conversation about disappearing for three days.
Just… continuation.
Like always.
That night, Sade apologized first.
Not because she believed she was completely wrong anymore.
Not because she even fully understood what they were apologizing for this time.
But because peace in the house had always depended on her bending first.
And Wale softened almost immediately.
The way he always did after winning.
He didn’t even ask why her eyes looked swollen the morning he returned.
By the weekend, he was back to his usual self.
Playful with the baby.
Cracking jokes at dinner.
Sending her random messages during work hours like the previous week never happened.
Sade responded normally.
But something inside her had changed permanently.
She wanted to talk about things properly this time.
About the silence.
About the abandonment.
About the emotional exhaustion.
Even about the fear she felt when he disappeared for three days.
But each attempt hit the same wall.
“Can you drop it?”
“Why can’t you just move on?”
“I’m not doing therapy talk.”
So the issue died again.
Unresolved...simply buried.
Some silences survive because both people are afraid of what honesty might uncover.
Meanwhile, Banky kept reaching out.
At first, Sade ignored him.
Then blocked him.
Then unblocked him again.
Not because she planned to continue anything.
She just hated how empty the house felt emotionally once the guilt settled and real life resumed.
Banky noticed the distance immediately.
His messages changed tone.
“No pressure.”
“I just want to know you’re okay.”
“We can pretend it never happened.”
That should have ended it.
But people rarely fall into affairs dramatically.
It's usually a slow slide... emotionally.
And somehow it happens conveniently.
One conversation became another.
Another became late-night calls.
Then familiar laughter returned.
Then comfort.
Then secrecy.
And eventually the guilt that once kept Sade awake all night slowly became quieter.
Not because what she was doing stopped being wrong.
But because repeated compromise has a way of numbing our moral alarm systems.
Especially when loneliness still exists inside the marriage you returned to.
The second time Wale left after a fight, Sade barely reacted outwardly.
This argument started over something small again.
A birthday party invitation.
Wale didn’t want to attend.
Sade complained he never showed up for things that mattered to her.
He accused her of “always finding problems.”
Then came the shutdown...
and by midnight, he grabbed his keys and left the house again.
No explanation.
No destination.
Just punishment.
Sade sat quietly on the edge of the bed after he left.
Not crying this time.
Just tired.
Her phone buzzed.
Banky.
“You okay?”
She stared at the screen for a long time before replying.
“No.”
That was all it took.
After that, Banky found his way back into her life the same way water enters cracked walls.
And because there had already been history between them, boundaries disappeared faster this time.
The hesitation was weaker.
The guilt slower.
By now, Banky knew the rhythm of her marriage.
Knew when Wale was angry.
Knew when the silence had started.
Knew when she would likely be emotionally vulnerable.
Sometimes he would say things that made her uncomfortable afterward.
“A woman like you shouldn’t have to beg for attention.”
“You deserve better.”
“You deserve peace.”
And the frightening thing was that parts of her agreed.
Weeks turned into months.
The affair settled into hidden corners of her life.
Secret calls in parked cars.
Deleted chats.
Quick meetings.
Lingering touches that no longer felt shocking.
At home, Wale still believed his silence was working.
Still believed withdrawal gave him control.
Still believed the marriage always returned to him eventually.
And in many ways, it did.
He just didn’t realize something else had entered it now.
Something feeding quietly in the spaces he kept creating.
Then one evening after another fight, Wale left again.
It was another one of those long 'punishment getaways'.
No calls.
No explanations... as usual.
Sade already stopped expecting them.
By the third evening, Banky was at the apartment.
Dara had fallen asleep early.
Rain tapped softly against the windows while a movie played low in the background.
At some point, Sade laughed.
A real laugh.
The kind she hadn’t heard from herself in a long time.
Then she heard keys at the door.
Her heart stopped.
Banky sat upright immediately.
The front door opened.
Wale’s footsteps.
Earlier than expected.
Much earlier.
Sade stood so fast the throw pillow fell to the floor.
The bedroom door was half-closed now.
Too late.
Wale walked toward the room slowly.
Then stopped.
A man’s shoe near the entrance.
Silence.
The same silence he had built his marriage around for years.
Only this time…
it wasn’t protecting him anymore.
©️ Lanre Olagbaju
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