The slap was swift, unexpected, yet familiar. Inem staggered but caught herself on the kitchen counter, her cheek stinging as Tsola’s voice roared.

Her offense? Laughing too loudly at a joke his friend made during dinner. Tsola had held back his rage all evening, until they got home. Inem pressed a palm to her cheek, her ears ringing. She didn’t cry. Not anymore.

“You think you’re better than me, abi? Is that it? You don’t even respect me anymore!" Respect. She remembered when she had adored him, when his ambition and charm were magnetic. Now, she barely recognized the man standing before her.

It started subtly, the shift in Tsola. When they got married, he was a rising star, filled with energy and dreams. They lived in a modest but happy home. Then came the restructuring. Tsola was laid off, another victim of “redundancy.”

“I’ll find something better,” he promised. But months turned into years, rejections piled up and bitterness consumed him. Inem took on another job to keep them afloat, but her income barely sustained them. The power cuts started, followed by the landlord’s banging. Tsola withdrew, retreating into silence that soon turned to anger.

That night, after he stormed out, Inem sat on the edge of their bed, her hands trembling in her lap. She looked at the cracked mirror on the wall. Her reflection was a stranger: thin, weary, eyes hollow. She had confided in her sister Ime weeks ago, but she had brushed off her concern. Leaving seemed impossible then. Now, the weight of her decision pressed on her chest, but it was time.

The next day, Tsola came home earlier than usual, unsteady on his feet, his breath reeking of alcohol. Inem was folding clothes in their bedroom when he entered.

“You think you can just ignore me, eh?” His voice was low, threatening, as he closed the door behind him.

Inem froze mid-fold. “Tsola, you’re drunk. Let’s talk tomorrow when you’re sober.”

He grabbed her before she could finish, his grip tight on her wrist. He dragged her toward him. “Tomorrow? No. You’ll listen to me now.” His anger was raw, suffocating.

“Stop this!” Inem’s voice was a fragile plea, but it only fueled him. His breath was hot against her ear as he pinned her arms above her head. “You’re my wife. You don’t get to say no to me.”

Minutes passed, but the damage cut deep. When he was done, he collapsed onto the bed without a word, his snores filling the room. Inem rolled to the floor, her body trembling, breath hitching in silent sobs.

That night, she packed a small bag while Tsola slept, her movements mechanical, mind numb. She had called Ime to come get her.

Weeks turned into months. Therapy became her solace. She began teaching full-time, saving for her own place. Slowly, she healed, learning to breathe again without Tsola’s presence.

Tsola, meanwhile, spiraled. Without her, the house felt emptier than he had imagined. His drinking worsened, his job search fading into oblivion. He tried calling Inem a few times, but she never answered.

One day, he found himself staring at the same cracked mirror Inem had once despised. His face was haggard, eyes sunken. For the first time, he saw himself, not the man he used to be, but the man he had become. His fingers traced the cracks in the mirror, but there was no fixing it.

Inem didn’t return. Tsola didn’t go after her. Some stories don’t end in reconciliation, only lessons learned too late.

Inem stood before her new apartment, the weight of the key heavy in her hand. She had come a long way from the woman who had trembled in that house, trapped in Tsola’s silence. She wasn’t running from him anymore. She was running toward herself.

The words of Martin Luther King Jr. echoed in her mind: “The ultimate measure of a man is not where he stands in moments of comfort and convenience, but where he stands at times of challenge and controversy.” Inem had made it through the storm. Now, it was time to rebuild.