I was standing in front of my mother-in-law’s house, holding a plate of half-eaten rice that she had just spat on.

​She didn’t just spit on the food. She spat on my face too.

​”Dara, if you don’t leave this house before the sun sets, I will call the neighbors to come and see the witch that killed my son’s womb.”

​My husband, the man I married when he had only one pair of trousers, was sitting inside.

​He heard everything. He didn’t move. He didn’t even look up from his phone.

​Life in Lagos is not for the weak, but being a “barren” woman in a house that smells of hatred is a different kind of hell.

​We had been married for seven years.

​Seven years of drinking bitter herbs that burnt my throat.

​Seven years of going to different churches, crying until my voice turned into a whisper.

​My husband, Leke, used to hold me. He used to say, “Dara, God’s time is the best.”

​But people change when their mother starts whispering into their ears at night.

​That afternoon, the humiliation reached my soul.

​Leke’s mother took my clothes from the wardrobe and threw them into the muddy rain water outside.

​Passersby stopped to look. Small children were laughing.

​”Please, Mama, it’s raining. Where will I go?” I fell on my knees, my wrapper soaking up the dirty rain water.

​She laughed. A cold, wicked sound.

​”Go to the man who gave you the pregnancy you aborted in your youth. That is why your womb is a desert.”

​I have never had an abortion in my life. But in Nigeria, once you are childless, people will write a script for your life.

​I looked at Leke through the window. Finally, he came out.

​I thought he was coming to pull me up. I thought he was coming to tell his mother “Enough!”

​Instead, he threw my handbag at my chest.

​”Dara, I am tired. My mother is right. I need a child to carry my name. My new wife is arriving tomorrow. Please, don’t make this hard.”

​New wife?

​The ground felt like it was opening.

​I walked away with nothing but a wet wrapper and a handbag containing 500 Naira and a heavy secret I had been hiding for months.

​I reached the bridge at Third Mainland. The wind was screaming.

​I stood at the edge, looking at the black water.

​”God, if You are there, let me just sleep and not wake up.”

​Just as I lifted my leg to jump, my phone vibrated in my bag.

​It was a message from the hospital I visited in secret last week.

​I opened it with shaking hands.

​My heart stopped. The message didn’t say I was pregnant.

​It said: “Mrs. Dara, please report to the clinic immediately. We have the final results of your husband’s fertility test. It is urgent.”

​I didn’t jump. I went to the hospital.

​The doctor looked at me with pity.

​”Madam, I told your husband this three years ago, but he refused to tell you. He has a zero sperm count. He can never father a child naturally.”

​I sat there, frozen.

​Leke knew.

​He knew it was him. But he watched his mother call me a witch. He watched her spit on me.

​He was bringing in a “new wife” to cover his shame, planning to probably use another man’s pregnancy to claim he is a father.

​I didn’t go back to beg. I didn’t even send him a text.

​I moved into a small uncompleted building with a friend. We started frying akara by the roadside.

​Some days, the smoke would almost blind me.

​My hands became rough. My skin became dark from the sun.

​Leke’s friends would pass by and mock me. “See the ‘Fine Dara’ now. She has turned into an akara seller.”

​I kept quiet. I was saving every kobo.

​One evening, a man in a G-Wagon pulled up. He bought akara of 2,000 Naira and gave me 50,000 Naira.

​”Keep the change,” he said. “I see how you work. You don’t look like you belong here.”

​That man became my mentor. He saw the business mind behind the frying pan.

​Two years later.

​I own one of the biggest catering chains in Lekki.

​I am glowing. I am happy. I am whole.

​I was at a car dealership last Tuesday to pick up a delivery van for my company.

​I saw a man cleaning the floors. He looked old. He looked broken.

​It was Leke.

​The “new wife” had cheated on him, taken the little money he had, and exposed his secret to the whole village when he couldn’t get her pregnant.

​His mother had passed away from the shock of the shame.

​He looked at me, and he dropped his mop.

​”Dara? Please… I am sorry. Everything went wrong.”

​I looked at him. I didn’t feel anger. I didn’t feel joy at his pain. I just felt… nothing.

​I reached into my purse, took out 10,000 Naira, and placed it on the wet floor he was mopping.

​”Use this to buy a good meal, Leke. And tell yourself the truth for once. It will set you free.”

​As I drove away in my own car, I realized something.

​Sometimes, God allows them to throw you into the gutter so that the rain can wash away the people who don’t deserve to walk with you into your palace.

​If you are still breathing, your story is not over.

​God did not forget me… and He will not forget you.