Nah Lie

It was a sweltering Sunday afternoon in Lagos, Nigeria, in the year 2025. The family had gathered at Mama’s house, a modest two-story home filled with the comforting scents of jollof rice, spicy egusi soup, and fried plantains. Laughter and chatter echoed through the rooms as children darted around, chasing each other, while the adults lingered over their plates. But Ada, seated at the edge of the dining table, was unusually quiet. Her fork hovered over her food, her mind clearly elsewhere. Her husband, Chidi, sat across the room, engrossed in a football match on TV with the kids, oblivious to the storm brewing inside her.

 

After lunch, as the women retreated to the kitchen to clear the dishes, Ada’s composure cracked. She dropped a plate into the sink with a clatter, tears streaming down her face. “I can’t do this anymore,” she sobbed, her voice breaking the rhythm of the clinking dishes. Her mother, Mama, turned sharply, her hands still dripping with soapy water. Ada’s sisters, Nkechi and Ngozi, froze, their eyes wide with concern.

 

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“Ada, what’s wrong?” Mama asked, her voice trembling with worry.

“I’ve tried, Mama,” Ada said, wiping her tears with the back of her hand. “Chidi… he’s not good in bed. I’m not happy. I want a divorce.”

The kitchen fell silent, the weight of her words hanging in the air like a thundercloud. Mama gasped, clutching her chest as if Ada had struck her. “Divorce? Ada, what are you saying?” she stammered. In their family, marriage was a sacred bond, not easily broken, especially not over something spoken so boldly.

 

“I mean it,” Ada insisted, her voice firm despite the tears. “I’ve been pretending everything’s fine for years, but I can’t anymore. He doesn’t satisfy me, and I’m done.”

Before Mama could respond, Nkechi, Ada’s younger sister, slammed her hand on the counter, her eyes blazing. “Nah Lie!” she shouted, her voice cutting through the tension like a knife. The phrase—a sharp, Nigerian twist on “No lie,” meaning “That’s a lie”—stunned everyone. All heads turned to Nkechi, who stood with her arms crossed, unapologetic.

Ada spun around, her anger flaring. “What do you mean, ‘Nah Lie’? How would you know anything about my marriage?”

 

Nkechi took a deep breath, steadying herself. “Because Chidi’s told me, Ada. He’s told me how hard he tries to please you, how he’s been breaking his back to make you happy, but you’re always cold, always pushing him away. He’s frustrated because he loves you, and you make it impossible for him.”

Ada’s jaw dropped, her face a mix of shock and betrayal. “You’ve been talking to my husband behind my back?”

“He’s my brother-in-law,” Nkechi shot back, unflinching. “He’s family. He’s been hurting, and I couldn’t just ignore him when he needed someone to listen.”

 

Ngozi, the middle sister who had divorced her own husband two years prior, stepped forward, her tone softer but resolute. “Ada, if you’re not happy, maybe it’s time to leave. I walked away from my marriage, and it was the best decision I ever made. Life’s too short to be miserable.”

Mama shook her head vigorously, her voice rising. “No, no, no! Marriage is sacred. You don’t just throw it away because of problems. You have two children to think about, Ada. In my time, we didn’t talk about divorce. We worked through it.”

At that moment, Chidi appeared in the doorway, drawn by the escalating voices. His brow furrowed as he took in the scene—his wife in tears, her family in chaos. “What’s going on?” he asked, his tone wary.

Mama gestured for him to come closer. “Chidi, sit down. Ada says she wants a divorce because… because she’s not happy with you. Nkechi says it’s not true.”

 

Chidi’s face fell, a mix of hurt and confusion washing over him. He looked at Ada, searching her eyes. “Is this how you feel? That I’m not good enough for you?”

Ada turned away, unable to meet his gaze. “It’s not just that, Chidi,” she whispered. “Ever since… you know, what happened, I can’t trust you. It’s ruined everything between us.”

 

Eight years ago, Chidi had strayed—a brief affair with a coworker that he’d confessed to Ada, begging for forgiveness. She’d stayed, for the sake of their children and her love for him, but the wound had never fully healed. Her insecurity had festered, and over time, she’d begun withholding intimacy, using it as a shield—or a weapon. Chidi, desperate to prove his devotion, had tried to bridge the gap, but her rejection only widened it.

Chidi ran a hand over his face, his voice thick with emotion. “I know I hurt you, Ada, and I’ll never stop being sorry for that. But I’ve been trying to make it right. I love you. I don’t want to lose you or our family. Please, let’s not throw it all away.”

 

Nkechi nodded, her tone softer now. “Ada, he’s been planning surprises—flowers, date nights, even that weekend trip you brushed off. He’s been trying to rekindle things, but you shut him down every time.”

Ada’s mind flashed to those moments: Chidi coming home with a bouquet of roses, only for her to snap that she didn’t need his guilt gifts; the time he’d booked a dinner reservation, and she’d accused him of hiding something. She’d seen every gesture through the lens of her pain, assuming the worst. But now, hearing Nkechi and Chidi, doubt crept in. Had she been too hard on him?

 

Mama stepped between them, her voice firm but kind. “You two need help—someone outside this family to guide you. Why don’t you see a counselor? Work through these issues properly.”

The room grew quiet again, the weight of the suggestion settling over them. Ada stared at the floor, then slowly nodded. “Okay,” she said, her voice barely audible. “I’ll try.”

Chidi reached for her hand, his grip tentative but warm. “Thank you, Ada. I promise I’ll do whatever it takes.”

 

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Six months later, the air in their home felt lighter. Weekly counseling sessions had peeled back layers of resentment and miscommunication. Ada had confronted her lingering hurt, working to forgive Chidi not just for him, but for herself. Chidi had learned to be more patient, more present, showing his love in ways that spoke to Ada’s heart. They’d started talking again—really talking—about their needs, their fears, their hopes.

One evening, after tucking their children into bed, they sat together on the couch, a rare moment of stillness. Ada rested her head on Chidi’s shoulder, the TV flickering softly in the background. “I’m glad we didn’t give up,” she whispered, a small smile tugging at her lips.

Chidi turned to her, his eyes bright with relief and love. He kissed her forehead gently. “Me too, my love. Me too.”

 

Their marriage, once teetering on the edge of collapse, had found new strength—not just in their renewed intimacy, but in the trust they were painstakingly rebuilding. It wasn’t perfect, but it was theirs, forged anew with the support of their family and their own stubborn will to fight for each other.