THE HUSBAND I NEVER WED

I woke up gasping for air as if I had just escaped a nightmare. And I had—I was in a terrible motor accident.
“Did I kill him? Is he dead?” I wanted to ask. But the words never left my lips, and the thoughts fled my mind, chased away by a robust voice shouting, “Praise the Lord!” followed by an enthusiastic “Alleluia!”
I turned to stare at the group of five women rushing toward my bedside in the small room.
“Ose, how are you? How do you feel?” one woman asked, her face uncomfortably close to mine. I could see every single pore on her skin, the dried tears on her cheeks.
“I’m going to call the doctor.” I heard a voice say.
“We just finished praying, and she woke up immediately. God is so good,” another woman commented, earning murmurs of agreement.
I had forgotten what I wanted to ask. It was important. Where was I, anyway? And who were these women?
The doctor who arrived at my bedside didn’t seem surprised that I couldn’t remember anything. I had been in a terrible accident, he explained. I had barely survived and had been in a coma for two weeks.
“Head trauma...the force of the car accident ... had smashed your head against the windshield of the car” I could barely keep up with what the doctor was saying. I was struggling to remember the first thought that slipped through my mind when I woke up.
Apparently, the woman who wouldn’t give me personal space was my mother, and the four other women were her church members.
The doctor didn’t stay long—just long enough to reassure me that my memory would return soon, that I was still in shock.
My mother didn’t leave my side for the first three days after I woke up, desperately trying to make me remember who I was, never minding the fact that I never once spoke to her.
I only remembered one thing; wrestling for control of the steering wheel with a man whose face I couldn’t picture, telling him that the world was too small for both of us before everything went black… and I woke up here.
On the fourth day, my husband came for me.
I didn’t know I had a husband.
Nobody told me I had a husband.
That woman—my mother—had talked about everything, even down to the colours of the two dresses my doll had when I was six, but never once mentioned my husband.
I didn’t miss the heads that turned to stare at him—he was definitely worth the stare. But why do I feel scared looking at him?, and why do I wish he wasn’t here?.
I wasn’t happy to see my husband, and my mother was even more unhappy about his presence.
He set the flowers he had brought on my bedside table and kissed my forehead.
He explained that we had been in the accident together, but he had suffered minimal to no injuries that healed up quickly. He felt guilty about my condition since he had been the one driving and couldn’t bring himself to see me, until now. He promised to help me regain my memories and told me that our daughter couldn’t wait for me to come home.
I looked at my mother in surprise, only to find her equally surprised. She had told me earlier that I had cut off contact with her five years ago and that she only found out about my accident from a nurse friend who worked at the hospital and had known me when I was younger.
On the seventh day, I went home.
I went home with my husband—whom I had no memory of—who told me his name was Daniel Okori. I watched as my mother’s eyes filled with tears when I chose to go with him instead of her.
“He’ll hurt you again. Come home with me instead. I love you,” she pleaded.
I wanted to go with her, but there was a compelling story in Daniel’s eyes that I knew I would never know unless I went with him and not because he claimed to be my husband, I had the uneasy feeling my husband’s name started with a J.
I knew there was something fishy about Daniel Okori, his story didn’t add up and I might be entering dangerous waters with him, but all my instincts could tell me was to follow him and that I would get my memories back faster with him.
Daniel Okori was perfect. Too perfect. He cleaned, he cooked, he was kind.
But I had amnesia, not stupidity. My prescription drugs for recovery had disappeared, never to be found.
My daughter—Jane—who looked nothing like me and everything like her father, would call me “Miss Ose,” then stutter and correct herself, calling me “Mummy” in a tone that sounded rehearsed. She always avoided being alone in the same room with me. I didn’t know much, but that was not a typical mother-daughter relationship—especially not with a four-year-old.
I felt a flicker of familiarity toward some things, but not the wardrobe Daniel used, not the clothes he wore, not the scent of his perfume. They felt new. Foreign. Just like Daniel and Jane.
Ironically, the only thing I felt the most familiarity for was the huge wardrobe that was placed awkwardly in our bedroom, it looked liked someone wanted it out, but couldn’t due to it’s size. It was chained with four huge padlocks and chains, like there were secrets inside that could disrupt our lives.
I had only agreed to go home with Daniel so I could snoop—so I could figure out who I was. But it was impossible with him constantly hovering over me.
I finally got my chance during the first week of September—after almost a month cooped up in the house. Daniel had to take Jane to school for the start of a new session. He looked like he’d rather do anything than leave me alone.
“It’s fine,” I assured him. “I’ll just stay in bed until you come back.”
Daniel nodded, still unsure. He nudged Jane. “Give Mummy a hug.”
The quietest toddler I had ever met mechanically walked toward me, wrapped her small arms around my lap, then stepped back.
I patted her back awkwardly. I wouldn’t be getting used to this anytime soon.
The moment I heard Daniel’s car drive off, I got up from the bed and went straight to the locked wardrobe. I grabbed the key from inside Daniel’s pillow and opened it.
The wardrobe was divided into two sections—one for a man, one for me.
I recognized my clothes. They felt familiar.
I even recognized most of the clothes in the other section. I had hand-washed them multiple times.
But they were several sizes too large for Daniel. Daniel was trim and muscular.
Inside the wardrobe were photos and an old album, carelessly stuffed inside.
I looked at every single picture.
Daniel looked different. Similar, but different.
He looked younger in the wedding photos—his face sharper, his body more muscular compared to the overweight man in the pictures.
The overweight man felt familiar. There was a scar above his left brow—the scar I had put there.
But there wasn’t one on Daniel’s brow.
I picked up a cell phone and turned it on, but I couldn’t get past the password. I had forgotten my password. I had forgotten almost everything.
And Daniel would do anything for me—except taking me back to the hospital for another set drugs to replace the lost ones or for my appointments.
I sighed.
Daniel wasn’t my husband. Jane wasn’t my child.
I just didn’t know who they were, and for some reasons Daniel didn’t want me getting my memory back.
I had done something drastic once, thinking it would make my life better. But it didn’t. Instead, I had amnesia… and now, I lived with a husband I never married and a child I never birthed.
I picked up an envelope just as I heard the front door opening. I had been so engrossed, I didn’t ’t heard Daniel’s car return.
The envelope was addressed from me. I snatched it and shoved it inside my pillowcase, then hurriedly stuffed everything else back into the cupboard and locked it.
I jumped onto my side of the bed and tucked myself in, pretending to be asleep as Daniel called my name. I didn’t move. I had mastered the art of pretending to sleep while observing him, that was how I knew where he kept the keys locking the wardrobe.
He kissed my forehead and undressed, humming a tune. He was always in a good mood.
In contrast to my real husband. At least, from what little I could remember.
I promised myself when I woke up—because I did eventually fall asleep—I wouldn’t spend another 24 hours playing this charade with Daniel.
That evening, I sat on a stool while Daniel happily made dinner. No matter what, we were always in the same room together—Daniel made sure of it.
He insisted we have dinner at the dining table—the three of us. Jane had been dropped off earlier by a classmate’s mother.
“How was school today?” Daniel asked, looking at Jane.
The little girl, who I was starting to feel sorry for, nodded and mumbled, “Fine.”
“How’s the food?” Daniel asked again.
Jane mumbled, “Good, thank you.”
“Tell Mummy thank you too. She helped with the food.”
Jane turned towards me. “Thank you for the food, Miss Ose.” A second passed, and she corrected herself. “Sorry, I meant Mummy. Thank you, Mummy, for the food.” Her voice was a few octaves higher due to fear, her eyes darting towards her father, looking alarmed.
The anger in Daniel’s eyes betrayed the fake smile on his face.
“I don’t know why she does that,” he said, chuckling, trying to make the air feel lighter.
I suddenly felt sick. “I think I’m full now. I feel so lightheaded and sick,” I confessed.
Daniel stood up immediately, worried. He carried me to our bedroom despite my flimsy insistence to walk.
He gently put me on the bed and tucked me in.
“I’ll be right back,” he assured me, despite my wishing otherwise. “I’m going to clear the plates and then come back up.”
I nodded and watched him leave. Ten minutes later, Daniel wasn’t back. He had never left me alone for more than a minute. I struggled to look through the window and saw Daniel starting a fire outside the house.
I quietly went out and spied on them.
“Saying ‘Mummy’ isn’t so hard, is it?” Daniel asked his four-year-old child.
She shook her head. No.
He turned a bag upside down, all the toys in it falling into the fire—Jane’s toys.
Jane watched her toys burn, crying silently.
“Don’t ever slip up again. If anything happens and I lose her because of you, you’re going to regret it. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” Jane muttered.
I ran to the bedroom. I needed to read that letter immediately.
I fumbled while opening it, my hands shaking violently, but I eventually got it open.
It was a suicide letter—written by me—taking responsibility for the accident that would happen the next day. The day of the accident.
It turns out I didn’t need my medication anymore. All my memories came back to me like a fatal blow. Most were things I would have rather forgotten—the crying, the beatings, the dependency, the miscarriages.
I must have gotten lost in thought because for the second time that day, I didn’t hear Daniel come in.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
I turned towards him, and he snatched the letter from me.
“Daniel,” I said confidently. I knew exactly who he was.
“Do you remember?” he asked, his voice unstable.
“Yes. Where’s Joshua? Where’s my husband? What did you do to him?”
“Me? I didn’t do anything to Joshua. If anything, I helped you. I hid his body, I hid the evidence and now I’m living as him so people don’t start looking for him and trace it back to you , I gave you a new life.”
I shook my head. Would I never be free? I finally escaped Joshua after five years of misery, only to lose my memories and get stuck with the man that has been obsessed with me for as long as I can remember.
“Where is Joshua’s body?” I asked
“Buried here, in this house. You should feel powerful, your tormentor buried under your feet” Daniel said with a horrifying smirk.
“How could you? He’s your family”
Daniel rolled his eyes
“He was your family too. He was your husband, yet you planned his death, don’t be so judgemental, we’re almost the same”
“I don’t want this. Let me go—you can have the house.”
“I don’t want the house. I want you, Ose. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”
“I can’t do this with you, Daniel. It’s suffocating. I need to leave,” I insisted.
“You’re not going anywhere,” he said, and I could tell he meant it.
I had the same thought I did before everything with Daniel happened—one or both of us wouldn’t survive the night.
Tightening my grip on the knife I had picked up from the kitchen, I sighed. I would have to kill another son of the Okori family.