Ten Seconds That Ended My 20-Year Marriage

It was August in Accra, and the heat was almost unbearable. The thick humidity wrapped around me like a heavy blanket as I moved through my daily routine. I had just returned from my morning jog around the neighborhood, the sweat still clinging to my skin as I went about my chores. I hadn’t bothered to shower yet—there was no point. Instead, I slipped into my stay-at-home outfit: a faded kaba and slit, an old T-shirt, and a pair of worn slippers. My hair was pulled back into a simple bun, the kind that says, “I tried, but not too hard.”

This outfit had become my armor, a way to shield myself from the world and, more importantly, from my own insecurities. It didn’t hug any part of my body too tightly, allowing me to hide what I perceived as my physical failures. In these clothes, I could pretend I was acceptable, that I was still worthy of love and attention, even if I didn’t feel like it. The outfit, combined with the house I kept spotless and the meals I prepared with precision, was my way of proving that I wasn’t lazy. I was valuable. I deserved to be kept.

So far, it had been enough to keep the status quo. My husband would still initiate intimacy with me once a month, the kind that was more about fulfilling a need than expressing love. It wasn’t passionate or fulfilling, but it served a purpose. It let him know I still needed him, and it reminded me that I was still needed, even if it was just out of habit.

That evening, as the sun dipped low in the sky, I found myself in the kitchen, slicing tomatoes and onions on the cutting board my husband had insisted we use only for the expensive knives he had brought back from one of his trips abroad. It was dinnertime, and I was busy preparing everything for the waakye we were having that night.

The sound of the front door opening caught my attention, and I turned to see my husband entering with a bag of kelewele, his usual offering after a long day. He wore that same relaxed expression he always had after a successful day at work, but there was something different about him tonight. Something off.

My gut tightened, a sense of unease creeping in. I tried to shake it off, telling myself I was being paranoid. But I couldn’t ignore the feeling, so I did what I always did—I pursued. I walked over to him, wrapped my arms around his waist, and hugged him. But when I stepped back, my hands still resting on his arms, I noticed something strange in his eyes. A flicker of something I couldn’t quite place—something that made my heart skip a beat in the worst way.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper. I tried to keep it steady, but the growing pit in my stomach made it difficult.

He looked down at me, his expression unreadable. He didn’t smile, didn’t reassure me like he usually did. Instead, he let out a deep sigh, the kind that spoke of heavy burdens and difficult decisions. Then, without warning, he gently removed my hands from his arms and stepped back, creating a physical distance between us that felt like an emotional chasm.

“I can’t do this anymore,” he said quietly, his voice eerily calm. It was as if he had rehearsed the line a thousand times in his head, preparing for this very moment.

My heart stopped. I didn’t understand what he meant. Was he talking about dinner? The way I was dressed? My mind raced, desperately trying to make sense of his words.

“What do you mean?” I managed to ask, though my voice was so faint I wasn’t sure he could hear me.

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he looked at me with a sadness that I had never seen before. When he finally spoke again, his words cut through me like a knife.

“I’ve met someone else.”

For a moment, time stood still. The world around me seemed to freeze, the air thick with the unbearable weight of those four words. I stared at him, unable to comprehend what he had just said. My mouth opened, but no sound came out. I felt like I was drowning, struggling to breathe as the realization of what he meant began to sink in.

He continued speaking, his voice still calm and measured, as if discussing something as mundane as the weather. “It’s been going on for a while now. I didn’t want to hurt you, but I can’t live a lie anymore. I’m sorry.”

Ten seconds. That’s all it took for my world to shatter. Ten seconds to erase twenty years of marriage, of memories, of love.

The knife I had been using to slice the tomatoes slipped from my hand and clattered onto the countertop. My knees felt weak, and I had to grip the edge of the counter to keep from collapsing. I wanted to scream, to cry, to demand answers, but all I could do was stare at him in stunned silence.

He didn’t wait for me to respond. Without another word, he turned and walked out of the kitchen, leaving me alone with the smell of waakye and the deafening silence of my life falling apart.

I stood there for what felt like hours, though it was probably only minutes, trying to process what had just happened. The life I had known—the life I had built around him, around us—was gone, destroyed in a matter of seconds by four simple words.

As tears finally began to stream down my face, I realized that everything I had done—the house I cleaned, the meals I cooked, the sacrifices I made—none of it had been enough. The outfit I wore to make myself feel safe, to make myself feel worthy, had been nothing more than a mask, hiding the cracks in our marriage that I had been too blind, or perhaps too afraid, to see.

In that moment, I knew there was no going back, no fixing what was broken. The life I had known was over, and all that was left was the painful process of picking up the pieces and finding a way to move forward—alone.