The Perfect Marriage That Wasn’t – Escaping Domestic Violence in Marriage

Image credit: Photo by Pavel danilyuk via pexels

I used to post “#CoupleGoals pictures” every Sunday after church. My husband would hold my hand, smile for the camera, and whisper,

“Don’t forget to tag me.”

Our friends called us “the perfect couple.” Only if they knew it was the perfect marriage that wasn’t. From the outside, we looked happy, but behind closed doors, it was one of those abusive relationship that leaves you confused, scared, and ashamed.

My mother-in-law bragged to her neighbours about how lucky her son was to have a gentle, God-fearing wife.

But they didn’t see what happened when the doors closed. That’s the thing about domestic violence in marriage: it often wears the mask of perfection in public.

The first time he hit me, I told myself it was my fault.

He was watching soccer in the sitting room, sprawled on the couch, eyes fixed on the screen. I was multitasking as usual—boiling rice, heating up some stew, and scrubbing one of his stained white shirts in the bathroom. I had it all planned in my head. After I rinsed the shirt, I’d check on the stew and turn off the gas. A system I’d perfected—so I thought.

I got carried away, focused on the suds and the sweat on my forehead, humming to myself. Until the sharp, bitter smell of burnt stew pierced through my nose. My heart dropped. I rushed to the kitchen, soap still clinging to my fingers.

He was already there. The pot lid lay on the floor like a scene from a battlefield. Without a word, he hurled the pot across the kitchen. Stew splattered the tiles like bloodstains. Then, he grabbed my wrist and twisted it so hard I cried out in shock.

“You’re useless,” he hissed. “Can’t even cook a simple meal.”

I didn’t tell anyone.

That night, he returned home with a shiny gold bracelet.

“Sorry, baby,” he said, slipping it around my wrist. “Work stress”.

He kissed my forehead like nothing had happened. I stood there, stunned, the smell of burnt stew still in my hair.

I wore the bracelet to church the next Sunday. My friends swooned.

“See how he pampers you?”

I smiled and adjusted my sleeve to cover the bruise.

Sometimes, I felt like I didn’t exist in my marriage, where being unseen can break you in ways no one else understands.

It got worse.

A slap for talking back.

A shove for forgetting to iron his shirt.

Once, he pulled the curtain rod off the wall and struck me with it. The next morning, he left me a note on the dresser that read:

“Don’t provoke me, please. I love you.”

Another time, I found a suspicious text on his phone. When I asked—just asked—if he was cheating, he pushed me down the stairs. My back hit the marble hard, and my leg twisted awkwardly. At the hospital, I told the doctor I had “missed a step”. He gave me painkillers and a pitying look.

I became an expert at hiding it. These were all clear signs of emotional abuse, but i didn’t have the words to describe what I was going through.

Makeup tricks: I mixed foundation with Vaseline to cover marks. I studied contouring videos at night, learning to make my face look “normal”.

Excuses: “I hit my arm on the door.” “I tripped at the market.” “I walked into the cupboard.”

Social media: I posted old pictures so no one would see the new bruises. I recycled captions too: #Blessed, #GratefulWife, and #MyForever.

My family thought we were happy. My friends envied me.

No one asked why I flinched when he reached for me in public.

I lost myself.

The woman who once loved to write poems and sing loudly while doing chores had become a shadow. I no longer read my devotionals. I forgot how to laugh from my belly. I avoided mirrors. I avoided my own heart.

The breaking point came at my niece’s wedding.

He had been drinking since the morning. By afternoon, he was red-eyed and louder than usual. At the reception, I leaned in and whispered,

“Love, slow down on the alcohol, please.”

He grabbed my arm under the table and twisted it behind my back.

“Shut up,” he muttered. “Don’t embarrass me.”

No one noticed. He smiled, raised his glass for the camera, and even gave a toast. I smiled too, teeth clenched, arm throbbing.

That night, I locked myself in the bathroom and cried. I sat on the cold tiles, mascara running, lips trembling. My reflection in the mirror looked foreign—like a stranger wearing my skin.

I left three months later. Quietly, that’s how I survived – leaving an abusive partner before he took away what little I had left of myself.

It wasn’t a dramatic escape. No police sirens. No broken doors. Just a quiet departure. Me and my daughter, each with one bag. We slipped away while he was at work. I left my wedding ring on the kitchen counter beside a note:

“I’m done living a lie. Don’t look for us.”

Now, I live in a small bedroom apartment in Lagos with my sister. It’s not luxurious, but it’s safe. My daughter sleeps peacefully. She no longer wakes up crying at night. Sometimes she asks about her father. I tell her,

“Daddy has a sickness that makes him hurt people.”

She nods, then returns to her dolls. One day, I’ll tell her the full truth—when she’s ready.

Why I’m Sharing This

For the woman covering bruises with long sleeves in this heat.

For the one who thinks, “If I pray more, he’ll change.”

For anyone who believes abuse only happens to “other people”.

You are not alone.

If you’re in danger, call the Lagos Domestic Violence Hotline: 08000333333.

Save money secretly. Keep important documents with a trusted friend. Know your exit plan.

Because one day, you’ll look back and realise:

Leaving was the bravest thing you ever did. (Anonymous)

You Deserve Better – And You’re Not Alone

If this story touches you, please share it. Someone out there may be silently suffering and needs to know there’s a way out. Have you experienced something similar or know someone who has? Let’s break the silence together.

Leave a comment, share your thoughts or reach out anonymously here Your voice matters. Your healing matters. You matter.

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