Chapter 6: The Man With Promises
Some men don't come to love you. They come to consume you and call it love.
The note haunted her.
"Be careful. That man is not who you think he is."
Ezinne read it every night for a week, folding and unfolding it until the edges frayed. Her heart told her to ask questions. Her head told her to run. But her soul—tired and starved for affection—kept whispering:
"What if it's not true?"
Because Chike was still kind. Still helpful. Still gentle.
Too gentle.
He didn't react when she grew distant. Didn't push when she didn't speak much. Instead, he gave her space... and then filled that space with quiet gifts.
A bag of rice.
New slippers for Chibuikem.
Phone recharge cards.
"Nothing serious," he'd say with a smile. "You deserve more."
And just like that, the fear began to fade again.
The loneliness won.
She let him in.
They began to spend more time together.
Evenings were filled with shared stories, cups of garri, soft laughter over mosquito bites. He talked about wanting to start over. About his past carefully edited.
"I've been hurt too," he'd say. "Women have used me. Cheated. Lied. I'm just looking for someone simple… someone real."
And Ezinne—barefaced, broken, and burdened—felt flattered to be called "real."
He made her feel chosen.
Valued.
Seen.
And so, when he asked her to be with him—truly—she said yes.
With trembling hands, unsure feet, but a heart desperate to believe she could be loved again....she said yes.
The first few months were peaceful.
He moved in.
They lived like a small family—Ezinne, Chike, and little Chibuikem.
She cooked. He brought home groceries. She worked. He waited.
And slowly, quietly, things began to change.
Not with fists.
Not with screams.
But with questions.
"You're going to school again on Saturday? Who will watch the baby?"
"You didn't cook before I came back… is that how a good woman behaves?"
"You were laughing with that male teacher too much. Be careful."
And when she tried to speak back
"I'm only trying to protect you. Or do you want me to leave? After all I've done?"
She apologized.
Again.
And again.
It wasn't long before he stopped working.
He said he was "taking time to sort things out."
But months passed, and he never sorted anything.
Ezinne became the sole provider—teaching tiny children from dawn to dusk, only to come home and be told:
"You're not doing enough."
And when she asked why he didn't help, he simply said:
"Isn't this what love is? Sacrifice?"
One day, she got home late—rain had held her back.
He was waiting at the door.
Silent.
His eyes were cold.
"Where have you been?" he asked.
"School. You know..."
A slap.
Sharp.
Fast.
The room spun.
Her knees hit the floor.
Her child cried in the corner.
She stared at the floor, heart pounding, cheek burning.
And Chike? He knelt beside her, held her like a broken doll.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I just love you so much. Don't make me worry like that again."
And just like that she found herself whispering back:
"I'm sorry too."
That was the beginning of many nights like that.
He'd hurt her then hug her.
Insult her then praise her.
Shut her down then say, "I can't live without you."
It was like being trapped in a room with no windows—only mirrors that showed her uglier every day.
He didn't like her seeing friends.
He didn't like her reading books.
He didn't like her going anywhere without asking him first.
"You're mine," he said once, voice flat. "Not theirs. Not the world's. Mine."
And she nodded,