The moment the clippers buzzed against my scalp, I felt a profound solidarity. My husband, Obinna, had cancer, and I would wear the visible sign of his struggle with him. That shaved head was a vow, a promise that we were in this fight together. The fight, he said, required fifteen million naira for treatment in India. So, I fought with the only weapons I had: my livelihood and my credit. I sold my successful catering business. I parted with family gold. I pledged my father’s house. I transformed every asset into a pile of cash, which I placed in his hands with trembling hope. He called me his angel and left for his miracle.
The months that followed were a slow unraveling. The video calls stopped. The hospital had no record of him. My world became a waiting room with no doctor. The answer finally arrived on a hot afternoon, not in a medical report, but in the sight of my husband, vibrantly alive, escorting a pregnant woman from a car worth more than my former life. The explanation was clinical. No cancer. A failed business. A necessary “strategy” to secure funds from his too-cautious wife. My epic sacrifice was merely his seed capital for a new marriage and new connections. He tossed some money at my feet like alms for a beggar and vanished.
In the six months since, I have rebuilt from less than nothing, nurturing my children and repaying debts under the shadow of his betrayal. My hair grows back slowly, a daily reminder. Now, the glittering world he bought into has collapsed. His father-in-law is disgraced, his wife has left, and Obinna is suddenly repentant, seeking shelter in the home he bankrupted. The pressure to forgive is immense, framed as Christian duty and maternal sacrifice. But I have sacrificed enough. I sacrificed for a ghost of a marriage. To welcome him back would not be forgiveness; it would be self-erasure. The woman who shaved her head for love is gone. The woman who remains has learned that the most important solidarity is with oneself.
