True Confession: My husband did not kill him, he killed himself…

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I don’t know whether you will be willing to publish this story on your True Confession column, considering that it doesn’t have so much to say about love and sex. My own story is hardcore, and I pray you find me a little space to have it published just for the sake of my children. They want their father back!

I know that by the time I’m done with this story, mouth will go agape, and those concerned will know the truth they never wished to know. Of course they wouldn’t want to hear this kind of story when they have already thrown him into jail just to rotten away. All I know is that one day, my husband will return and the truth will be revealed, no matter the number of years it takes.

As I look straight towards my ceiling fan, all I see is an empty space, and just the fan oscillating above my head. The usual laughter and joy that had characterized my home, I mean our home years past have suddenly disappeared to nowhere in particular. Yes, my husband’s voice has gone silence. That lively man! No… he is not dead. He is only gnashing innocently in pain and in solitary confinement. The lawyer-liar told me the last time he went visiting that he has changed- my husband is suffering. I do not want to go to that prison for a visit again. I do not want to see him in that self-contained dungeon again; I want to hold back my tears. I do not want it to stream uncontrollably like an ever-flowing river again. Let me remain here melancholic. However, I know that one day, someday, his innocence will vindicate him; that is the only truth I know now.

I am from Cross Rivers State, and a mother of 2. I have been married for over 10 years. I had lived peacefully and happily with my husband since we got married until everything turned sour one Sunday morning.

I remember the question those lawyers asked; “was your husband truly having a squabble to settle with his late brother John before he died?” and I replied in affirmation, yes! That was one of the things used against him.

Of course, my husband had a serious dispute with his stepbrother John, prior to the incident. While we live in Calabar, John lived in the village. He had settled down in the village and had taken over their father’s land. When it was time for my husband to erect few blocks in the village for a family house, John who was his younger brother had insisted on a particular land, which my husband had considered water-lodged and not good enough for any kind of building. He had moved to build the house where he thought was strategic and better for that kind of edifice he wanted to put up; but when my husband returned few weeks after blocks had been laid up to the lintel level, we got a call from the village that the structure had been reduced to just debris.

John had mobilized some boys to the site, and nothing, I mean not even a single block was left standing. My husband, as quiet and peaceful as he was quietly took the case to the family elders who had fined john for his inhumane act. They had asked John to pay for the demolition, but my husband insisted that the millions he invested in the house should be forgotten, as he promised to commence work again on the site. I was particularly not happy with his decision, but I’m only a woman and there was really not much I could do to change his decision, after all, I may be called the devil’s advocate.

Few months after work had commenced on the site again, tragedy struck. We were dead asleep one Saturday night. Power had fluctuated and we all went to sleep as early as 11pm. It was around 12am, when we heard a knock on the door. My husband had asked who the person was, but no reply was coming from the other side of the door.

The person remained mum as goose pimples ran through my spine. My heart ached as if it was going to jump through my mouth. “But, who could that be?” My husband had asked no one in particular. The knock continued on the door, but this time it was heavier. Then my husband quietly went into the bedroom and returned with a small gun. I never knew he had a gun. I was terribly afraid. I told him to take the gun back to the room as I saw that his hands were obviously shaking. However, at that moment, the bang ceased.

He drew the window blinds and did not see anything. It was very dark, I mean tick-dark; only the tick–tack of the clock could be heard, as everywhere was quiet. We then gathered courage and went back to sleep. Nevertheless, my husband did not return the gun to where he got it from. He dropped it on the floor in our bedroom just in case the supposed thief returns.

Like a flight from Abuja to Lagos, we had woken to the break of another day, but because we had a stressful night, we woke up very late as well. When we opened our door, behold people had gathered in front of our house. We could not believe our eyes when we saw my husband’s stepbrother on the ground in the pool of his own blood. The guy was shot. Before we could get out of the shock, some team of police officers had arrived to inspect our house, and of course, my husband’s gun was one of weapons recovered from the room. With the circumstances, my husband had pleaded guilty to the charges brought against him, and has since been sentenced. He told me that with the circumstances, there is nothing he would have done to convince people that he was not the one killed John.

It pains me to the bone that my husband is going through hell for what he knows nothing about. What can I do in this case for people to believe that my husband did not kill his brother? I need you to guide me on this matter because I want him out. His children want him out. Who do think killed John? Who can we go after? Who will take this cup away from my husband, my children and myself.

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