I was looking for stories about relationships that left people to pick up the pieces alone when I came across *Monsurat, 49.
In this story, she shares how a quiet office romance turned into a life-changing betrayal, how she discovered her colleague had a hidden family, and what it’s like raising a child alone while still sharing an office space with the man who refuses to acknowledge either of them.
This is Monsurat’s story as told to Adeyinka
At 49, I’ve never been married, though I came close three times. Each man promised to “come and see” my people when he got promoted, built his house, or found whatever milestone he was chasing. The milestones arrived; the men didn’t. By the time I met *Hakeem in 2009, I no longer entertained fantasies of a grand wedding party. I only wanted someone who wouldn’t abandon me halfway; someone I could do life with.
Hakeem arrived after a routine interstate transfer from Ogun to Lagos. He was polite, softly voiced, with a work ethic that our directors praised. We began as casual colleagues, sharing walks to the bus stop, swapping news about poor salaries, and helping each other with overwhelming tasks. The friendship developed even though we weren’t actively trying to cultivate one — it just happened. He presented himself as single, living with cousins in Surulere while saving for a flat. Soon, our office lunches stretched into Saturday visits. He met my siblings; I met a grand aunt of his who lived in Lagos, and she was really pleasant. Nobody raised a red flag.
We kept the relationship discreet, even though some colleagues could tell we had something going on. By our second year together, everyone had quietly accepted that “Monsurat and Hakeem” were an item. When I became pregnant, congratulations came from everywhere. It was jarring because we tried to keep our business lowkey.
During the pregnancy, Hakeem remained calm. He bought everything I needed, escorted me to clinic visits, and I was glad I wasn’t experiencing the journey alone. I asked about formalising our union before the baby arrived, but he said his finances couldn’t accommodate a wedding ceremony and plans for childbirth at the same time. “Give me time,” he repeated, and even though I didn’t like the idea of having my first child out of wedlock, I believed in him. Time passed; my due date drew near. Still no flat, no introduction ceremony—only more visits to my one‑bedroom apartment, after which he’d return to his unseen Surulere house.
Our baby finally arrived in November 2011. Hakeem stood by, signing forms, paying part of the bill, smiling like a man satisfied with God’s mercy. During the naming, my mother joked about picking aso-ebi for our wedding soon. He offered no answer, only smiled and kept it moving.
A month later, urgent work became Hakeem’s everyday story. Calls rang unanswered. Weekends passed without visits. When I pressed, he blamed technical training, then distant relatives, then a financial audit that required travel. Two months into my maternity leave, I saw him three times. Each visit ended quickly because the baby developed a sudden fever and a cry that wouldn’t stop until Hakeem stepped outside. The first few times, we blamed the heat. Then, later, we chalked it up to baby tantrums. By the fourth month, my mother said, “There is something spiritual here.” But I dismissed her concerns and told her babies react to unfamiliar scents, nothing more.
Then, one random Saturday morning, I got a surprise visit. Two women stood in matching hijabs. The elder introduced herself as Hakeem’s wife; the other was her younger sister. They spoke softly, eyes downcast. Hakeem, they said, had three children. He’d requested the Lagos transfer to escape responsibilities he’d fallen behind on — school fees, rent, and family expectations. They weren’t here to fight me, they said; only to clear confusion before it destroyed more people.
When they left, the silence in my room felt like a verdict. I counted the signs I’d ignored: his reluctance to show me where he lived, the excuses about money, the cousins I met only in open places. If betrayal had a taste, it would be the dryness in my mouth that afternoon.
Hakeem returned two days later. I told him his wife had visited. He sighed, as if relief and regret shared the same breath, and admitted the truth. He said he didn’t know how to confess once I’d conceived. He claimed he loved me, begged me to be patient until he “sorted things out.” I asked what there was to sort besides honesty. He had no answer. Voices rose; the baby cried nonstop for hours, and Hakeem left before dusk.
After that, each time he visited, our son would wail, develop a fever, and settle only when Hakeem left. A doctor found nothing wrong. Family called it spiritual; Hakeem called it proof that the child wasn’t his. Soon, he stopped showing up altogether.
At work, we became strangers. One of my bosses, who was aware of our situation, once pulled us aside to discuss “domestic tension”. I requested a desk transfer to another floor, and once I realised he wasn’t willing to take any responsibility for the child, I filed internal welfare letters asking Hakeem to contribute to childcare. He ignored them.
The entire time, his grandaunt and other relatives I had met begged me to exercise patience. According to them, whatever was happening was spiritually orchestrated, and even though they didn’t say it outright, they insinuated Hakeem’s first wife was responsible.
The back and forth between families and the welfare department at work took months, with my mental health completely shattered while at it. I couldn’t understand how this man, who seemed like the best of them, suddenly turned into a stranger. Sometimes, I tell myself it would have been better if he had refused responsibility for the pregnancy and prepared me enough for what the future would look like. But that wasn’t the case. Hakeem held my hands throughout my pregnancy, all the way up to the moment we welcomed our child. It only went downhill after the baby arrived.
Before our baby turned three, he tried to make amends by taking responsibility. At that point, I didn’t want anything to do with him; I just needed him to be a father to our child. But whenever he showed up, everything went wrong with our child. Screams, rising temperatures, seizures, even. It was exhausting, yet the perfect excuse for Hakeem to keep his distance.
The baby’s distress eased when he turned four, but that was mainly because Hakeem never showed up again. Family friends said the crying proved that the first wife had “done something.” I refused that line of thought, though on restless nights I wondered: why did my son sense what I failed to?
At work, Hakeem and I interact like strangers: a nod, nothing more. I requested a transfer to a unit on a different floor; HR approved it quietly. Hakeem takes leave every few months. There are times I’ve assumed his unexplained absence means he quit, but we’re government workers. You don’t just up and quit because you feel like it. Whenever payroll officers suggested deducting child support, Hakeem cited multiple dependents and presented receipts from his first family. I could have pushed harder, but I didn’t have the fight in me.
Our child turns 14 this year, and he knows his father’s face only from a photograph taken at the naming. He once asked, “Does he live far away?” I said, “Far enough.” He didn’t press.
In quiet moments, I remember how Hakeem’s relatives in Lagos referred to me as “our wife.” They saw the truth and withheld it. I wonder whether loyalty to blood outweighs loyalty to justice. Then I pack the thought away; bitterness is a tax I can’t afford.
Hakeem still clocks in at work, although he’s worked his way to another branch within the state. We often cross paths at general meetings and conferences, but we tend to pass each other by and avoid contact. I still do my work, then go home to the only person whose love hasn’t wavered. Some may call this a resignation. I call it choosing the fight I can win: raising a boy to be nothing like his father.
When colleagues gossip, I adjust my glasses and keep typing. My story is simple: I trusted someone who lied, and I am living with the consequences.
But I am still living, still working, still saving, still laughing when my son brings home 95 per cent in mathematics. Some nights I pray, “God, may he never inherit his father’s trait.” Other nights, I’m tempted to call Hakeem and lash out.
But my mum would always say, “At least the relationship bore fruit.” That, for now, is enough to keep me going.
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