Torn between Ego and Igho

From the first moment I laid eyes on Ego, I knew without a doubt that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her. She was sitting behind me in a restaurant, her laughter ringing out like music. I found myself shamelessly eavesdropping on her conversation with her friends, drawn in by her charm, her way with words. I even chuckled at one of her jokes before I could stop myself.

On my way out, I stopped at her table, and introduced myself and we exchanged phone numbers. That night, I called her. We talked for two hours, lost in easy conversation. The next day, I called again. And again. Soon, Ego became a part of my everyday life. Six months later, I took her home to meet my father. I should have known it wouldn’t go well.

Ego, ever respectful, greeted him, “Daddy, migwo sir.” My father beamed, believing I had brought home an Urhobo girl. But Ego quickly corrected him. “I’m from Enugu State, sir.”

His smile faded instantly. My father had always been openly tribalistic and despite my hope that he had grown past it, that night proved otherwise. Dinner was uncomfortable. He threw passive-aggressive jabs at Ego throughout the evening, barely masking his disapproval. Ego excused herself politely, but I knew she was hurt.

Perhaps I should have taken it as a sign, a warning. But I loved Ego too much to let her go. And she loved me too. She made one thing clear—she did not want to come between me and my family. I reassured her that she wouldn’t have to. I promised to stand by her, to protect her always. And with that promise, she accepted my marriage proposal.

I adored my father. I honored him for raising me and my brothers as a single parent after my mother passed away. He had given us everything—our education, our first cars, our homes. But I loved Ego. I wasn’t going to let her go.
My older brothers tried to intervene, urging me to reconsider. They had both married Urhobo women, as was expected of them. They couldn’t understand why I was defying our father. But I stood my ground.

On the other hand, Ego’s family welcomed me warmly. Her father even gave me an Igbo name, a sign of full acceptance. The contrast between our families was stark, but we pressed on. Despite my family’s opposition, we got married.

For two blissful years, we built a life together. But then, the pressure began.

Ego struggled with hormonal imbalances, which delayed pregnancy. The doctors assured us that, in time, she would conceive. But my father and brothers weren’t willing to wait. The whispers became louder, the taunts sharper.
“Ejiro, an Urhobo girl would have filled your home with children by now,” they sneered behind her back.

One day, my brother Onome came to visit and made his usual snide remarks, this time, in Ego’s presence. She had endured their jabs for too long but that day, she snapped. She met his insults with equal fire, refusing to cower.
Onome, a titled chief, felt deeply disrespected. The argument escalated. I tried to calm him, fearing for his health because his blood pressure had been a long-standing concern but he refused to listen. Furious, he grabbed his phone and stormed out, sending a voice note to our family’s WhatsApp group, screaming that Ego had threatened him to deal with him.

Two hours later, my other brother, Efe, called me. Onome had collapsed upon reaching home. He was rushed to the hospital. He didn’t make it.

The blame fell squarely on Ego. His voice note spread like wildfire among our extended family, fueling their resentment. They called her a murderer.

I knew the truth. I knew she had done nothing wrong. I had sworn to stand by her. But it was my word against my entire family. They gave me an ultimatum—divorce Ego after Onome’s funeral, or lose them forever.

I was drowning in grief, torn apart by guilt and pressure. I had lost a brother. I wasn’t ready to lose my entire family, too. So, I caved. I told my wife, the woman I swore to love and protect to leave. She didn’t argue. Didn’t cry. She simply gathered her things, leaving behind the home we had built together. But I saw it in her eyes. The pain. The betrayal. And then, she was gone.

That was the last I ever saw of Ego. It was as if she vanished into thin air.

A year later, I married Igho—the woman my family had chosen for me. She was everything they wanted. But she was my worst nightmare. The things I have endured in this short marriage, my lips dare not speak. I am a broken, frustrated, and deeply unhappy man.

Then, one day, Ego resurfaced. After months of silence, she returned to social media and she was breathtaking. She had completely transformed. A new image. Two additional degrees. A flourishing career. Her best revenge was becoming the best version of herself. And I? I was nothing but a fool who let her go. I stalk her profile endlessly, desperate for a glimpse into the life I should have fought for. She wears no wedding rings but I cannot tell if she has remarried. I doubt if she has.

Every day, I hover over the “message” button, wondering if I should reach out. Tell her the truth. Tell her how much I miss her. Tell her that I made a mistake and I still love her.

What do you think? Should I send that message?