For many Northern Nigerian Muslim women, marriage begins like a beautiful dream — the start of a new life, filled with the joy of companionship and the pride of running one’s own home. It is the moment a young woman finally becomes a wife, a homemaker, and, eventually, a mother. But what most do not realize is that once they cross that line, they can never truly return to the life they left behind.
Marriage changes everything. In her husband’s house, a woman learns to take charge — to make decisions, to give instructions, to manage both her home and her emotions. She becomes the center of a world that revolves around her. Yet, when that marriage ends, she discovers that the world she once called home — her parents’ house — is no longer hers.
The first shock comes when she returns home with her children. The house that used to feel spacious now seems too small to contain her, her children, and sometimes even the house help she brings along. She is no longer the daughter who once had her mother’s room to herself; now she must make do with a corner or a single room. She can no longer choose what to eat or when to cook. She has returned, but she no longer fits.
Then come the quiet questions that keep her awake at night — questions she wishes she had asked herself long before seeking divorce. If I leave my husband, who will I marry next? Will the next man accept me with my children? Even if he does, will their father allow me to take them into another man’s house? If he allows it, who will shoulder their daily expenses? Will my children ever accept a new man as their father? And if I leave them behind with their father, who will care for them when I am gone? Am I ready to live the rest of my life alone just to watch over them from afar?
These are not questions born of regret, but of reality. Many women find themselves trapped between two worlds — unable to fit into their parents’ home, yet unable to rebuild what they lost. Some eventually swallow their pride and go back to their husbands. Others, desperate to escape the inconvenience and humiliation of being dependents, hastily remarry the first man who comes along — not out of love, but out of desperation.
But that choice too often opens another chapter of pain. The new husband may not want her children with him. Her parents may not have the strength or space to raise them. The children’s father may refuse to take them back, or if he does, she may spend sleepless nights imagining that his new wife is mistreating them. Torn between guilt and helplessness, she realizes too late that the freedom she thought she was seeking has become a new form of captivity.
Her return also unsettles the delicate balance of her family home. She clashes easily with younger siblings who see her children as intruders. Sometimes, even her own mother becomes a source of tension — disagreements erupting over trivial issues, or over how her children should behave. The peaceful home she once longed for becomes a space of quiet resentment and discomfort.
None of this means that women should endure abuse or injustice in silence. Islam permits divorce when reconciliation fails, and sometimes separation is the only way to preserve one’s sanity or safety. But what this reality teaches is that divorce should not be an impulsive decision born of anger, pride, or hurt over matters that could be resolved with patience and understanding.
Marriage is not just about gaining a new home — it is also about losing the one you left behind forever. And when a woman walks out of her husband’s house without foresight, she may find that the freedom she sought comes with loneliness, restlessness, and regrets she never imagined.
So before walking away, every woman must pause and ask herself — not out of fear, but out of wisdom — what happens next? Because sometimes, saving a marriage is not only about holding on to a man, but about preserving one’s peace, dignity, and place in the world.