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I Lost My Husband the Day We Arrived in Canada

I will never forget the call I had with my mother when I finally told her why I hadn’t updated her on our move to Canada. She had been calling, concerned that she hadn’t heard from me or Tunde since we had arrived. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to talk to her, but the truth was too heavy to share over the phone. I had no words to explain the void that had taken over my life.

“I lost my husband the day we arrived in Canada,” I told her. The words tumbled out, and I immediately regretted them, but they were true, more true than I was ready to admit. The man I married, the one who promised to love me, protect me, and cherish me in this new chapter of our life, was no longer the person I had hoped for. He was right there beside me—alive, breathing, eating, walking. But he wasn’t the man I knew.

It wasn’t death that took him away; no, that would have been easier to understand. It was something far more insidious—the pressure of the foreign world we had stepped into together, a world that had somehow changed him irreparably. The dream we had shared, the dream of a better life in Canada, had become a nightmare. I had spent years praying and saving for this moment. It was supposed to be our new beginning, the promise of a brighter future for our family. But the moment we arrived on Canadian soil, everything started to crumble.

We had been the perfect couple in Nigeria. Tunde, my husband, was successful. He had been a bank executive, a respected figure in the corporate world. He was a provider, a man who stood tall in a society that measured success by wealth and status. He was everything I had ever dreamed of, and he promised me the world. Our families were proud of us. We had made it. At least, that’s what we thought. But no one prepared us for the real battle: the battle against cultural shock, financial strain, and the erosion of identity that came with being an immigrant in a country that didn’t care about our past accomplishments.

When Tunde secured his Canadian visa, it felt like a dream come true. I could feel the excitement in the air, and we celebrated as if we had won the lottery. The idea of starting a new life, of being free from the constraints that had once held us back in Nigeria, was intoxicating. But once we landed, reality hit us like a ton of bricks. The bank executive who had once been an authority figure in his field now found himself searching for work in a foreign country where no one cared about his title. No one cared about his years of experience, his high-powered degree, or the respect he had earned back home.

At first, Tunde’s frustration was palpable. He would complain about the lack of opportunities and the menial jobs that were available to him. “I can’t be doing these menial jobs, Lara. Me, a whole branch manager, working in a warehouse? It’s embarrassing,” he would mutter angrily. He refused to accept any work that didn’t match his former status. I watched as he sank deeper into despair, unable to cope with the fact that his identity as a successful man had been stripped away.

I, on the other hand, couldn’t afford to wait. I took the first job that came my way—cleaning offices at night. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was something. I worked tirelessly, scrubbing floors and wiping down desks, while Tunde scrolled through job postings, rejecting everything that didn’t align with his idea of what he deserved. Every day, I watched him shrink further into bitterness, and every night, I worked harder, hoping that one day he would find a sense of purpose. But it never came.

It wasn’t long before the blame started. The frustration Tunde felt about his situation started to spill over into our marriage. “If you had just stayed home instead of insisting on coming here, we wouldn’t be suffering like this!” he shouted one evening after I had returned from another long night of cleaning. I was stunned. He was angry with me for wanting a better life, for wanting to build something new, for having the audacity to believe we could thrive here, together.

“You think you’re better than me now because you’re earning in dollars?” he spat, his voice dripping with resentment.

The emotional weight of his words crushed me. I was doing everything I could to make ends meet, and yet he made it seem like my efforts were somehow a betrayal. I had been trying to keep us afloat while he sat at home, waiting for a job that would never come. I didn’t know how to handle the growing gap between us, but I couldn’t stop trying. I thought that, somehow, things would get better, that the man I married—the loving, ambitious man who had fought so hard to give us a good life—would return to me.

But the cracks in our marriage were growing wider. His late nights out “networking” turned into something more sinister. I began to notice the small signs—the scent of alcohol on his breath, the faint trace of cheap perfume on his clothes. He had stopped explaining where he was going, stopped pretending to care about the home or the children. He wasn’t just physically absent; he had mentally checked out as well.

The first time I confronted him, he laughed it off, his response cutting deep: “Are you my mother?”

The second time I confronted him, he slapped me.

That was the day I realized the man I had married was gone. He was no longer the man I loved, and no amount of pleading, no amount of prayer, would bring him back.

The truth hit me like a cold slap. Tunde had found someone else. A younger woman, a fellow immigrant, but one who had adapted quickly to her new life. She was everything I wasn’t in his eyes. She had a car, a better job, and most importantly, she was free—free from the responsibilities of a wife, free from children, free to live a life without the complications of marriage. She had become his escape, the person he ran to when the weight of his failed dreams became too much to bear.

I confronted him, expecting at least a hint of shame, of regret. But he simply shrugged and said, “Lara, you’re stressing me. This is how things are here. Women abroad don’t disturb their husbands like this. You need to adjust.”

Adjust? Adjust to what? A marriage that had become a prison? A husband who no longer saw me as his partner, but as someone who stood in his way?

I tried. I tried to hold on, for the sake of my vows, for the sake of the children we had brought into this world. I prayed. I fasted. I begged. But the truth was, you cannot hold on to someone who has already let go. The man who once swore to love me through thick and thin had become a stranger, and no amount of love or patience could bring him back.

The final straw came when I discovered that he had stopped paying the rent. I had been sending him money every month, trusting that he would handle the bills while I focused on our savings. But instead, he had been spending that money on her, on the life he was building outside of our home. When the eviction notice arrived, he didn’t even pretend to care.

“You’re the one working, aren’t you? Fix it,” he told me coldly, as if it was my responsibility to clean up the mess he had made.

That was when I had had enough. That night, I packed his bags. When he came home, I pointed to the door.

“Leave, Tunde.”

For the first time in months, he looked shocked. “You can’t throw me out. I’m your husband!”

“No, Tunde. My husband is dead. You killed him.”

I will never forget the look in his eyes—the flicker of something I couldn’t quite name. Regret? Shame? Maybe. But it was too late. He had already abandoned me long before that night.

And so, he left. And I didn’t cry.

Because I had already mourned him long before that night.

So, if you ever dream of relocating, dream carefully. Because sometimes, the plane ticket isn’t just taking you to a new country—it’s taking your marriage to its grave.

Looking back, I realize now that we could have prepared better for what relocating would mean for our marriage. Moving abroad isn’t just about packing bags and catching flights. It’s about confronting the realities of a new life, a new culture, and the changes that come with them.

First, Tunde needed to be mentally prepared for the reality of starting over. Many Nigerian men struggle abroad because their sense of identity and respect is tied to their role as providers. When that status is stripped away, they feel lost. If Tunde had humbled himself and taken any job available, even if it wasn’t what he wanted, he would have found some sense of purpose. Instead, he sat idle, waiting for a miracle that never came.

Second, we should have communicated better. Marriage is a partnership, especially in a new country where both partners must adjust. If Tunde had seen me as his ally instead of his competition, we could have faced our struggles together, instead of allowing resentment to fester.

Finally, we should have set clear expectations. Relocating without discussing roles and responsibilities is a recipe for disaster. If we had discussed these things openly before moving, maybe we could have navigated the transition better.

Relocation doesn’t have to be the death of a marriage, but it requires humility, patience, and a willingness to adapt. Without those things, no matter how strong the love was at the beginning, the marriage may not survive the journey.

EXCERPT

That was what I told my mother when she asked why I hadn’t called to tell her we had settled in. It wasn’t that he had died—no, death would have been easier. He was right there, breathing, moving, eating. But the man I married, the one who promised to love and cherish me, had disappeared the moment we stepped foot on foreign soil.

It had always been our dream to relocate. Canada was the promised land, a place where we could build a better life for ourselves and our children. We spent years saving, applying, and praying for this moment. When my husband, Tunde, finally secured his visa, we celebrated like we had won the lottery.

“This is it, Lara! We’ve made it!” he had said, lifting me in his arms as we danced around our tiny living room in Lagos.

But no one warned me. No one told me that moving abroad was not just about packing bags and boarding a plane. No one told me that marriages were buried in the cold foreign soil, that the man you married in Nigeria could become unrecognizable within months.

It started with little things.

At first, Tunde was frustrated. Back home, he had been an executive at a bank, respected, admired. But in Canada, no one cared about his title. His degree meant nothing here. He was just another immigrant with no “Canadian experience.”

“I can’t be doing these menial jobs, Lara. Me, a whole branch manager, working in a warehouse? It’s embarrassing.”

So he sat at home, waiting for a miracle, while I took the first job I could find—cleaning offices at night. I worked like a machine, scrubbing floors while my husband scrolled endlessly through job postings, rejecting anything he thought was beneath him.

Then the blame started.

“If you had just stayed home instead of insisting on coming here, we wouldn’t be suffering like this!”

“You think you’re better than me now because you’re earning in dollars?”

When he wasn’t blaming me, he was out. At first, he said he was networking, meeting with “contacts.” Then, he stopped bothering with excuses. He would leave the house in the afternoon and return the next morning, smelling of alcohol and cheap perfume.

The first time I asked him where he had been, he laughed.

“Are you my mother?”

The second time, he slapped me.

That was the day I realized my husband was gone.

He stopped caring about the home. Bills were my problem. The children became my responsibility. He was just a guest in our house, showing up when he pleased, acting like we didn’t exist.

Then I found out about her.

A younger woman, a fellow immigrant, but one who had adapted quickly. She had a car, a better job, and most importantly, she had no responsibilities. No nagging wife, no crying children. Just fun and freedom.

I confronted him, hoping—foolishly—that he would deny it, that he would at least pretend to feel ashamed. But he just shrugged.

“Lara, you’re stressing me. This is how things are here. Women abroad don’t disturb their husbands like this. You need to adjust.”

Adjust?

To what? A marriage that had become a prison? A husband who had turned into a stranger?

I tried. For the sake of my vows, for the sake of the life we had built. I prayed. I fasted. I begged. But you cannot hold on to a man who has already let go.

The final straw came when I found out he had stopped paying rent. I had been sending him money every month, trusting him to take care of it while I focused on our savings. But he had been spending it elsewhere—on her.

When the eviction notice came, he didn’t even pretend to care.

“You’re the one working, aren’t you? Fix it.”

That night, I packed his bags. When he came home, I pointed to the door.

“Leave, Tunde.”

For the first time in months, he looked shocked.

“You can’t throw me out. I’m your husband!”

“No, Tunde. My husband is dead. You killed him.”

He stared at me, and for a moment, I saw something flicker in his eyes. Regret? Shame? Maybe. But it was too late.

He left. And I didn’t cry.

Because I had already mourned him long before that night.

So, if you ever dream of relocating, dream carefully.

Because sometimes, the plane ticket isn’t just taking you to a new country—it’s taking your marriage to its grave.

Looking back, I realize that things might have turned out differently if we had truly prepared for what relocation would mean for our marriage.

First, Tunde needed to be mentally prepared for the reality of starting over. Many Nigerian men struggle abroad because they are used to a system where their status as providers is tied to respect. When that status is stripped away, they feel lost and insecure. If he had humbled himself and taken whatever job was available, even if it wasn’t what he wanted, it would have kept him engaged and given him a sense of purpose.

Second, we should have prioritized communication and teamwork. Marriage is a partnership, especially in a new country where both partners must adjust. If Tunde had seen me as his ally instead of his competition, we could have faced our struggles together instead of allowing resentment to build between us.

And finally, we should have set clear expectations before we moved. Many couples relocate without discussing their roles, financial responsibilities, and the changes that might come with a new culture. If we had talked about these things openly before leaving Nigeria, maybe we would have been able to navigate the transition better.

Relocation doesn’t have to be the death of a marriage, but it requires humility, patience, and a willingness to adapt. Without those things, no matter how strong the love was at the beginning, the marriage may not survive the journey.

Source: Obiageli Juliana Okoro