My name is Isabella, and for 15 long years after my painful divorce at 25, I had convinced myself that love was no longer part of God’s plan for me. I threw myself into my teaching job in Abuja, raised my two children alone, attended church faithfully, and built a quiet, respectable life. At 40, I had accepted my fate — single, stable, and safe.
Then Alhaji Isa walked into my world like a dream I didn’t know I was still allowed to have.
We met at a friend’s wedding in Kaduna. He was tall, impeccably dressed in his flowing white babban riga, with a gentle smile and eyes that seemed to carry the wisdom of ages. A successful businessman from Kano, Alhaji Isa was 52, widowed, and spoke with such warmth and respect that my guarded heart began to melt. He listened when I talked about my children. He prayed with me. He sent thoughtful gifts — not flashy, but meaningful: a beautiful Quran with my name embroidered, groceries for my home, and plane tickets so my children could visit their grandparents.
For the first time in years, I felt seen. Desired. Cherished.
Within two weeks, he had convinced me to visit his beautiful mansion in Kano. “I want you to see the life I’m building for us,” he said softly. Everything was perfect. His children (all grown and abroad) welcomed me warmly. The house help treated me like royalty. We prayed together five times a day. He even started calling my children “my own.” I thought I had finally found the man God had kept for me after all the years of loneliness.
Exactly one month after we met, I moved some of my things to Kano. My friends warned me it was too soon, but I was in love. Head over heels. I believed this was my reward for patience.
Then came the night that shattered everything.
It was a quiet Tuesday evening. Alhaji Isa had travelled to Lagos for a business meeting, or so he said. I was arranging things in the master bedroom when I decided to organise his large wardrobe. That was when I found the box — tucked deep behind his designer agbadas. Inside were photographs. Not of his late wife, but of **seven different women**. Beautiful women. Some younger than me. All smiling beside him in the same poses he had taken with me — at the same restaurants, the same resorts, even wearing similar jewellery he had given me.
My hands trembled as I went through them. Each photo had dates written at the back. The most recent one was just three months before he met me. Her name was Fatima, and she had written a love note on the back: “My husband forever.”
But that wasn’t the worst part.
At the bottom of the box was a small notebook. In Alhaji Isa’s handwriting were lists — names of women, dates he met them, amounts he spent on each, and notes like “promising,” “too demanding,” or “ready to move in.” My name was there. Next to it he had written: “Mature, independent, has own money — perfect for settling down. Handle with care.”
I felt my stomach turn. The man who had quoted scriptures to me, who had wiped my tears when I told him about my failed marriage, who had promised me a peaceful home… was running a well-oiled rotation of women. I was just the latest “settling down” candidate.
That same night, while he was still in Lagos, I packed the few things I had brought. My hands were shaking so badly I could barely zip the bag. I left the photos and notebook exactly as I found them — but I took one picture of myself smiling beside him. A reminder of how blind I had been.
I called my son at midnight and asked him to pick me up from the park where I waited till dawn. When Alhaji Isa returned the next day and found me gone, he called over a hundred times. Sweet messages at first. Then threats. Then tears. “Isabella, you are the only one who truly understands me,” he pleaded.
I never picked up.
Today, at 41, I am back in my small apartment in Abuja. My heart is bruised, but my eyes are wide open. I learnt the hardest way that sometimes the man who seems too perfect is only perfect at hiding his darkness.
Ladies, especially my sisters above 35 who have waited patiently — please be careful. Not every gentle voice is from God. Some are just well-rehearsed lines from experienced players.
I ran back home with nothing but my dignity and a broken heart… but I also ran back with my peace. And that, no Alhaji can ever take away again.
What would you have done if you were in my shoes? Have you ever experienced a love that turned out to be a well-planned illusion? Share your thoughts and experiences in the comment section.
Source: Original This story is inspired by the real experiences of our readers. We believe that every story carries a lesson that can bring light to others. To protect everyone’s privacy, our editors may change names, locations, and certain details while keeping the heart of the story true. Images are for illustration only. If you’d like to share your own experience, please contact us via email.
