The betrayal that almost killed me wasn’t just about love. It was about dignity, pride, and the shame of watching the woman I called wife choose another man right in front of my eyes.

It started like a normal fight. She complained of bills, of how life was hard, of how she was “tired of struggling.” I thought it was just frustration. But the truth cut deeper: she already had another man. And not just any man, a mzungu.

One Saturday, she packed her bags while I watched helplessly. She didn’t even hide it. She kissed my children goodbye and told me coldly: “You can’t give me the life I deserve. Stop dragging me down.” Then, in broad daylight, she walked out of our compound and entered the white man’s car.

Neighbors whispered. Others shook their heads in pity. My phone blew up with screenshots from friends, photos of her drinking wine in five-star hotels, shopping in malls, and smiling in designer clothes. The same woman who once said she would love me for better for worse, now called me “a failure.”

That moment broke me.

I stopped eating. I stopped sleeping. Depression wrapped itself around me like a snake. Even at work, I couldn’t focus. My children saw a father who was only alive physically but dead inside. I took them to my mother for a while. It was torture knowing that while I sat in my empty house, she was out there living her “dream life.” to read more click here