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.

Racoon:
Reality or fiction? Life in the mirrors. Actually JAPA have turned out to be the worst nightmare for many immigrants.

Laird:
Your husbamd slapped You in Canada, a western country

This sounds so fake

CA police are wizards to know what happened without the woman make complaints

muyico:
Let me hears Tunde side too?

Racoon:
Reality or fiction? Life in the mirrors. Actually JAPA have turned out to be the worst nightmare for many immigrants.

dalongjnr:
Truly, this is apt 👌.
The wild, wild west of the western life is not a joke.
The west is a leveller.
Many are hooked to drugs and other vices for escapism.

englishmart:
My own case is quite the opposite. I lost my Canada the day I met my girlfriend