₦airaland Forum

*"I Lost My Husband the Day We Arrived In Canada."*

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 the 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, and 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.

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#AbroadLife #ForeignLand #Foreigners
#FBLifestyle

The relocation is not what killed the marriage. It was just a trigger to the traits that killed the marriage.

I say this because if he had lost his job in Nigeria and you became the breadwinner the same way it happened abroad, he would have changed his attitude the same way he did abroad.

Makavelli001:
...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....Second, we should have prioritized communication and teamwork.
Marriage is a partnership, especially in a new country where both partners must adjust...

Nigerians and shifting of blame are like Siamese twins— inseparable! 🥱🥱🥱🥱

Lie full your mouth.

If he was whatever back home, he would become the post again in Canada. All it takes is a year or seventeen months of menial labour. Who are these children hired to soil the idea of escaping the country? In developed nations, you will spend your youthful years working. That is why they start as early as sixteen. Our “youthful years” here start at thirty or a little later. That is why we work into our fifties and sometimes sixties. If he tire to stay Canada, make he recommend me to come over.

Here I was thinking the story was about him discovering how to groom himself and start looking outside for pleasure. That is another angle which happens to Nigerian men.

Makavelli001:
*"I Lost My Husband the Day We Arrived In Canada."*

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 the 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, and 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.

Copied

#AbroadLife #ForeignLand #Foreigners
#FBLifestyle

Story story story, once upon a time .........

kpankpangolo:
Lie full your mouth.

If he was whatever back home, he would become the post again in Canada. All it takes is a year or seventeen months of menial labour. Who are these children hired to soil the idea of escaping the country? In developed nations, you will spend your youthful years working. That is why they start as early as sixteen. Our “youthful years” here start at thirty or a little later. That is why we work into our fifties and sometimes sixties. If he tire to stay Canada, make he recommend me to come over.

Here I was thinking the story was about him discovering how to groom himself and start looking outside for pleasure. That is another angle which happens to Nigerian men.

From the story, the guy wasn't ready to do the "menial labour" to start with. Did you read or miss that?

Let me listen to broda Tunde’s side of the story before I conclude because you might shift blames just to get us to sympathize with you and crucify broda Tunde meanwhile you’re already entertaining and flirting with Mr Ron at your place of work🤔
🚶‍♂️

Hence my recommendation if “he should come back and recommend me for the job.”

webincomeplus:
From the story, the guy wasn't ready to do the "menial labour" to start with. Did you read or miss that?

Makavelli001:
*"I Lost My Husband the Day We Arrived In Canada."*

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 the 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, and 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.

Copied

#AbroadLife #ForeignLand #Foreigners
#FBLifestyle

It wasn’t strong love — it was strong passion, and passion is temporary.
Your husband — your ex-husband — was, above all, a lazy and inferior man.
A man weak in character.
This has nothing to do with Canada.
He was the same in Nigeria.
Canada only sped up the process of decay and revealed the truth.

I don’t judge you for making the wrong choice. It happens.
It happened to me too.
You gave everything you could.
He gave nothing.

I congratulate you on having the strength to cut it off.
I dragged it on for a long time and endured it until my children grew up.
Only then did I do what you did.

Fake stories

Fake story


Same Tunde in the HIV thread that made FP


Hahaha

On this issue, I would love to hear from the guy 100%; something tells me I will believe him. Some strange thing happen to a specie of humans when they feel empowered...those that have helped them hitherto become nothing!

Until we hear from Tunde, case is adjourned.

So, he was sent packing because an eviction notice came? That was the part that was needed to show that this woman is a bloody liar. She only let him go because she became the breadwinner. If he hadn't been remitting rent, why was she sending funds to him and not making payments?

There is a big loophole in the story and the woman has failed to say the complete truth.