
Cheers to 2025
Every New Year holds promise, as though it is any different from the turn of
““But the husband cannot be guilty of a rape committed by himself upon his lawful wife, for by their mutual matrimonial consent and contract the wife hath given herself up in this kind unto her husband which she cannot retract.”
Sir Matthew Hale; History of the Pleas of the Crown (1736),
“He raped me” was the first word Salewa managed to utter in between her sobs. Thick clear fluid left a fading trail as it slithered down her nostrils along the corner of her lips, just as waves and waves of convulsive gasp shook her body in a crying fit.
She managed to dab her slightly wet handkerchief over her lips, but rather than clean the trail, it smudged it into a drying patch.
She had been crying, from the moment Angela walked into her office, despondently that morning.
“Who?” Angela looked into her eyes in shock.
“He raped me”
In Angela’s book, rape was the worst act of violence to the body and soul of the victim, to their spirit, to their enduring sense of self-worth and esteem. She had suffered rape while she was a young teenager, and it was nothing but pure evil.
“Do you want me to call the police?”
“I don’t know?”
“How do you mean, you don’t know?” Angela snapped back; her irritation written like a banner on her face as she probed further.
“How hurt are you, my Salewa? You know you can confide in me. I want to help you through this” Angela pulled her friend closer to provide some comfort, but she resisted the warmth.
From nowhere came the sound of Salewa’s ringback tone, piercing the melancholic mood in her office; shrill and loud shattering the quiet.
Salewa shot her iPhone screen an ominous look, just as instant fright crept into every contour on her face. Angela rolled her eyes away from her friends face to discern the name emblazoned on the screen. It read “My love”
Angela looked back up to see her friend erupt into another crying fit as she made no attempt to answer the call.
Angela wasn’t sure what to make of the unfolding scene and was starting to really worry about her friend’s mental health.
“Don’t you think you should tell him about it?” Angela felt helpless, her friend gave her nothing to work with, and so it felt like she was throwing darts in the dark. She still had no clue who raped her and why she wouldn’t speak to her husband.
“Do you want me to speak to him on your behalf” Angela suggested.
“No” Salewa snapped as she snatched the iPhone off the table before Angela could muster the strength in her muscles to pick up the handset.
Angela watched in horror as her face distorted into a sudden understanding of the weirdness of the situation.
“He raped you?” her eyes wide open in shock, as she got up from the table she sat on.
With eyes closed Angela grimaced “How does that even happen?”
“I told him I didn’t want to. I wasn’t in the mood for it, but he wouldn’t listen. He violated my body” Salewa spoke with her head bowed as she fondled the phone in her hands.
“is this the first time he has done this to you?”
“No. this is the third time. He would apologize after each time”
“This is so wrong. Don’t you think WE should report to the police?”
“Police!” Salewa let out a condescending sneer. “And what would the police do?”
Her rhetorical question hung in the office air like a stubborn fart.
Salewa shot up from her chair and walked to the bookshelf hanging on the wall beside her desk.
Reading from a one of the bookmarked journals aloud, and in between dying waves of her sobs, she recited “Marital rape is not an offence in Nigeria. A husband cannot rape his wife. It is assumed that the wife gives implied general consent to sexual intercourse with her husband upon entering the marriage contract”
She paused for effect.
“Section 6 of the Criminal Code defines unlawful carnal knowledge as that which takes place otherwise than between husband and wife; and the offence is complete upon penetration.”
“How then do we explain this?” Angela wondered. “If you don’t give your consent, it has to be rape, irrespective of who the person is!” She declared.
“That would seem logical” Salewa agreed.
Animated, Salewa picks up another journal and reads from one of the bookmarked pages. She had obviously been doing a lot of studying.
“In the Penal Code, Section 281(1) provides that: A man is said to commit rape who… has sexual intercourse with a woman in any of the following circumstances – (a) against her will; (b) without her consent; (c) with her consent, when her consent has been obtained by putting her in fear of death or of hurt; (d) with her consent, when the man knows that he is not her husband and that her consent is given because she believes that he is another man to whom she is or believes herself to be lawfully married; (e) with or without her consent, when she is under fourteen years of age or of unsound mind.”
Angela watched as she paced the room from one corner of the office to the other without taking her eyes from the book she read from.
“Angela, I didn’t give my consent. I told him NO several times, yet he abused my body sexually and has eroded my self-esteem” She starts to sob again.
“He must pay for this” She concluded.
Angela sighed deeply, confused and in deep thoughts.
“How about we seek help from marriage counselors or psychiatrists? There must be something we can do about this’
Salewa shook her head rigorously as she walked over to where Angela was standing by the desk.
“Let me tell you our story, perhaps it would become clearer what we must do. Here, sit down”
*******************
Please click here to continue the story

Every New Year holds promise, as though it is any different from the turn of

In an era that increasingly demands hyper-specialization, Akin Akingbogun stands out as a refreshing anomaly. He is a man who refuses to be confined to a single box.

There is a particular kind of silence that falls on a man when the phone stops ringing, the proposals go unanswered, and the diary that once groaned under the weight of appointments sits quietly — almost mockingly — open. If you have ever been there, you know it.

Let me tell you something uncomfortable: the most generous person you know — the one who volunteers every weekend, donates quietly, never asks for anything in return — is probably getting something out of it. Not money. Maybe not even recognition. But something.

Adaeze had been awake since 4 a.m.
Not because she was anxious — though she was — but because this trip felt different. After eighteen months of follow-ups, phone calls, and PowerPoint presentations polished to a mirror shine, the deal was finally ready to close. An investor meeting in Abuja. A partnership that would change the trajectory of her small but gutsy consulting firm. She had triple-checked her flight, her documents, her outfit. She had prayed. She was ready.

When he told his father, Dare’s first response was a sigh. Then: “I told you to practice more. I told you months ago. You don’t listen. You never listen.”
There was no “I’m sorry, son.” No pause to let the boy simply feel the loss of the thing he wanted. Just a swift, seamless pivot to what Temi had done wrong — and, by extension, how Temi’s failure was evidence of Temi’s failure to take his father’s wisdom seriously.

I want to tell you something that took me embarrassingly long to learn. Not because the idea is complicated — it is not. But because it cuts against something deeply wired in us, something we are rarely honest enough to admit.

You are somewhere between forty and fifty-five. You looked in the mirror recently and had a thought you immediately dismissed. Maybe you googled something at 2am that you would never say out loud. Maybe you bought something expensive and impractical and told everyone it was an investment. Or maybe you just feel — quietly, persistently — like the life you built was supposed to feel better than this by now.

Anton Chekhov was a Russian physician and playwright — a man trained in the discipline of diagnosis before he became one of the most precise storytellers in the history of world literature. That combination of sensibilities matters, because the principle he articulated in the late nineteenth century was not merely a rule of dramatic craft. It was an observation about the nature of significance itself. About what it means for something to be present. About the relationship between introduction and consequence.

There is a prison that has no concrete walls, no iron bars, no guards posted at the gate. Nobody built it for you. Nobody sentenced you to it. And yet, for many people, it is the place they spend the better part of their lives — circling its perimeter, brushing their fingers against its invisible boundaries, and quietly retreating each time they feel the edge of something that might require more of them than they believe they can give.

Picture a hand holding sand. The tighter the grip, the faster the grains escape between the fingers. Ease the grip — open the palm, allow the hand to become a vessel rather than a vice — and the sand stays. This is one of the oldest paradoxes of leadership, and one of the least learned: that control, pursued too aggressively, produces the very loss of control it was designed to prevent.

There is a version of ambition that builds. And there is a version of ambition that consumes. From a distance — and especially from inside it — they look almost identical. Both are energetic. Both are forward-moving. Both speak the language of vision and possibility. The difference only becomes visible later, usually at the point of fracture, when what was built begins to come apart under the weight of what was promised.

There is a particular kind of organisational absurdity that most people who have ever worked in a company will recognise immediately. It is the policy that was clearly designed by someone who has never had to implement it. The restructuring that looked elegant on a slide deck and chaotic on the ground. The customer-facing process that was overhauled by a committee that has not spoken to a customer in years. The directive that arrives from above, fully formed and non-negotiable, that causes the people closest to the work to exchange a look — the kind of look that says, without words: they have no idea what we actually do here.

We have built an entire mythology around exhaustion. In boardrooms and business culture — perhaps nowhere more so than in the high-pressure, always-on professional culture many of us inhabit — busyness has become a currency. To be tired is to be serious. To be overwhelmed is to be important. To be burning out, quietly, is somehow proof that you are fully committed.
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10 thoughts on “Against her will – another short story”
Anticipating
In this case,the wife is to be blamed. There’s no genuine reason why she must refuse sex for her husband & that’s what calls for raping her. This is not good in a matrimonial home. Women or Ladies must be very careful not to make their partners furious of this act. It means they are not clean& honest within thenselves. There’s no amount of cases to make the woman win this type of action. May God grant all our females patience&tolerance to hold their matrimonial homes.
Readers opinion
Pingback: Against her will (Part 2)- another short story – Akin Akingbogun
Raped three times. Haba! The first thing that got to my mind was “why wasn’t she in the mood those three times. Lol. There’s no excuse for rape even within marriage but then, women should be counselled properly in this sex aspect because haba! Why should your husband rape you three times. No excuse regardless but women should be wise small. Still, no excuse for such act. Lets just balance this!
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Denying sex to the husband can lead to promiscuity. The counsel of the Bible is do not defraud(deny) one another except it be with consent….
I believe there are ways to refuse your husband sex and the man would be so happy to be denied, the challenge is who will teach it and if the woman wants to learn it?
Pingback: Against her will (Part 3)- another short story – Akin Akingbogun
She’s really in pain. It’s good she takes it up now before she becomes a shadow of herself.
Victims are always stigmatized that’s why they never talk about what they go through.
She needs help.
I still don’t get it; let me read the next part.