By Owie Aideyan
When Love Turned Into Betrayal
In the bustling heart of Ibadan, Adeyemi Akinola, a humble photographer, lived a simple life with his wife, Funmilayo, and their four children. His days were spent capturing wedding moments, birthdays, and passport photos in his small studio at Oke-Ado, where a faded banner read: “Yemi Photos: We Freeze Your Memories Forever.”
Adeyemi was not a rich man. His income was modest — sometimes ₦15,000 a week, sometimes nothing at all when jobs didn’t come. Yet, he poured everything into his family. He was the kind of father who walked miles to buy kerosene for the lantern, the kind of man who skipped meals so his children could eat.
But love, they say, is truly tested when hardship knocks. By 2012, cracks began to show. Funmilayo, once the supportive wife, grew restless. She complained endlessly about poverty, about how Adeyemi’s mates were building houses and driving cars, while she was “stuck with a man and his useless camera.”
Then one evening, the blow landed. Funmilayo packed her clothes and left. Not just her clothes — she left Adeyemi with four children clinging to his legs, confused and crying. She had found comfort in the arms of a wealthy trader in Lagos, a man who could give her what Adeyemi could not.
Adeyemi’s world collapsed. He sat on the studio floor that night, staring at the walls, tears soaking his shirt. Neighbors whispered, friends pitied, and family mocked him. But nothing compared to the emptiness in his heart — the betrayal cut too deep.
Broken but Not Defeated
For months, Adeyemi wandered through life in a haze. Depression nearly consumed him. He stopped eating. His photographs lost their color; his once lively studio turned into a grave of silence. At night, he cried where his children couldn’t see, clutching their old wedding picture until it crumbled in his hands.
But one night, while his youngest, Ayobami, tugged at his shirt and whispered, “Daddy, don’t cry again, we are here,” something inside him shifted. He realized he could not afford to die in his pain. If Funmilayo had abandoned them, then he would be both father and mother.
He swore two things that night:
-
He would never remarry. His heart was pierced too deep to risk another betrayal.
-
He would raise his children into great men and women, no matter the cost.
From that day, Adeyemi buried his pain in fatherhood. He woke before dawn to prepare them for school. He sold extra photographs in markets, took event jobs even when he was sick, and sometimes borrowed money just to ensure their school fees were never late.
His friends told him to move on, to find another woman to “help with the children.” Adeyemi always shook his head.
“A o f’ehin t’aja ti ta, fi eran e bo eran t’aja to ku. My wife tore my heart. That wound no woman will heal. My children are enough.”
The Driving Force of Pain
Pain became Adeyemi’s fuel. He carried it like a burning coal in his chest, and it pushed him to heights he never imagined.
By 2016, his first daughter, Modupe, gained admission into the University of Ibadan to study Law. Adeyemi cried tears of joy that day, remembering the nights he went hungry so she could have textbooks. By 2018, his son, Damilola, also entered Polytechnic Ibadan, while the younger two excelled in secondary school.
Neighbors began to respect him differently. He was no longer “the abandoned man” but “Baba Modupe, the strong man.” Even in church, testimonies of his resilience inspired widows and single fathers. Yet, beneath his smiles, the scar remained — a scar carved in betrayal.
At night, when the house was quiet, Adeyemi still stared into space. He would whisper into the darkness:
“Funmilayo, you broke me. You killed something inside me. But I thank you — because your betrayal turned me into a better man for these children.”
But love? No. He had buried it.
The Return of the Betrayer (Eight Years Later)
Eight years later, in 2020, out of nowhere, Funmilayo returned.
She arrived in Ibadan, no longer glowing, no longer adorned with jewelry. The wealthy trader she ran to had abandoned her for a younger woman. Life had humbled her. She stood at Adeyemi’s gate in Dugbe, trembling, tears flowing freely.
“Yemi… I am sorry. I made a mistake. Please, take me back. For the sake of our children.”
The children, now older, froze in shock. They had lived with their father’s pain, and though they longed for a mother, they knew what her absence had done to him.
Adeyemi stood, silent for a long time. His heart raced, memories of betrayal flashing like lightning. For a moment, he almost softened — almost. But then the image of himself crying in that dark room, clutching his wedding photo, returned.
His voice was calm but final:
“Funmilayo, you killed a part of me that will never live again. You chose gold over love, riches over family. I have nothing left for you in this heart. My children are my strength now. I forgive you… but return to me? Never.”
Funmilayo wept, begging on her knees. But Adeyemi’s face was stone. The children, standing behind him, held his hands. His decision was sealed.
A Heart Shattered, A Legacy Built
Today, Adeyemi is 48, his once small studio has grown into Yemi Akinola Visuals, one of the most respected photography brands in Ibadan. His children are thriving — Modupe now a lawyer, Damilola an engineer, the younger two still in school. He wears no wedding ring, attends no social parties, and when asked why he never remarried, he simply replies:
“Ẹ̀mí mi ti bajẹ́ nípa ifẹ́. Love betrayed me, but fatherhood saved me.”
Adeyemi still carries his pain like a shadow — quiet, constant, unhealed. He has forgiven but not forgotten. His love story did not end in romance, but in sacrifice, resilience, and an unbreakable bond with his children.
For him, Funmilayo’s return was too late. Some wounds heal; others stay raw forever. Adeyemi’s wound was the kind that time could not mend. His heart, pierced too deep, will never love again.
