The Escape – a short story

Lagos pulsed with life as dawn crept across the horizon, casting golden streaks over the crowded rooftops and bustling streets. For Bolaji, the rhythm of the city was both a canvas and a stage—a living, breathing heartbeat that matched her own. She was the kind of woman who could bring a crowd to tears with a song or silence a room with the sweep of her brush. Artistry flowed in her veins, weaving its way into everything she touched: the vibrant walls of her studio, the melodies she hummed in traffic, the stories she told on stage. Her world was colour, movement, and emotion. She approached life with effervescence.
Seyi, her husband, was different. Practical, precise—a numbers man with the steady ambition of a Lagos accountant. While working as an auditor in a small accounting firm, he dreamt of owning a manufacturing company, of building something solid and permanent out of the chaos around him. His dream was to provide nature-friendly and affordable energy for household cooking across the country. He had a prototype of his product and kept working at improving it to reduce smoke emissions and improve efficiency. This is where he diverted all his time, thoughts and energy outside of work.
Where Bolaji was like a butterfly showing off a myriad of beautiful colours through her multiple talents, Seyi was quieter, reserved and focused. They met at a friend’s wedding in Ikoyi, drawn together by the magnetism of their differences. What began as playful banter over jollof rice turned into shared plans for the future, laughter echoing through their early courtship.
Their small apartment in Surulere was filled with the energy of dreams, the scent of oil paint, and the hum of Seyi’s calculator keys. Bolaji’s career blossomed in the vibrant arts scene—singing at Freedom Park, painting murals in Lekki, dancing in small theatres. Seyi worked late, crunching numbers and looking for investors for his dream project. In the late evenings, when they eventually came together, they sat on the balcony, watching the world below, imagining the life they would build together.
One evening, Bolaji returned from a rehearsal, her voice airy with excitement.
“Seyi, guess what? I’ve been asked to perform at the Lagos Arts Festival next month!”
Seyi looked up from his laptop, jaw tight. “That’s good, but you know you should focus more on helping me with my business plan. Art won’t put real food on the table.”
Bolaji’s smile faltered, but she shrugged it off. “I can do both. You know how much this means to me.”
He sighed, closing the laptop. “Sometimes I wonder if you care about our future at all.”
As often happens in life, beneath their laughter, cracks began to form. Seyi’s frustration grew with every failed business proposal, every rejected loan application. The world seemed to close in, and his patience wore thin. Bolaji, meanwhile, gained recognition—her art featured in magazines, her performances met with standing ovations. Promising opportunities arose, and the walls of their apartment echoed with her joy.
The decline of their relationship started with words—sharp, cutting, disguised as jokes.
“You think people care about singing and painting?” Seyi would say, his voice tight with resentment. “Real success needs money, not applause.”
The laughter faded, replaced by arguments, then silence. One night after a performance, Bolaji found Seyi pacing the living room.
“Where were you? I’ve been waiting for hours,” he snapped.
“I told you, the show ran late,” Bolaji replied, her tone gentle.
Seyi’s eyes flashed. “You were probably flirting with some director. Do you think I’m stupid?”
Bolaji recoiled, holding her arms across her chest.
“Seyi, please, it’s not like that at all.”
He strode towards her, voice rising. “Don’t lie to me! You care more about your silly art than this marriage.”
Bolaji slunk away, sad and broken. They were having more incidents and days that ended in jealousy and unnecessary accusations.
Money became a weapon; Bolaji’s share of the household funds dwindled, her purchases scrutinised. Seyi’s anger simmered, boiling over in unpredictable bursts—a slammed door, a bruised wrist, a night spent crying alone.
Bolaji tried to understand, to adapt. She made excuses for Seyi’s behaviour to family and friends, painting over her pain with stories of his stress and frustration with his fledgling business venture. She withdrew from her creative projects, believing that less success might restore his love. Isolation crept in, subtle and suffocating. Her phone calls grew shorter; her world narrowed to their apartment and Seyi’s moods.
As weeks turned to months, Bolaji’s spirit dimmed. She felt powerless, her talents used against her. Seyi forbade her from performing, insisting she devote herself to his business plans.
“If you love me, you’ll help me succeed,” he’d say, guilt and manipulation entwined. When she would offer to put in some of the money she was making as seed money into the business project, he would turn her down, saying, “It’s not your type of money that I’m looking for. I’m looking for big money.”
One morning, Bolaji was painting quietly when Seyi burst in. “Did you use my money to buy those paints?” he demanded.
She shook her head. “I used what I earned from my last show.”
He grabbed the canvas, flinging it across the room. “Stop wasting money! You’re so irresponsible.”
Over time, Bolaji’s bank account was emptied, and her art supplies vanished. The city outside seemed distant, unreachable. Her once effervescent stance faded away, and she became trapped in patterns of fear and control. The abuse was layered—physical pain masked by emotional wounds, economic control disguised as concern. Lagos, once her sanctuary, became a maze she could not escape. Still, somewhere inside, a spark remained. Bolaji recalled her mother’s words: “Leverage is not just money—it’s what you know, who you know, and how you move. You’ve got to have a strategy.”
One rainy evening, as thunder rolled over the city, Bolaji found herself staring at an unfinished canvas. The colours blurred, but her mind was clear. She realised that her artistry was more than a passion—it was her leverage. Her network of fellow performers, artists, and patrons was a lifeline. If she could harness her connections, she could reclaim her freedom.
Bolaji devised a plan, careful and strategic. She reached out to trusted friends under the guise of collaborating on new projects. She began saving small amounts of money from her performances, hiding it in a new account she opened for that purpose, where Seyi would not find it. Her art studio became a sanctuary, her rehearsals a cover for meetings with advocates who understood abuse and escape.
On a quiet afternoon, she confided in her friend Amaka after rehearsal. “I can’t go on like this,” Bolaji whispered. “He’s hurting me. I need help.”
Amaka took her hand, eyes shining with concern. “You have us. Don’t worry. We’ll find a way.”
Bolaji nodded, tears streaming down her face. “I’m scared, Amaka. What if he finds out?”
“He won’t,” Amaka promised. “We’ll plan carefully.”
The opportunity came when Bolaji was invited to headline an arts festival on Victoria Island. Seyi, consumed by his own woes, barely noticed her preparations. On the day of the festival, Bolaji packed her essentials—a bag of clothes, her sketchbook, her important documents—and left for the event. She performed with raw emotion, channelling her pain into songs that moved the audience to tears.
After her final act, Bolaji slipped away, meeting Amaka, who had arranged safe accommodation. She cut off contact with Seyi, blocked his calls, and filed for a restraining order. With the help of her network, Bolaji began rebuilding. She volunteered at support organisations, sharing her story with other women trapped in cycles of abuse. Her art flourished anew, each painting and performance a testament to survival.
One afternoon in her new flat, Bolaji hosted a painting class for women who had endured abuse. Her student, Kemi, hesitated beside the canvas.
“I don’t know if I can do this,” Kemi whispered.
Bolaji smiled gently, touching Kemi’s hand. “Your pain can become your leverage. Let it flow onto the canvas. You’re not alone.”
The room was silent, but hope blossomed in shared tears and strokes of paint.
Seyi tried to reach her, oscillating between rage and remorse. When he could not reach her, he went through family and friends, painting a story of her lack of support and desertion when he needed her the most. He sent messages to her that she should come home, and he was willing to forgive her and take her back.
One day, Amaka forwarded a text Seyi had sent to her.
“You’ve ruined everything. But I forgive you. Come back home.”
Bolaji stared at her phone, heart thudding. She did not reply. Instead, she called Amaka. “He doesn’t even get it! I’m never going back.”
Amaka’s voice was warm. “You’re stronger than you know. You leveraged your art, your friends, your courage. That’s strategy.”
In time, the city that once felt like a prison became her stage again. She moved into a sunlit flat in Ikeja, opened her own gallery, and launched a programme for abused women, teaching them to use their talents as leverage for freedom. She always told them, “You don’t have to wait until you are dead. Flee an abusive relationship while you still can, with all your senses intact. Use tact and strategy. Seek necessary help from the right sources. There is nothing God cannot do, so your marriage can be healed. But it is those who are alive who live to enjoy marriage.”
Bolaji’s story became a cautionary tale whispered across Lagos markets, shared in taxi rides and hair salons. She spoke openly at events, urging women and men alike to recognise the signs of abuse, to value their own leverage and strategy in relationships. Her marriage had been a lesson—a painful reminder that love without respect and autonomy is a cage. But through courage, community, and careful planning, she emerged stronger.