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A harrowing personal account of a wife who walked out of her marriage after her husband ignored 27 emergency calls while she was in a medical crisis to be with another woman.

At 3:18 a.m., I folded my last dress into a black polythene bag, not because I lacked a suitcase, but because I needed something that would not look like a goodbye. My phone lay face-up on the bed, glowing with the same truth I had begged it to deny: twenty-seven missed calls to my husband, and not one call back.
I had made those calls from the cold metal bench of a dispensary, breathing through pain that felt like a serrated knife twisting in my abdomen. The nurse, a kind woman with tired eyes, had searched for a vein in the dim light of a building that kept losing power. "We need his consent for the transfer," she had whispered. But Eliud was not there.
Now I stood in our bedroom in Runda, listening to the ceiling fan creak like a tired witness. Eliud's cologne still clung to the curtains—a scent of expensive confidence that used to make me feel safe. Now, it just smelled like betrayal. His suits hung in a neat row, untouched by the chaos of my night. Everything in that room said, *He has arrived*. My heart said, *I have left*.
I pictured myself on that clinic bed again, my blouse damp with cold sweat, my fingers shaking as I borrowed a phone from a stranger to call him one last time. "Please, tell him it's urgent," I had pleaded. The stranger looked at me with pity. That pity was sharper than the pain.
I walked out of the gate past the sleeping askari. The Runda air was crisp, indifferent to my shattering world. I called an Uber, not to my mother’s house, but to a cheap hotel in town. I needed a neutral ground to mourn the death of my marriage.
Eliud will wake up to a silent house. He will see the 27 missed calls. He will see the empty side of the closet. But he will never see me again. He ignored my emergency; I am ignoring his existence. The tie is cut.
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