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The Retreat That Broke Us

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“Brother Biodun, you don’t take your eyes off me during choir practice,” Sade whispered, her voice sweet like her soprano.

Biodun chuckled, smoothing his shirt collar. “Maybe it’s the way you sing. Heavenly.”

She laughed lightly, brushing her fingers across his arm as she walked away.

He should have stopped it. But he didn’t.

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Biodun was a respected deacon at Restoration House. Father of two. Married to Mofe for 10 years. Everyone admired their ‘model Christian marriage’. But behind the front, their home had become a shell of forced pleasantries and silent dinners.

Mofe spent most evenings in the kids’ room or scrolling endlessly through Facebook. That’s how she stumbled upon Jide’s profile, her ex from university, now living in Canada. He messaged first.

“Wow. You haven’t changed a bit. Still glowing. How’s life?”

The flattery lit something inside her.

By the second week, Biodun started dropping Sade off after midweek rehearsals.

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“No one needs to know,” she said one night, her hand resting on his thigh as he parked outside her apartment. “We’re just… getting to know each other better.”

Biodun nodded. It felt wrong. But it also felt exciting.

He began staying longer after services, claiming church responsibilities. Meanwhile, Mofe had begun dressing up more. Bright lipstick. The phone is always buzzing.

They fought more frequently.

“You’re never home!” she snapped one Thursday night. “The kids are asking where their father is.”

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“I’m serving God! At least I’m not on my phone 24/7 giggling like a teenager.”

Mofe scoffed. “You wouldn’t understand. You don’t even look at me anymore!”

“And you don’t see me either!” he roared. “You think just because you cook and drop the kids in school, you’re a wife?”

She stormed out of the living room, slamming the door behind her.

The kids, Daniel, 7, and Teju, 5, started acting out. Daniel wet the bed again. Teju grew clingy, begging Mofe not to leave her at school.

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Still, both parents were too distracted to notice.

Until the church retreat.

It was a weekend retreat organised for families, “to reconnect and realign in God’s presence.”

Biodun didn’t want to go. Neither did Mofe. But appearances had to be maintained.

They arrived in silence. Shared a room but barely exchanged words.

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At the evening worship session, Pastor Funmi led a session titled “What Are You Hiding?” She encouraged everyone to write down anything that was burdening them and drop it anonymously at the altar.

Mofe wrote: “I’m talking to my ex every day. I don’t know if I want my marriage anymore.”

Biodun scribbled: “I’ve been flirting with a chorister. Nothing physical… yet.”

They dropped the slips in silence. But neither noticed that Daniel had followed them in.

Later that night, Daniel crawled into bed between them, tears in his eyes.

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“Are you going to leave us?” he asked.

Biodun sat up. “What do you mean?”

“I saw what you both wrote. I read it before you dropped it. You’re both cheating?”

Mofe’s heart sank. “Daniel, I…”

“Why don’t you love each other anymore?” his voice cracked. “Is it because of us? Did we do something wrong?”

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Mofe broke down in tears. Biodun looked like he’d been punched.

It was the first time in months they sat side by side, both stunned into honesty.

“I don’t even know how we got here,” Mofe whispered. “We used to pray together, laugh together… but we let life come between us.”

“And we let pride do the rest,” Biodun said quietly.

The next morning, they requested a private session with the retreat counsellor. Pastor Funmi listened gently as both of them aired their hearts, no shouting, no interruptions.

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“I don’t feel seen anymore,” Mofe confessed. “Jide noticed me when my husband didn’t.”

“I felt like a stranger in my own home,” Biodun said. “Sade offered me attention when all I got at home was silence.”

“You’re both right,” the pastor said. “But you’re both wrong, too. You turned outside instead of turning toward each other.”

She asked them to write each other a letter—raw, unfiltered, honest. They read it aloud under a mango tree later that afternoon.

Biodun’s voice cracked as he read, “I miss us. I miss loving you without fear of rejection.”

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Mofe’s letter ended with, “I want to choose us again—even if we have to fight our way back.”

They returned from the retreat not magically healed but recommitted.

Biodun resigned from his late-night drops and cut communication with Sade. Mofe blocked Jide and deleted Facebook.

They began a weekly devotional together, just 15 minutes a night. They agreed on one couple’s therapy session per month. They even enrolled in the church’s marriage accountability group.

Daniel and Teju smiled more. The home was still chaotic, life in Lagos never paused, but the air was lighter. Softer.

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One night, months later, Biodun tucked the kids in and returned to the bedroom where Mofe was journaling.

“Still writing?”

She looked up. “Writing what I’m grateful for.”

“And today?”

She smiled. “You.”

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He climbed into bed, took her hand. “Let’s keep choosing us.”

She squeezed his hand back. “Every single day.

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