The day began with a silence that felt heavier than noise. By mid-morning, it had been sealed—my employer informed me that my services were no longer needed.
No warning, no discussion. Just a polite reminder that I no longer belonged.
I left the workplace carrying more than a termination letter; I carried fear, shame, and uncertainty about how life would unfold from that moment.
I returned home earlier than usual, hoping the familiar walls of my matrimonial home would offer comfort.
I wanted to sit alone, breathe, and think through my next steps. Instead, I pushed open the bedroom door and walked straight into a moment that stopped time.
My wife was on our bed with my neighbour. The room felt unbearably small. My mind refused to process what my eyes were seeing, and for several seconds, I could not move or speak.
The silence broke violently. My wife screamed. The neighbour reacted on instinct, scrambling off the bed and bolting through the house.
In a panic, he leapt over the fence at the back of the compound completely naked and vanished into his home.
The speed of his escape contrasted cruelly with my stillness. I remained standing in my bedroom—jobless, betrayed, and stripped of dignity in the one place that was meant to be safe.
Anger surged immediately, sharp and uncontrollable. It felt dangerous. I knew that if I spoke or acted in that moment, I would cross lines that could never be undone.
Without confronting anyone, I walked out of the house and kept moving, unsure of where I was going, only certain that staying would destroy me.
That evening, an elderly friend noticed my distress and insisted I seek help from a traditional healer known for guiding people through emotional and spiritual shock.
Skepticism gave way to desperation. I went, not seeking revenge or explanations, but relief.
The healer listened without interruption. When I finished, he spoke calmly about emotional trauma and imbalance—the kind that clouds judgment and invites irreversible mistakes.
He performed cleansing rituals meant to steady the mind and release bottled anger. More importantly, he spoke firmly about restraint, self-preservation, and the need to think beyond the pain of the moment.
In the days that followed, I returned for guidance.
There were no promises of restored marriages or instant solutions. Instead, I regained something essential: control over my thoughts. The rituals grounded me.
The conversations forced me to confront betrayal and loss without drowning in them.
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Slowly, the weight on my chest eased. I slept again. I could think clearly. I understood that losing a job and discovering betrayal on the same day did not define my worth.
Healing, I learned, is not always about fixing what is broken—it is about surviving intact.
That day had taken almost everything from me. Through tradition and guidance, I reclaimed my inner stability.
From that place, I could face my future—whatever it would be—with clarity, dignity, and restraint.