Accused of Marital Juju After My Wife's Death — A Nurse's Evidence Finally Silenced the Rumours
I stood outside the mortuary door in Osogbo with Morayo's wedding ring digging into my palm. Her uncles screamed that I used marital juju to steal her destiny and finish her life in one night. I had no blood on my hands, no confession in my mouth, and no defence strong enough for men who had already chosen their verdict.
Source: UGC
The fluorescent light above me flickered as if it were also afraid.
A nurse pushed a trolley past, eyes fixed ahead, refusing to look at my face. The corridor smelled of disinfectant, sweat, and grief. In my ears, I still heard the last sound Morayo made, a sharp gasp that cut through our room like a warning.
"Kunle!" one uncle shouted, pointing at my chest. "You did it! You think we will keep quiet?"
I opened my mouth, but my voice refused to come.
I had married Morayo less than twelve hours earlier in a packed Anglican church in Ilesa, with aso-ebi everywhere, rented canopies outside, and people spraying naira like love could protect us. Now the same people stood in a hospital corridor, ready to tear me apart.
A police officer stepped closer. "Mr Kunle Adeyemi, come with us."
My knees weakened.
Not because I feared prison.
Because I feared the story they would tell if I walked away in handcuffs.
Outside, dawn broke gently, shameless in its calm. My father's voice trembled beside me.
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"Kunle, hold yourself," he whispered. "Truth will speak."
But truth felt slow.
And rumour moved like fire.
My name is Kunle Adeyemi. I grew up in Ilesa, raised Anglican, the kind of boy who knew the hymn book by heart and could tie his cassock properly before morning service. I served as an altar boy until my voice deepened, then I joined the choir. When money started coming in later in life, I became the man who paid for harvest decoration and sponsored a set of new microphones.
Church shaped my identity. It gave me structure, community, and a clean image that people respected.
That was why I noticed Morayo.
She attended the church workers' meeting like someone who did not want attention, but always earned it. She sold food after Sunday service, jollof rice and fried plantain from a small cooler, smiling as she served and refusing extra change when people tried to tip her too much.
Source: UGC
After service, while others rushed home, Morayo stayed back to stack chairs and wipe tables. She did not do it for praise. She did it because she was that kind of person.
We started talking in small moments. Near the vestry. By the tap behind the church hall. In the brief quiet after evening service.
When I asked her out, she laughed first, then said yes as if she already knew where we were going.
Her pastor insisted we do "deliverance sessions" before the wedding. He warned vaguely about "marital delay spirits" and asked questions that made Morayo's shoulders tense.
"Any strange dreams?" he asked her once.
Morayo looked down. "I have had bad dreams before."
The pastor nodded as if he had found evidence. I felt uneasy, but I trusted the church.
We married under a bright Saturday sun. The church overflowed. People stood outside under canopies, fanning themselves. We held our reception at a local events centre, with loud music, dancing, laughter, and endless photographs.
Source: UGC
That night, after the guests left and the generators had gone quiet, Morayo collapsed in our room. And my life crumbled.
I still remember how normal the evening felt before it turned dark.
Morayo removed her gele slowly, rubbing her temples as her head ached. I asked if she was tired.
"I'm fine," she said, forcing a smile. "It's just stress."
We laughed about the dancing, the older aunties who nearly broke the floor, and the money sprayed on my shoulder as if we were celebrities. I felt grateful. I felt lucky.
Then Morayo's breathing changed.
It started as a soft struggle, as if she could not pull in enough air. She sat on the edge of the bed, pressing her hand to her chest.
"Morayo?" I called. "What is it?"
"I feel… strange," she whispered.
I reached for her water, but she swayed, eyes wide, then dropped to the floor.
Source: UGC
I shouted for help until my throat burned. Neighbours rushed in. Someone called a car. Someone shouted a prayer. My hands shook so badly I could barely hold her.
We drove to the hospital in Osogbo at a speed that felt like madness. I sat in the back seat, supporting her head, begging her to stay.
"Please, Morayo, look at me," I kept saying. "Please."
She did not answer again.
At the hospital, doctors moved quickly, but I could read their faces. They pushed me away, asked for details, and tried resuscitation. A nurse checked the time and wrote something down without daring to meet my gaze directly.
Before sunrise, a doctor came out and said the sentence that erased everything.
"We are sorry. She is gone."
I stood there like my body had forgotten how to function.
No visible injuries. No accident. No bleeding. Just sudden death and a cold silence that swallowed the room.
Source: UGC
I expected comfort from the church.
Instead, the church released a statement that broke me open.
They said Morayo had once mentioned a "spiritual husband" during counselling. They said she had been "under attack" and had tried to fight "forces" that wanted to delay her marriage.
It felt like they handed my name to the mob with a smile.
Morayo's uncles arrived in Osogbo: angry and loud. They did not ask questions. They made accusations.
"You used juju to marry her!" one uncle shouted in the corridor. "You collected her destiny!"
Another pointed at me and said, "You finished your work in one night. We know men like you."
I shook my head. "I did nothing to her. I loved her."
They laughed as if love were the genuine lie.
A police officer stepped between us and asked me to follow him. He questioned me for hours. They checked my calls, bank alerts, movements, and even my village background.
Source: UGC
They asked who I had spoken to the week before the wedding, what I had bought, where I had slept, and who attended the reception.
"Did she ever complain about you?" the officer asked.
"No," I said, voice cracking. "Never."
They searched my car. They searched my house and asked about charms, powders, and pastors. I answered until my tongue felt heavy.
Days later, the police cleared me.
They had no evidence of wrongdoing.
But the community did not care.
Elders in Ilesa said police did not understand "things of the spirit". Women whispered that Morayo must have "seen something" and tried to run. Men stopped greeting me properly. Choir members looked away as if grief were contagious.
At Morayo's burial, I stood beside her coffin and heard a woman murmur, "He will marry again. They always do."
I wanted to scream that I did not want another woman.
I wanted my wife back.
Source: UGC
But rumours do not respect pain.
They feed on it.
The twist came after I ran away from everything I once trusted.
The church moved on quickly. Sunday service continued. They scheduled new couples for their own weddings. People stopped mentioning Morayo except in whispers. They stopped greeting me as if I belonged.
Someone claimed I buried charms at the altar during Thanksgiving. Another said Morayo screamed my name before she died, as if that alone proved murder. A third person said my mother "prepared something" for me in the village.
I could not fight shadows.
So I relocated to Ibadan and rented a self-contained room near Mokola. I stopped attending churches entirely. I avoided choir songs on the radio. I lived like a man hiding from the air.
Then malaria hit me hard.
Fever bent my back. Chills shook my teeth. I dragged myself to University College Hospital, UCH, and collapsed into admission like a defeated person.
Source: UGC
A nurse named Sade treated me without question. She spoke softly, checked my drip, and adjusted my dosage as a junior nurse rushed in.
"Breathe slowly," she told me. "You will stabilise."
I expected judgment when she saw my name on the file.
Instead, she treated me like a human being.
Weeks after I recovered, Sade found me outside the ward corridor.
"Kunle Adeyemi?" she asked.
I froze. "Yes."
She held my gaze. "I recognised your name from an old case file. Morayo Adeyemi."
My throat tightened. "Please… don't."
She shook her head. "I'm not here to blame you."
Sade asked for reports, not prophecies. She explained that undiagnosed conditions can kill quietly, especially under stress, dehydration, and exhaustion. She spoke about clots, silent heart conditions, and sudden collapse that looks like a spiritual attack because the body gives no warning.
"You need evidence," she said. "Not rumours."
She helped me request proper hospital documentation. She pointed out clinical notes and timings. She showed me what medical staff saw, not what people imagined.
Source: UGC
For the first time since Morayo died, I felt something shift.
Not relief.
Clarity.
I realised people had judged my life by stories, not facts. And facts could still speak, if someone brave enough carried them.
Sade stood in my life like a firm hand on my shoulder.
Not romantic at first.
Just steady.
She insisted I gather paperwork properly. She helped me request medical summaries and documented observations. She reminded me that grief does not require silence, and that shame thrives when you hide.
When rumours followed me to Ibadan, they arrived in small, poisonous ways. A neighbour heard my surname and asked, "Are you the one they said used juju?" A colleague at a new job hesitated when I mentioned I was widowed.
My old self would have shrunken.
Sade did not allow shrinking.
One day at a small buka near Dugbe, a man made a loud comment behind me.
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"Na that man be that. Wife die first night," he said, enjoying his own voice.
Sade turned around calmly and said, "You are speaking about a death you did not investigate. If you want to talk, come and read the hospital report with your eyes."
The man stammered. "I was just saying…"
"You were accusing," she replied. "Mind yourself."
Her courage gave me backbone.
At Morayo's one-year remembrance in Ilesa, I returned alone with my father. No choir. No pastor's drama. No night vigil. I stood by the grave while whispers circled me like mosquitoes.
I did not argue.
I poured libation quietly with my father, a small act of respect that did not need permission. I spoke to Morayo as if she could hear me.
"I tried," I whispered. "I did not kill you. I will not let them bury me too."
After that day, I stopped begging for acceptance.
Source: UGC
I chose peace as a boundary.
Months later, I married Sade at a registry in Ibadan. We invited witnesses, signed papers, and left in the afternoon sunlight. No pastor. No deliverance. No prophecies. No fear packaged as faith.
People still murmured, but their voices felt far away now. I did not need to be understood by everybody to live.
I still live with the accusation.
But I no longer live inside it.
And that, for me, became the absolute silence.
There is a special cruelty in losing your wife and your reputation at the same time. Grief already empties your chest. Rumour then moves in like a tenant that refuses to pay rent.
I used to believe the truth revealed itself on its own.
It does not.
Truth needs witnesses. It needs documentation. It needs courage. When a community prefers a supernatural explanation, facts can sound boring, and boring facts do not satisfy any hungry gossip.
Source: UGC
But facts still matter.
Morayo's death broke me. It also exposed how easily people turn pain into entertainment. Some used religion as a microphone for suspicion. Some used culture as permission to accuse. Everyone wanted a story, and the easiest story was that I did it.
Sade did not heal me by promising miracles. She helped me by insisting on reality. She reminded me that undiagnosed conditions kill people quietly, and that silence around health issues becomes a breeding ground for fear and blame.
She also taught me a hard lesson about boundaries. You cannot reason with people committed to misunderstanding you. You can only decide where you will live, emotionally and physically.
I still respect the church. I still respect faith. But I no longer surrender my life to rumours disguised as prophecy. I choose evidence. I choose calm. I choose people who ask questions before they accuse.
The lesson I carry now is simple: when grief meets gossip, you must anchor yourself in truth, not noise.
Source: UGC
So here is the question I ask you, because someone else is carrying a heavy accusation today:
When people decide you are guilty without proof, will you keep begging them to believe you, or will you build a life so grounded in truth that their rumours finally run out of air?
This story is inspired by the real experiences of our readers. We believe that every story carries a lesson that can bring light to others. To protect everyone's privacy, our editors may change names, locations, and certain details while keeping the heart of the story true. Images are for illustration only. If you'd like to share your own experience, please contact us via email.
Source: Legit.ng
