The heaviest silence in any society is not found in the graveyard, but in homes where love has died yet bodies still remain. And in Nigeria today, from the rising of the sun in Onitsha to the setting thereof in Sokoto, many houses ripples with absence—fathers gone, mothers fading, teenagers fleeing. Disappearance is no longer the curse of prodigal sons alone; it is the bitter fruit of homes turned into pressure cookers of pain. When the hearth becomes hellfire, even the firewood prefers the bush.
Of a truth, true love is not only dying in dating apps and online theatrics—it is bleeding out quietly in the backrooms of homes across Nigeria just like any part of the world. Behind smiling Facebook family portraits and choreographed Instagram anniversaries lie shattered hearts, unspoken abuses, and the silent vanishings of fathers, wives, and children who can no longer endure the poison masked as peace. Love, once lost to the public stage, now crumbles in private chambers, and those who cannot escape with their feet disappear emotionally—spirit, mind, and soul.
Where homes were once altars of covenant, many have become cages of control. Teenagers run away, not always to rebel, but to breathe. Married women lose their laughter, buried beneath the weight of unspoken expectations and loveless unions. And yes—even Nigerian men, uncelebrated in their emotional fragility, sometimes walk away from wives and children, not to start afresh but because they are drowning and never learned how to cry. “Hope deferred maketh the heart sick,” says Proverbs 13:12, and many homes today are hospitals without healing.
Marriage, the supposed covenant of mutual edification, has been stripped of sacrifice and stuffed with survival. When economic pressure meets emotional dysfunction, the result is a home where partners become prisoners. Some husbands, raised in cultures where vulnerability equals weakness, opt to vanish rather than face the shame of emotional transparency. “A man is not wooden,” said Archbishop Benson Idahosa. “He breaks too, but quietly.” Yet society mocks him if he speaks, and forgets him if he flees.
For many Nigerian women, the story is even more tragic. They are taught from girlhood to endure, to pray harder, to forgive even when love has become abuse. And so they disappear—some into prayer mountains, others into early graves, and many into the daily routine of pretending. They become furniture: present, useful, but unseen. “The greatest loneliness is the one you feel when someone is right beside you,” notes Juanita Bynum. And in many homes, couples sleep in the same bed but live in different worlds.
But the Church must now rise not only as a moral voice but as a therapeutic voice. It is not enough to tell wives to submit or husbands to lead. Where is the sermon on healing childhood trauma? Where is the altar call for forgiveness inside marriage, not just outside sin? Where are the spiritual safe spaces where men can cry and women can scream without condemnation? Until our pulpits address the pain inside the parlor, we will continue producing Christians who are public saints but private sufferers.
The solution is not always separation, but sanctification—and sometimes, sanctified distance. Joseph wanted to leave Mary quietly until heaven intervened (Matthew 1:19-20). Even Jesus withdrew to solitary places when overwhelmed. Restoration begins with recognition. We must reframe masculinity, re-educate women on worth, and re-teach teenagers that rebellion isn’t their only option. Churches must establish healing clinics for the family, where deliverance includes therapy, and tongues are balanced with talks.
Let fathers come home—not just physically, but emotionally. Let wives re-discover joy, not just duty. Let teenagers be seen, not just disciplined. The Igala say, “Adagba neke lenyo tefu efoko n chai iko kane amiejo ” —the elephant doesn’t vanish into the forest unless the ground is shaking. When people vanish from home, it is because something seismic has happened beneath. The Church’s role is to steady that ground through truth, transparency, and the tangible love of Christ.
True love does not only die on social media—it perishes first inside the homes where it was never watered. But all hope is not lost. As Romans 5:5 declares, “Hope does not put us to shame, because God’s love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit.” If we return to the true Author of love—Christ, the cornerstone—we can restore not just romance but the very rhythm of family life. And perhaps, in doing so, we will no longer have to ask why people are disappearing—but rejoice that they are finally coming home.
– Inah Boniface Ocholi writes from Ayah – Igalamela/Odolu LGA, Kogi state.
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