A Nigerian woman filed for divorce from her husband because she couldn’t handle the size of his penis, according to media reports.
Aisha Dannupawa, a housewife and mother of three, asked a Sharia court to dissolve her marriage to Ali Maizinari in Nigeria’s Zamfara State due to his large member. She told the court she had married Maizinari after her first marriage failed.
“We had just fallen in love when Ali when he asked me how many sexual partners I’d had. It was Valentine’s Day and we’d spent the day together, making our own meal of chips and prime rib, which we ate while watching Romantic movies—the perfect, low-pressure Valentine’s Day”, Aisha narrates.
“That night, we lounged on the sofas, our stomachs full, legs entwined. I felt happy and excited and scared—that cocktail of emotions that accompanies a new relationship. At last I’d found an attractive, smart, creative person who seemed to have his life together. So, I simply answered with my number”, she added.
“I could’ve guessed that my new boyfriend’s sexual history didn’t have as many chapters—or footnotes—as mine, but that didn’t matter to me. He’d spent most of his date-able years in a monogamous relationship while I was still playing the field. It was just how the numbers shook out, I figured; we were at different places in our lives. But John didn’t see things this way. In his mind, there were numbers that were too high, and mine was one of them”, she went on.
“The day before we got married, Ali insisted I tell him, once and for all, how his penis measured up. We had been together for a year by then and I had spent much of that time, ever since that Valentine’s Day, enduring interrogations about my sexual history. But this time, he literally backed me into a corner, yelling that I tell him the truth about his size—why couldn’t I just do that?—as if my experience made me some kind of penis -measuring expert.
I was scared! But finally, I broke down and admitted that, in my opinion, he was on the smaller side of average.
I felt ill. It was one of those things you just don’t say, no matter what, but John had put me in a corner and hence I had to speak the unspeakable.
The next day, we eloped.
We bought plain wedding bands at the mall on our way to the Mosque. I wore a lacey pink and white dress I’d pulled out of my closet and cried throughout the short ceremony, a knot in my stomach. Deep down, I knew marrying him wasn’t going to solve any of our problems.
Sure enough, a few days later, Ali brought up the idea of having his penis enlarged. Until then, I hadn’t even known such a thing was possible.
But my husband had already done his research, spending hours in the darkest recesses of the internet where desperate, insecure men gather in chatrooms to discuss back-alley methods of augmenting their manhood. He had found a clinic somewhere in town.
I begged him not to alter his body. I told him I liked him the way he was. He didn’t need a bigger penis. This was the truth: I’d never found any correlation between the size of a partner’s package and the quality of the sex we had. I’d also never dated anyone—or stopped dating someone—over such a detail. Besides, I have a chronic pain disorder that often makes intercourse painful. If Ali enlarged his penis, it could adversely affect our sex life.
He scoffed at this, citing a well-endowed partner of my past as proof that this didn’t matter, even though I had had many problems with pain and flare-ups during that relationship. Then he delivered his final, crushing manipulation: He was doing this for me.
This is what I really wanted, he said. After all, I’d fawned over other boyfriends’ penises, but not his. He knew about this, about the nicknames and inside jokes, because he’d snooped through my emails and gchats from the last few years—another abuse that started to feel pedestrian.
But while doubting his own sexual prowess, Ali was working overtime to shame mine. He claimed he’d told his friends how many people I’d slept with and that they’d asked if I had emotional problems. He confronted me with data on the national average of sex partners, further evidence that I was a slut.
It was the ultimate form of gaslighting, a way of blaming me for the self-harm he inflicted.
So he flew to have the procedure executed on him.
Not long after he arrived—having driven by bus to a neighboring town—clinicians injected some kind of solution into his penis, which would cause tremendous swelling and pain. After his first “treatment,” he made the long journey home with his penis tucked in a synthetic sleeve and wrapped in gauze, the organ so battered and bruised that he wouldn’t let me even see it.
Eventually, when the swelling subsided, his penis was permanently enlarged, both in its flaccid and erect states.
The solution inside his penis could settle unevenly, causing lumps or other irregularities. Furthermore, one treatment was not enough to make enough of a difference for him. Most patients visited the clinic two or three times, even though each trip costs a few thousand dollars.
Ali made two trips to the mystery clinic. Each time, he acted sheepish and embarrassed on his return. He didn’t want me to nurse him and kept the care instructions he’d been given to himself, spending mysteriously long amounts of time in the bathroom.
Later, I’d find bloody gauze in the waste basket. It was as if he wanted to pretend this change was happening naturally, and therefore balked at any overt mention of how the augmentation had come about. Consequently, I never found out exactly where John had gone or with what he’d had injected.
I suppose you could say that the procedure was a success: because it did permanently alter the size and appearance of his penis, enhancing its girth significantly without leaving any noticeable marks or irregularities.
But the penis upgrade, coupled with ongoing abuse, destroyed our marriage.
“When he came, we had sex but the experience was a nightmare. Instead of enjoying the sex, it turned out to be something else because his penis was too big”.
“After their first unsuccessful romp, I took medication given to me by my Mother”.
“I told my mother the experience but she told me to endure and that with time, I will be able to cope. She then gave me some drugs”.
My disorder, coupled with the pain from this monster manhood left me in near-constant discomfort during sex. I spent much of my time going to doctor’s appointments and trying out different therapies to treat these symptoms. So he slept on the couch and constantly berated me for failing to meet his sexual needs, especially when he thought about all the sex I’d “given away” before he came along. Sex was always something I owed him.
Each time I tried to leave the relationship, Ali threatened to kill himself . Once again relying on threats of self-harm to manipulate me.
His control and violence towards me escalated, too. In the span of a couple of years, he’d gone from yelling in my face and overturning tables to grabbing me and shoving me against a wall.
During our very last fight as a married couple, he put his hands over my mouth to stifle my screams for help and I realized with sudden clarity that eventually he was going to hit me. But it was the fact that I wasn’t scared that frightened me the most. I had come to expect this.
I finally got up the strength to leave, and filed for divorce.
My life has been rebuilt with remarkable speed, but the process of legally and emotionally untangling myself from my abusive ex, while also recovering from the trauma I suffered, is a long one. I’m glad I can see the end from here. I imagine it will be like coming up for air.
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