No law can fix what Selma and Petrus' divorce broke

The first sign that Petrus and Selma Nghikembua’s marriage was collapsing did not come through violence or public scandal.

It arrived quietly, through a silence that slowly settled in their home until two people who once laughed together eventually spoke only about school fees, electricity units and grocery money.

Eighteen years earlier, they had married young and hopeful in Oshakati. Petrus was then a junior construction employee struggling to survive, while Selma dreamed of becoming a teacher.

When their first child was born, Selma stayed home temporarily because childcare costs were too high.

Another child followed, Petrus’s mother moved into their home after becoming ill, and Selma’s life disappeared into the exhausting routine of caregiving, cooking, cleaning and raising children.

Meanwhile, Petrus’s career improved steadily; he bought land and vehicles and eventually built a proper family house in Ongwediva.

Nobody noticed that while his professional life was growing, emotional intimacy inside the marriage was quietly dying.

Selma spent years holding the household together without pay, recognition or rest. She woke before sunrise every morning to prepare breakfast and school lunches, wash uniforms, attend school meetings, care for sick children and manage endless family obligations.

Petrus provided financially, but emotionally, he became increasingly distant. By the fifteenth year of marriage, they were no longer really partners, but exhausted adults sharing responsibilities.

Then Selma discovered messages on Petrus’s phone.

The messages themselves were not explicit. Petrus was speaking warmly to another woman in ways he had not spoken to her for years. There were jokes, emotional concern and long, affectionate conversations.

When she confronted him, Petrus sat quietly before finally saying: “You stopped seeing me as a husband. I became somebody who only pays bills.”

His frank response devastated Selma because, in her view, Petrus had stopped seeing her as a woman and had reduced her to unpaid household labour.

Three months later, Petrus moved into a rented flat in Oshakati. Their children suffered almost immediately. Fifteen-year-old Brian became withdrawn, and nine-year-old Martha cried whenever weekends approached because she hated moving between two homes.

Children understand instability and the disappearance of warmth from a home.

Surprising changes

At first, Petrus assumed the divorce proceedings would favour him because almost everything of value was in his name. The house bond came from his salary. The vehicles were financed through his employment benefits. The investments and pension contributions were all linked to his career.

He told friends: “I worked for everything.”

What Petrus did not fully understand was that Namibia’s newly enacted Dissolution of Marriages Act recognises marriage as an economic partnership where unpaid domestic labour also carries value.

Courts now have wide powers to divide assets, transfer property and grant spousal maintenance where fairness requires it.

Selma’s lawyer argued that although Petrus earned the salary, Selma sacrificed nearly two decades of economic independence to sustain the family structure supporting his career.

She abandoned professional ambitions, raised children largely alone and maintained the household that allowed Petrus to focus on work and advancement.

Her lawyer described her not as unemployed but as economically displaced by marriage itself.

That phrase unsettled Petrus deeply because somewhere beneath his anger, he recognised its truth.

The regional court handling the matter granted interim spousal maintenance because Selma had no stable income after years outside formal employment.

Petrus was also ordered to continue paying school fees, medical aid and child maintenance while proceedings continued.

Mediation sessions followed under provisions allowing courts to direct couples toward mediation during divorce proceedings.

During those sessions, social workers discovered that the children had already begun emotionally censoring themselves to avoid upsetting either parent.

Brian avoided speaking positively about his father in front of his mother, while Martha became anxious whenever conversations turned to custody arrangements.

Even the extended family fractured under the pressure. Petrus’s relatives accused Selma of destroying the marriage over “normal problems”, while Selma’s family accused Petrus of abandoning the woman who helped him build his life.

When the divorce was finally granted, the legal process itself lasted less than an hour. Primary custody of the children went to Selma. The family home would be sold, and the proceeds would be divided between both parties.

Maintenance obligations remained enforceable, while holiday access arrangements for the children were formalised. Legally, the matter was resolved efficiently. Emotionally, however, nobody left the court feeling victorious.

The detritus of a once shared life

Several weeks later, Selma walked slowly through the nearly empty family house, waiting for estate agents to arrive with prospective buyers.

Standing alone inside that hollow house, she finally understood something the law itself could never fully resolve.

A divorce order may successfully divide property, determine custody and calculate maintenance obligations, but there exists no legal mechanism capable of neatly separating memory from pain or two people who once genuinely loved each other from the devastation left behind when that love finally collapses.

In 2024, former justice minister Yvonne Dausab said the intention was not to undermine the institution of marriage but to provide a legal framework that offers necessary relief and protection to those in desperate situations, such as victims of domestic abuse or irreparable marital breakdowns.

*Selma and Petrus are a fictitious couple used to capture a truth common to most marriages and divorces.