I witnessed my parents’ marriage. I wanted the same. It was a marriage where my mom did everything in the house. Dad didn’t even know how to make tea. He provided, and then sat and watched my mom cook the meals, clean the house, wash our clothes, and fix our buttons when they came off.

Dad knew how to complain when something wasn’t done well. When my mom ironed for him and got the sleeves wrong, he talked about it all day, yet he didn’t know how to iron his own shirts. Mom took care of him like her first son. She would take him to the hospital, and when they returned, it was Mom who would administer the medicine because Dad didn’t listen when he was told how to take it.

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I grew up knowing a woman takes care of a man through it all. If my girlfriend visited, I would expect her to clean my place, cook for me, and serve me the way my mom did. If she didn’t, I either ended the relationship or nagged her out of it.

Then I met Abi, a lady who was a replica of my mom in everything. I didn’t have to say I was hungry. She would enter the kitchen and cook. I dated her for nine months and married her in the tenth month. My mom loved her like a daughter. I thought she saw herself in her, hence the connection.

We started living together, and everything changed. Abi wouldn’t cook unless I was in the kitchen with her. She wouldn’t wash unless I was the one hanging the clothes on the drying line. I would need a snack from the fridge, and she would tell me to get up and go get it myself.

“What happened to you? You pretended to be a good woman while we were dating just because you wanted me to marry you?”

She would respond, “Tell me what I did wrong, and I’ll do better. If it’s about washing and cooking, I enjoy it when you do it with me.”

I would call my dad and complain. He would say, “All women are not your mother. This is what you have. Deal with it.”

I expected more support from my mom because I wasn’t asking for more than what she did for my dad. But she said, “Don’t be like your father because you are not married to me. Abi is good. Just listen to her with patience, and you’ll be fine.”

I gave up trying and decided to live anyhow to force her to do the things I wanted her to do. I would leave my shoes in the hall, and they would remain there until I picked them up myself. I would ask for fufu and relax in the chair, but she would come with rice and tell me, “I wanted to do it, but I couldn’t do it all by myself.”

The first year of our marriage was chaos. I wouldn’t sleep in the same bed with her, but she would join me on the sofa when she needed me. I would not eat her food, and she would cook only for herself, eat in front of me, and still try to chat with me.

So I left home frustrated one day and went back to my parents’ house. I was home for one week, and she came to visit every day, speaking to my parents as if nothing was wrong. My mom would cook alone, serve my dad, and serve me. I would watch and ask myself, “Why can’t Abby do the same?”

When I finally went back home and we talked, she asked me, “What do you lose as a man if you help the woman you say you love to take care of you? A baby will come, then another and another. You want me to do all that work while you sleep? Do you want me alive or dead?”

After the conversation, she stopped asking for my help and started doing it all by herself, but whenever I saw her doing it, it felt like I was sitting on a pineapple. My conscience would be restless until I got up to help.

Fourteen years later, we’ve built a house both of us are proud to say we contributed to. We go places together, even to the market. We did antenatal together. All our three kids. My first son was only thirteen months old when she left him with me and travelled for two weeks. I handled it like I’d been a single dad all my life.

Then one day, she told me the truth. Why she changed after marriage and what gave her the motivation to continue doing what she was doing.

“It’s your mom. She was the motivation behind my actions,” she said.

So, days before our marriage, my mom had a lengthy conversation with her. She told her, “If you want a happy life, don’t start doing everything for him. Let him be a man, but also let him be a husband who helps around the house. I know I didn’t raise him that way, but you can help him change. He has big hands. Let him use them.”

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So every time my mom called her and I thought she was advising her, she was rather telling her to continue what she was doing. I wasn’t angry when I heard the truth. I didn’t accuse my mom of connivance.

I asked her, “Does it mean you are unhappy with Dad?”

She said, “I did what I thought was good for my marriage. I spoiled him. I did everything to be a good wife. I’m just different. Just take it that way.”

It’s her marriage until death do them part. It’s also my marriage, but I’m happy my children will grow up someday and use our marriage as a case study.

I hope they learn the good things.

—Jeff

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