Last night when I was going to bed, I was feeling sick. My head was aching and my body didn’t feel like my body. It felt like living in someone else’s body. I told my husband about it and he asked what he could do to help. I told him, “I don’t know but let me sleep and see what happens tomorrow.”

At dawn, I felt a hand on my forehead. It was my husband checking if I was feeling warm. I was sweating profusely and was very uncomfortable but I didn’t open my eyes. He got up, went to the bath and came with wet towels. He wiped my body and left one of the towels over my head. I think I slept off.

I woke up when I thought I was hearing whispers in my dreams. My husband was kneeling next to me with his right hand in my left hand praying for me. He was whispering. I wasn’t hearing the words. Or he was speaking in tongues? I don’t know.

I kept pretending I was sleeping. I was feeling better. How he treated me over the night helped. After praying for me, he left the room. I turned to face the wall, pulled the cloth over my head and continued sleeping.

In my sleep, I perceived a scent coming from the kitchen. “Is he cooking? At this time? Oh, he knows I’m sick so he’s preparing his own breakfast.”

I continued sleeping until my alarm went off at 6 a.m. I walked leisurely to the hall only to see the kids dressed up for school and having breakfast. He said, “Oh you’re up? Are you feeling better now or you’ll like to go to the hospital?”

I was looking at him. He was wearing only boxer shorts and singlets while holding a flask and a spoon. His stomach was sticking out of the singlet. My husband had grown a potbelly when I wasn’t looking. I told him I was feeling better. I thanked him for what he had done with the kids. I was still talking when he chuckled and said, “Sit down and eat something before you get late for work.”

When I was getting married to this man, friends and family made me believe marriage was a struggle and it was going to be very tough because my man was from a tribe where their men are known to be very lazy. When we were dating, I visited him several times and each time I was with him, he cooked for me. I told Audrey, my oldest friend, “Atakora is not like that. He cooks for me. He takes care of me. He treats me like a princess. I know marriages come with troubles but I don’t think this guy will stress me like that.”

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It was difficult to convince my friends because Atakora was a divorcee. His two-year-old marriage collapsed when his wife travelled abroad and decided not to come back to Ghana again. The reason Atakora gave me for their divorce was that he couldn’t stand the distance. He wanted his wife with him but she was determined to live abroad so they decided to let it go.

Audrey was convinced there was more to it than what he was telling me. She said, “I don’t mean to rain on your parade but be careful. Don’t believe everything you hear. There could be skeletons. Look for them before they come scaring you.”

All the stories I heard before my marriage made me enter the marriage with full armour. I wore a helmet to protect my head. I hung a safety net to protect me from falling. Atakora was good to me but I was always waiting for the day my friends talked about. The day my mom talked about. I was waiting for Armageddon, the day when everything turned upside down in my marriage.

We had our first child a year after marriage. I didn’t feel pretty again. Each time we had sex, I felt I was too wide for him to enjoy me. I kept apologizing for who I’d become. I would be all over him after sex to tell me if he enjoyed it. “Atakora, don’t patronize me. Tell me the truth. Did you like it? Does it still feel the same? Did you feel it like you did when I didn’t have a child?”

Sometimes he wouldn’t answer any of my questions. He’ll hug me from behind and shush me to sleep. It was calming to know my partner in the journey of life felt safe regardless of everything. The second child came and then the third. It looked like the coming of every child made him sweeter. He was there. He provided. He supported. He stayed next to me and asked if everything was alright.

Years later, I started taking things for granted. Everything he did to me or for me appeared to be normal. I’d come to expect it and he delivered without fail. But last night brought me back to where I should have been all this while. Last night brought me to a place where I felt nothing else but lucky to have a man like my husband.

I was looking at him do what he did every day, this time with different eyes. I was assessing him and taking it all in. I felt ungrateful because, for a very long time, I hadn’t said thank you. For a very long time, I hadn’t shown him the kind of appreciation he deserved. He had even grown a subtle potbelly and I didn’t notice. I was there but wasn’t present.

At the table, I said thank you. He asked what for and I said, “For being you. For being this husband who prays and cares. For being the man I didn’t hope for but had. For being everything you are.”

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He chuckled. He pointed at the door to the washroom and said, “Go and brush your teeth and come and eat. You’re talking too much for a woman who was dying last night.”

I did what he said. I brushed my teeth and had my breakfast with a heart of gratitude. While eating, I thought I should write this so when it’s published, I would send him the link and say, “You’re these and more. I’m lucky to have you.”

—Abena

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