My boyfriend, Elvis, always had a problem with my temper. If you asked him to describe me, he would mention my temper first and then say, “But she’s a good woman.”

On our second dating anniversary, I made him a promise. “Give me just two months, and you’ll speak of me without the ‘but.’ I’m working on my temper. I will change. You’ll see.”

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Two weeks later, our relationship was on its knees because of my temper. He said he was coming to visit and asked me to cook for him. I didn’t have any money, but I went to the ATM and withdrew the last amount in my account to prepare a meal for him. Two hours after I finished cooking, he still hadn’t arrived.

I called his phone, but it was off. I didn’t hear from him again until the next morning when he called. I didn’t pick up his calls, so in the afternoon, he came to see me. My temper was already on duty before his arrival.

I told him, “If you make one move toward me, I swear I will throw this pan in my hand. Go back to wherever you’re coming from.”

He made the move, and I threw the pan. Fortunately, he swerved.

“So you really meant to hit me with this pan? Fine!”

Then he turned around and left me standing there, still fuming because he had made me waste my last money.

We didn’t talk for three days. Later, when I came back to my senses, I texted him, as I always did after my temper had created distance between us. He didn’t reply. I called his phone. He didn’t pick up. I went to his house, and they told me he had gone to see his mom.

Unbeknownst to me, he hadn’t been able to come over as promised because his mother had one of her usual medical crises, and he had been called. He had to leave everything to attend to her, and while he was there, his phone went off. That was why I couldn’t reach him that day.

I waited for him to return, and on seeing me, he told me it was over. I knelt on the floor and begged him. I cried. I told him that without him, this world would be a cloudy place for me. He didn’t listen. He insisted it was over because I had always promised to change but never did.

I found out where his mom was, and when he still wouldn’t come back to me, I went there to meet him. I bought fruits and other things his mom would need.

His mom asked him, “Elvis, who is this woman?”

I held my breath, scared he was going to tell his mom I was just a friend or someone he didn’t know.

He answered, “She’s the woman I’m there with.”

I smiled. I knew we were back together.

On our way back, we talked. He said, “This should be the last time you throw a tantrum without hearing from me first.”

I nodded while holding my heart and whispering, “Dear heart, we are on the last lap. You’d better behave.”

After meeting his mom, I decided to take him home to meet my parents too. We got to my house, and I screamed to announce my presence. I saw my dad quickly dash out from the back of the house, heading toward the gate. A few seconds later, my mom followed, holding a shovel handle and screaming, “You’d better stay there! Why are you running?”

My dad calmed down once he saw us, but not my mom. She ignored our presence and lashed out at my dad right in front of us, calling him names and telling him she had wasted her precious life loving a man like him.

I could see Elvis was shocked, but to me, it was the least I had seen. My dad dusted off his hands, shook Elvis’s hand, and asked the reason for our visit.

My mom later joined us, well cleaned up and smiling as though she wasn’t the same woman who had been holding the shovel handle moments earlier. She welcomed us calmly and said, “Oh, Me Wura, won’t you give the guest water before you ask him questions?”

She went inside and returned with water. Elvis drank before we talked about our mission. They were both happy.

But I was a little down, not knowing what Elvis was thinking about me. Before we left, my mom told Elvis, “We’ve been married for more than thirty years, and what you saw is normal for us, but we are never violent. Your sweethearts understand this.”

On our way back, we were both silent. Then he said, “Now I understand where you got this from.”

I didn’t respond. He didn’t say anything else until we got out of the car and went our separate ways.

Fourteen years of marriage and four kids later, Elvis still talks about the day my mom chased my dad while holding a shovel handle. He talks about it fondly and laughs, but to me, that was the day everything changed. I saw myself in my mom, and it wasn’t pretty. I was so embarrassed that if Elvis had left me that day, I wouldn’t have blamed him.

Days after visiting my parents, I told him, “I have a temper, but believe me, there’s no way I will pick up a weapon and chase after you. I threw a pan, yes, but that’s the extent of it. Chasing someone with a weapon belongs to my mom, and I never inherited that.”

He responded, “I know. We won’t get there.”

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Maybe it was the trust he had in me. Maybe it was the secondhand embarrassment I felt seeing my mom do that. Maybe I was tired of my own temper issues. Or maybe it was a combination of all those things.

I managed my anger. I was never violent again. It’s the reason we’ve been able to live happily all these years, raising our children and living life as though we’ve never had it rough before.

—Selina 

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