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Title: When the Honeymoon Ends
Episode 5: “Love in the Middle of Lack”
Word Count: ~1,200 words
Amaka’s POV
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It’s easy to hold hands when you’re walking through a garden. It’s harder when you’re stumbling through a storm, soaked, hungry, and unsure where the next step leads.
For Chike and me, love began to feel like work.
Not in the romantic “love languages” kind of way, but in the survival sense—like fetching water from a well with a cracked bucket, praying it holds long enough to quench our thirst.
S*x became occasional.
Smiles turned tight.
Arguments—petty ones—sprung from the most ridiculous things. One night, I raised my voice because he left only one sachet of water in the fridge. Another time, he snapped because I forgot to iron his shirt.
We were tired.
But worse—we were drifting.
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I noticed it first one Wednesday night. Chike had just returned from one of his wiring jobs. He looked worn out, his shirt stained with dust and engine grease. He muttered a tired “I’m home,” brushed past me, and dropped on the bed without even looking in my direction.
No kiss. No hug. No “how was your day?”
I stood there, arms crossed, watching him breathe heavily, then turn his back to me.
Something about that moment stung. Not because I needed affection, but because I missed it.
I missed us.
The version of us that would laugh while cooking, that would sneak kisses in the kitchen even with smoke in our eyes, that would lie in the dark and talk about dreams too big for our pocket.
Now, it was silence. Functional silence. We spoke when we needed to. Slept when we could. And loved when we remembered how to.
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The final straw came on a Sunday afternoon.
After church, Chike had promised to help me blend pepper at Mama Ifeoma’s shop since our small blender had packed up. But he forgot—and went straight to watch football with the boys from our street.
I waited for an hour. Then two.
Eventually, I carried the pepper myself and trekked to the roadside grinding spot under the scorching sun. By the time I returned home, my feet were burning and my face was flushed with heat and anger.
Chike walked in 30 minutes later, grinning and sweaty.
“Babe! You should have waited—ah! We won 3–1.”
I dropped the bowl I was rinsing with a loud clang.
“You think this is funny?”
He blinked. “What’s wrong now?”
“You forgot. Again. And I had to carry that big bowl under hot sun. All you care about these days is yourself and your friends.”
He frowned. “So because of ordinary pepper now, you’re angry like this?”
“Ordinary pepper?” I repeated. “You don’t even get it. You don’t see me anymore, Chike. I’m just your co-tenant that cooks and washes.”
He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it.
We didn’t talk again that night.
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The next few days were awkward.
He would leave early. I would pretend to sleep.
He’d return late. I’d pretend to be busy.
We acted like roommates passing each other in a shared space.
But silence is a terrible language for lovers.
It fills the room with things unsaid.
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One rainy evening, the power went out, as usual. We didn’t have fuel, and our rechargeable lamp had died. So we sat in darkness, back-to-back, with thunder clapping outside.
Then Chike broke the silence.
“Do you still love me?”
I turned slowly. “Why would you ask that?”
He sighed. “Because it feels like you don’t.”
I swallowed hard. “Sometimes I wonder if you still love me too.”
He moved closer. “I do. More than you know. I’ve just been… tired. Broke. Frustrated. I don’t know how to be romantic when I’m not even sure how to pay NEPA.”
I laughed sadly. “I understand. But I also miss the version of us that didn’t need much to be happy.”
He took my hand in the dark. “Maybe we lost track. But I don’t want to lose you.”
Tears rolled down my cheeks.
We didn’t say much after that.
We just held each other—tighter than we had in weeks.
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The next morning, he made me breakfast.
Just bread and tea.
He burnt the toast slightly and spilled sugar on the floor.
But I’d never felt more loved.
I kissed his forehead. “Thank you.”
That night, I returned the gesture. I wore the old red wrapper he liked and lit a single candle. No generator. No expensive perfume. Just us and the sound of night insects outside.
We made love—not the rushed, tired kind—but the kind that heals.
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From then on, we tried harder.
We didn’t have money, but we carved out small moments.
Washing our feet together in a basin after a long day.
Praying aloud before bed—even if it was just “God, help us.”
Sharing a single bottle of malt and pretending it was wine.
We started writing down one thing each day we were grateful for, even if it was just “Thank God NEPA brought light for one hour” or “Managed to cook stew without Maggi.”
It wasn’t perfect.
But it was real.
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Sometimes, love is not about the grand gestures.
It’s about choosing each other, over and over, even when life offers you every reason not to.
And in the middle of our lack, love came alive again.
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To be continued in Episode 6: “Rainbows After Rain” (Final Episode)
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A Coolvalstories Production
