Episode 1: What They Don’t See
A Coolvalstories Original
Nobody really prepares you for motherhood in Nigeria. You think it’s just about breastfeeding and changing diapers. Nobody talks about the part where you start losing your name. Your ambition. Your self-worth.
My name is Amaka.
Well, it used to be. These days, I’m mostly called “Mummy Chidera.”
Even Obinna — my husband — calls me that now. Like my identity came and went with my womb.
I wasn’t always like this. I was a graduate. A first-class graduate of Economics from UNIZIK. Sharp, focused, ambitious. I had dreams of wearing suits, carrying a MacBook, giving presentations in corporate offices, and being the kind of woman that made little girls say, “I want to be like her.”
I had a job at a fintech startup in Lekki. My salary wasn’t huge, but I felt alive. I was building something. I was becoming someone.
Then I got married.
And Obinna said, “Babe, when the baby comes, I want you to stay home and focus on raising our children. I’ll take care of everything.”
I laughed at first. “You mean maternity leave, right?”
“No, full-time. You know how I feel about nannies. Our children should know their mother.”
I was flattered. It felt like love. Like protection. Like purpose.
So I resigned.
Fast forward five years.
Three kids.
One salary.
No help.
No life.
I wake up at 4:30am every day — even Sundays. Boil water. Warm pap. Iron uniforms. Pack lunchboxes. Braid tiny heads. Yell over missing socks. Argue over who gets the pink cup.
School run starts at 6:50am. Come back, sweep the house, wash dishes, do laundry (no washing machine — NEPA too unreliable), clean the toilets, mop the floors, reply teachers on WhatsApp, cook lunch.
By 2pm, it’s time to pick the kids again. Sometimes, I do it still wet from rinsing clothes. Then homework. Then dinner. Then bath. Then clean again. Then the fights — they never stop fighting.
By 9pm, I collapse.
And then Obinna walks in.
He comes home every evening at 9:15pm. Never fails. Drops his laptop bag. Loosens his tie. Picks up his phone. And says the same thing:
“What are we eating?”
That’s my cue to jump up again. Even if I had just laid down.
He provides, yes. Foodstuff. Rent. School fees. DSTV subscription.
But he doesn’t see.
He doesn’t see that it takes five hours of heat, shouting, and exhaustion to cook stew for the week. That my back aches from bending over buckets. That my ears ring from the noise of children. That sometimes, I forget to eat because I’m serving everyone else.
He doesn’t see that I’m exhausted — not just physically, but spiritually. Mentally. Emotionally.
Because being a housewife in Nigeria isn’t rest.
It’s survival.
One day, I asked him for money to buy sanitary pads, Dettol, and Maggi.
He looked at me and frowned. “But I gave you ₦30,000 last week. What are you doing with money?”
I smiled. That type of smile that hurts your teeth.
That same week, he came home with two boxes of pizza for the kids and himself. I wasn’t hungry anyway.
I miss myself.
I miss the girl that used to walk through Yaba market with her tote bag and earpiece, talking about fintech, dreaming about travel, joining Zoom webinars, and making plans.
Now, the only webinars I join are my secondary school whatsapp group chat or the kids school whatsapp discussions.
Nobody asks me how I am. Not even my siblings. They think I’m lucky to “sit at home all day.”
But I don’t sit.
I run.
The worst part?
The loneliness.
You’d think with three kids running around, loneliness wouldn’t be an issue. But it is.
Because nobody sees me.
The children see a provider.
Obinna sees a helper.
My neighbors see a lucky wife.
My friends see a woman they’ve outgrown.
But nobody sees Amaka.
The final straw came on a Sunday afternoon, during lunch. We were eating eba and egusi when Obinna casually said, “Babe, I think we should have one more child. I want another boy.”
I dropped my spoon.
“Obinna, we have three children. I barely sleep.”
He smiled. “You’re doing a great job. It’ll be easier now. You’re experienced.”
I laughed. The kind of laugh that sounds like pain.
“No. I’m not having another child.”
He looked shocked. “Why not? You don’t want to give me what I want?”
I wanted to scream. I wanted to say, What about what I want?
I wanted to remind him that I’ve been breastfeeding, bending, cooking, washing, crying, and breaking for five straight years.
But I didn’t say any of that.
I just stood up, walked into the bedroom, and locked the door.
That night, I sat in darkness, listening to the ceiling fan hum. My kids were asleep. My husband was on the couch, watching highlights from the Chelsea game. I was alone. Again.
And I asked myself one question—one that still lingers as I write this in my old spiral notebook:
“Why is it so easy for everyone to forget the woman who gave up everything for the home they love?”
To be continued in Episode 2: “The Work That Never Ends”
