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: “What the World Expects”
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The morning after that emotional conversation with Dolapo, something changed between us.
Not magically. Not like those Instagram couples who snap back into laughter and dancing. But something softened. She looked at me with different eyes, and I stopped walking around with that bitterness in my chest.
But one thing remained unchanged—the pressure.
The pressure to be okay.
The pressure to perform.
The pressure to provide, even when you’re running on empty.
—
We started sharing everything—expenses, worries, emotions, silence. But while the emotional burden lightened at home, the world outside didn’t care what I was going through.
I got to work that Monday, barely slept, and my supervisor, Mr. Amos, attacked me.
“Tunde, you’re lagging behind! You think this is a maternity leave?”
I blinked, stunned, but swallowed the retort that nearly slipped out.
He didn’t know I’d trekked from the junction because I couldn’t afford a bike. That I had stayed up till 3am massaging Dolapo’s swollen legs and dealing with her mood swings. That I hadn’t had a proper meal in two days.
But men don’t explain.
We endure.
—
By midweek, I was broke—again. My account balance stared at me like an insult: ₦4,211.
Electricity was gone. There was no milk or Milo left in the house. The doctor had prescribed folic acid again. I stared at the list and did something I never thought I’d do.
I called my younger brother, Kunle.
“Guy, I no go lie to you,” I said, my voice low. “I need ₦10k. Just for this week.”
Kunle was a corp member in Abuja. He laughed softly.
“Bros, you don dey beg me? Wow.”
It was a joke, but it cut deep.
“I’ll send ₦5k,” he said. “Just manage am.”
I thanked him, my pride bleeding, and ended the call.
—
Later that evening, my neighbour, Alhaji Sulaimon, who worked with the local government, stopped me.
“Ah ah, Tunde, you no dey take car go work again? Or you dey form humble?”
I smiled and nodded, too tired to explain that we’d sold the little generator I bought during my bachelor days just to offset the baby cot expenses.
Appearances must be maintained.
Because the world expects a man to look like he’s doing well—even when he’s falling apart inside.
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Dolapo’s tummy had grown round and heavy. The pregnancy was seven months in. She couldn’t do much anymore. So I handled cooking, errands, and even laundry.
One Saturday afternoon, I was rinsing clothes at the backyard when I overheard our landlady telling another tenant:
“Hian, see as that one dey wash wrapper. Na who dey control the house sef—am or im wife?”
I paused, soap suds on my hand.
It hurt.
Not because I was ashamed of helping my wife.
But because even kindness has become ammunition in the mouths of onlookers.
—
One night, I got home to see Dolapo crying.
“What happened?” I rushed to her.
She didn’t speak immediately. Just handed me her phone.
Her best friend, Titi, had sent a long voice note:
“Dolapo, I love you o, but you really settled. One-bedroom? A man that can’t even afford a proper hospital? This is not the life you used to dream of. Think am well.”
My fists clenched.
Dolapo looked at me, eyes red. “Is this really my fault?”
“No,” I said.
But I wanted to call Titi and scream, “Are you the one sleeping beside her at night? Are you the one watching me break daily just to breathe?”
I didn’t.
Because the world won’t understand that struggle is not laziness. That not all broke men are irresponsible. That wealth isn’t the only measure of love or commitment.
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We stopped picking Titi’s calls after that.
We became our own small army—two soldiers against a judgmental world.
Dolapo started cooking in bulk and freezing soups to reduce cost and stress. I cut off extra subscriptions, even data. We even created a small saving box for baby items—any ₦500 or ₦1,000 went in there, no matter how tight things were.
We found rhythm in the chaos.
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But pressure doesn’t knock before coming in.
It kicked our door open again during the baby shower.
Dolapo’s colleagues from her old job organized a small one. I didn’t want to go—I was broke and had nothing new to wear. But she begged me, so I showed up.
And then, as if scripted, one of the women—Angela—asked me the question that made me feel like crawling under the floor.
“So Tunde, what gift are you buying for your baby?”
Everyone laughed, including Dolapo, trying to diffuse the awkwardness.
I forced a smile.
“Maybe a baby Benz,” I joked.
The pressure to show off was just too much
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That night, I lay beside Dolapo in silence.
“Do you think I’m a failure?” I asked.
She turned to face me.
“No, Tunde. You’re doing your best.”
I nodded but didn’t believe her.
Because the world wasn’t clapping.
Because Instagram couples were announcing baby gender reveals with fireworks, and I was rationing rice at home.
But in that moment, I remembered something my father once said:
“Son, a real man is not the one who has everything—but the one who gives everything he has and still loves.”
I had nothing left to give.
But my love remained intact.
And for now, that had to be enough.
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To be continued…
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Nice story