—
The hospital smelled like antiseptic and prayers.
Dolapo was in labor.
Twelve hours. No progress.
I sat on the bench outside the maternity ward, drenched in sweat. Not from heat—but from fear. Fear that something would go wrong. That this child we had sacrificed everything for might not make it. That the woman who bore all my burdens would suffer alone beyond that swinging door.
I was helpless.
And for a man, helplessness is humiliation.
—
I closed my eyes, my fingers clutching the ₦60,000 I had in my pocket.
That money was meant for hospital bills after delivery and transport back home. But now the nurse had come out and said:
“Oga, doctor say we need to get this injection urgently. No stock. You fit run go pharmacy?”
₦2,800.
I ran—literally—to three different pharmacies before I found it. When I returned, Dolapo was already in the delivery room. Screaming. Crying.
I was not allowed in.
So I stood at the door and cried silently.
—
At 3:42pm, the door opened.
A nurse emerged, her face stern.
My heart stopped.
“Oga, congrats. Na baby girl.”
I didn’t know when I started crying for real. No holding back. My legs gave way and I sat right there on the cold floor, sobbing into my hands.
Not because of the gender.
But because she made it.
They both made it.
And I didn’t lose them.
—
Later, I sat beside Dolapo, who was too weak to talk but smiled at me. Our daughter, small and pink, was asleep beside her.
That night in the hospital, I held my child and made a vow in my heart:
I may be broke, but you will never lack love. I may be tired, but I’ll always fight for you. I may be afraid, but I will not run away.
Because that’s what men do.
Real men.
—
But life didn’t get easier because of that vow.
Hospital bills came. Naming ceremony expenses crept in. Relatives started calling with “advice” that sounded more like ridicule:
“Tunde, you mean you still live in that one-room with your wife and baby? What kind of man are you?”
What kind of man?
The kind who bathes his baby with cold water in the morning because there’s no heater.
The kind who walks to work in second-hand shoes so he can buy diapers.
The kind who holds his wife at night when she cries over not being able to eat enough to breastfeed well.
But they don’t see that kind.
They only see what’s missing.
—
Three weeks after the naming, I got a query at work. My attention had slipped. I was exhausted, late twice in one week. My boss called me in.
“Tunde, are you sure you’re ready for this job? If your home is disturbing you, take leave. We need serious people here.”
I bit my lip so hard it bled.
You think I have the luxury to take leave? To stay home with a hungry baby and unpaid bills?
I said nothing. Just nodded and left.
—
That night, Dolapo touched my shoulder as I stared into the ceiling.
“I’m going to start selling baby clothes online,” she whispered.
“From where?” I asked, tired.
“My phone. Instagram. WhatsApp. I have about ₦16k in my account. I’ll start small.”
My heart swelled with pride and pain.
Pride because she was stepping up.
Pain because I wished I had more to give, so she wouldn’t have to.
But she did it.
—
By the second month, she had five customers.
By the third, she was making small gains—₦2k here, ₦5k there.
We ate better..
We laughed again.
Our daughter started giggling.
Life didn’t magically become perfect.
But for the first time since our wedding, I felt like we were doing more than surviving—we were living.
—
One night, Dolapo said, “You know, Tunde… I used to think love was roses and surprise gifts.”
I looked at her.
“And now?”
She smiled. “Now, I know it’s standing in line at the hospital with a crying baby and no transport fare, but still holding hands.”
We both laughed. That kind of laugh that carries pain, joy, and healing all at once.
—
One Sunday, I finally looked in the mirror and saw him—the man behind the mask.
Not weak.
Not a failure.
But a fighter.
A provider of peace, not just money.
A father.
A husband.
A man.
—
The End
—
