A Coolvalstories Production
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Episode 1: “This Wasn’t in the Vows”
They say marriage is sweet when you marry your friend.
I thought I married my best friend.
I, Tunde Martins, a 31-year-old civil engineer from Ibadan, stood at the altar barely eight months ago, holding the hands of the woman I had chased for three years—Dolapo. Beautiful, smart, supportive. Or so I thought.
It’s not that I don’t love her. I do. But what nobody tells you as a man is that marriage isn’t just about love. It’s about responsibility. About weight. About carrying more than your own body can sometimes bear.
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When we got married, I was earning ₦220,000 monthly working with a private construction firm. It wasn’t the best, but I was managing. We rented a small one-bedroom apartment in Akobo—neat enough, though the toilet leaked and the landlord acted like he was doing us a favor by breathing.
Dolapo was working too—an admin staff in a private secondary school. Her pay wasn’t much—₦65,000 monthly—but it helped. That was until she got pregnant two months after our wedding and had to quit the job due to constant morning sickness.
Just like that, we became a one-income household.
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At first, I tried to manage it with optimism. I cut back on hanging out with the guys. I stopped taking Bolt or Uber—trekking from the junction to save cost. I even reduced my own feeding just to make sure Dolapo ate well. You don’t play with pregnancy.
But everything changed after our third month of marriage.
She changed.
She became moody, withdrawn, sometimes outright hostile. I couldn’t say two sentences without her getting angry. Sometimes I’d come home tired, dusty from a construction site, and she wouldn’t even greet me. Instead, she’d fling a list in my face:
“We need money for tomatoes, yam, and antenatal.”
No “how was your day?” No “are you okay?”
At night, I’d lie beside her and feel the distance. The silence between us became louder than anything on TV. And the worst part? I couldn’t talk to anyone about it.
Because in this country, men don’t complain.
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My mum came visiting one Sunday after church. She looked around the apartment, saw Dolapo lying on the bed, and pulled me aside.
“Tunde, are you sure this girl is treating you well?” she whispered.
I smiled and lied through my teeth.
“Yes, ma. She’s just tired because of the pregnancy.”
She sighed and said something I’ll never forget.
“You see this marriage thing… the world sees only what you show them. But as a man, your peace matters too.”
I nodded, but I knew I had no peace. Just responsibilities.
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Bills stacked up.
Electricity: ₦10,000
Water: ₦2,500
Antenatal: ₦25,000 every two weeks
Food: Let’s not even go there.
Then came the baby shopping list—crib, diapers, wipes, baby clothes, flask, powder, mat… it felt endless. I’d stare at the list and feel my heart thudding like a generator.
One night, I asked Dolapo, gently, “Can we wait till the baby is born before buying some of these things?”
She turned and looked at me like I was a stranger. “You’re already failing as a father, Tunde.”
That broke something in me.
I went outside, sat on the broken cement block in front of our apartment, and wept.
Yes, a grown man—me—crying like a boy who lost his toy.
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I started taking extra site work, even weekends. My body ached. My eyes were always red. I barely had time to eat or sleep. But it still didn’t feel like enough.
And the worst part? I couldn’t tell Dolapo that I was scared.
Scared that I wasn’t enough. Scared of fatherhood. Scared that I’d wake up one day and snap under the weight.
The weight of being a husband.
The weight of being a provider.
The weight of being… a man.
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One Friday night, I got home late. I had stopped by the pharmacy to buy Dolapo’s calcium tablets. I was exhausted. The heat was unbearable. I opened the door and stepped into darkness.
PHCN had struck again.
Dolapo sat on the bed, fanning herself with a piece of cardboard.
“You didn’t buy light units?” she asked.
“No, I didn’t have enough after buying your drugs.”
She hissed loudly. “But I told you this morning. We’ve been in darkness since yesterday. Do you want me to lose this baby?”
I dropped the nylon bag on the floor and just stared at her. My lips trembled.
“Do you even see what I go through?” I asked.
She paused.
“You think I’m out there enjoying myself? Do you know the insults I collect from supervisors? The sun? The stress?”
Silence.
Then, she did something she hadn’t done in months—she got up and held me.
“Tunde… I’m sorry.”
Just like that, I broke.
I slumped into her arms and cried again.
Not because of weakness.
But because I’d been strong for too long.
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That night, we talked. For hours. For the first time in months.
She told me how scared she was of motherhood. Of losing her body. Of becoming invisible after the baby arrived.
I told her how scared I was of being poor. Of not being enough. Of turning into a man who resented his own home.
We held each other and made a pact—to talk more, shout less. To fight the problem, not each other. To never forget that we’re on the same side.
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Marriage is not Instagram pictures or matching pyjamas. It’s sacrifice. It’s patience. It’s bleeding inside and still saying, “I got you.”
I’m learning that being a man doesn’t mean bottling everything. It means standing up, showing up, and yes—sometimes crying when it gets too heavy.
The weight is still there. But now, I’m not carrying it alone.
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To be continued…
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