Title: When the Honeymoon Ends
Episode 2: “Uninvited Guests”
Word Count: ~1,120 words
Amaka’s POV
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Marriage, I’ve come to realize, doesn’t whisper its troubles. It taps gently at first, like NEPA flickering lights—until darkness settles and you’re left fumbling in unfamiliar territory.
It had only been two months since Chike and I said “I do.” We were still learning each other in the silence of our small one-bedroom apartment at Coal Camp, Enugu. No car. No inverter. And with light bills piling up, our rechargeable lantern was now our closest companion.
So when I opened the door that Friday afternoon to see Chike’s elder sister, Ada, standing there with a baby strapped to her back and a nylon bag dragging behind her, I froze.
She smiled faintly. “Amaka, na God bring me here.”
—
She hadn’t called. No prior notice. Just appeared, looking worn-out and anxious.
I stepped aside and let her in. Our apartment was small—no parlour, just a tiny space that held a dining chair and a tabletop fan, which hadn’t worked in days thanks to poor electricity.
As Ada untied her baby, I asked, “Is everything okay?”
She sighed. “I had a fight with my husband. He locked me out. I had nowhere else to go.”
I swallowed hard. “You’ll be fine. Just rest for now.”
When Chike returned later that evening—after trekking back from where he dropped at Ogbete—he was surprised but quickly softened when he saw his sister and niece.
“She’ll only stay for a few days,” he assured me. “She just needs space.”
I nodded, even though I felt my heart tightening.
—
By the second day, I was already exhausted. Our only mattress had become a battlefield of three adult bodies and a restless toddler. Ada and her daughter slept on it while Chike and I spread a wrapper on the floor.
Cooking was now a two-person affair in our tiny kitchenette. Our gas cylinder ran out by Tuesday. I had to borrow ₦2,000 from my sister to refill it.
Then the baby got sick.
Ada didn’t have money for paracetamol syrup, so I dipped into the ₦5,000 I’d been saving to buy provisions for the month. I couldn’t say no.
But what stung wasn’t the money. It was when Ada started commenting on how I managed our home.
“Ah-ahn, na so una dey live here?” she’d say loudly. “Where una dey keep foodstuff sef? This kitchen no fit hold pot and stove together.”
I swallowed insults daily.
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One evening, while washing the baby’s clothes with my last sachet of Omo, I overheard her on a call.
“I’m managing here o,” she said. “But Amaka no dey even cook like wife. Na indomie she cook yesterday.”
That broke me.
She had seen me return from work, exhausted, yet I managed to boil water and make something so her baby wouldn’t go to bed hungry.
When I told Chike, he laughed awkwardly. “Don’t mind her jare. That’s how Ada talks. You know she likes to over-express.”
“But it’s disrespectful. This is our house.”
“Just ignore her for now. She’ll soon go.”
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But she didn’t.
By the second week, our home was a mess. Our single wall fan had stopped working. We slept hot and woke sweaty. The baby cried constantly. I snapped once and Chike looked at me like I’d grown horns.
“You knew I had family before we married,” he said.
“Yes,” I said, fighting tears. “But I thought we would build our own life first—before becoming a rescue home for everyone else.”
That night, we barely spoke.
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It was my colleague, Chioma, who finally gave me the advice I needed.
“Draw the line with love,” she said. “You’re not wicked. You’re setting boundaries.”
So that weekend, I woke early, made Ada breakfast, and sat her down.
“Sister Ada, I love and respect you. But this space is too small for all of us. Chike and I are still adjusting. Please, can you speak to your husband, or maybe go to Mama’s place in Abakpa?”
She didn’t like it, of course.
She murmured under her breath all day, packed slowly, and left the next morning.
—
That night, Chike was silent. I expected him to be angry.
But instead, he came and sat beside me.
“Thank you for enduring. I know Ada can be…a lot.”
I held his hand. “We need to agree on how to handle situations like this. We can’t keep patching everything while our own roof leaks.”
He nodded slowly. “You’re right.”
—
It wasn’t about hating his family.
It was about realizing that marriage is like a newborn. If too many hands start pulling it from all sides, it tears before it learns to walk.
And I wasn’t going to let ours tear.
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To be continued in Episode 3: “When Money Gets Funny”
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