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Title: When the Honeymoon Ends
Episode 6: “Rainbows After Rain”
Word Count: ~1,250 words
Amaka’s POV
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They say tough times never last—but when you’re inside the storm, it feels like forever.
Chike and I had seen some of our darkest days—empty pots, mounting bills, bruised egos, and sleepless nights filled with more silence than words. But somehow, we kept waking up beside each other. We kept choosing “us.”
Maybe that was the miracle all along.
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One Saturday morning, as we swept the compound together, the landlord’s son—a chubby-faced boy who always liked peeking into our room—ran up to Chike excitedly.
“Uncle Chike! They are calling you in front. A man with big car is looking for you!”
Chike and I glanced at each other.
“A big car?” I repeated.
He shrugged, wiped his hands on his shorts, and went out. I followed closely behind.
In front of our compound was a black SUV with tinted windows. A tall man stepped out, wearing a corporate shirt tucked neatly into tailored trousers.
“Chike!” he grinned. “Guy! You no go even believe where I see your name!”
Turned out he was a former classmate from Chike’s polytechnic days—now managing one of the leading construction firms in Enugu. He’d stumbled across Chike’s name on a list of technicians for a local project and remembered how skilled he was back then.
He was offering him a contract. Full-time electrical installation for one of their new estate sites in Agbani..
A project worth millions of Naira
I stood there, shocked.
Chike just kept blinking.
“Are you serious?” he asked.
“Guy, na small thing now. You still dey struggle for this kind place?”
Chike laughed—short, stunned.
I was crying before I realized it.
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That night, we sat outside on our plastic chairs, holding hands under the moonlight.
“You know,” I whispered, “when I said ‘yes’ to you, I didn’t know how hard the road would be. But if I had to choose again—even knowing all we’d go through—I’d still choose you.”
Chike kissed the back of my hand. “I didn’t have a lot to offer you, Amaka. But I knew I’d give you everything I had. Thank you for staying.”
I rested my head on his shoulder.
A generator rattled in the distance, and the smell of fried fish wafted from a neighbour’s window. But in that moment, we felt rich.
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The contract changed things.
Not overnight.
We didn’t move into a duplex. We didn’t buy a car. But little by little, life began to ease.
We replaced our broken blender.
We paid off the electricity debt.
I stopped selling chin-chin and focused more on my writing gigs. I even began volunteering with a local NGO, helping out with school literacy campaigns—a dream I’d buried long ago under the weight of bills and survival.
We started planning for a better apartment. Nothing too fancy. Just somewhere with a second room, a proper kitchen, and tiles that didn’t crack under your feet.
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But the biggest surprise came one quiet Wednesday evening, when I felt dizzy while cooking.
At first, I thought it was the heat. Then the nausea started.
And then—two pink lines.
I sat on the bathroom floor for nearly ten minutes, stunned, holding the test kit.
When Chike returned, I didn’t even wait.
I walked to him, took his hand, placed it on my stomach, and whispered, “We’re going to be parents.”
He froze.
Then his eyes widened.
Then… he broke into tears.
“I… I don’t even have words.”
“You don’t need words,” I whispered.
That night, we held each other like it was our first time all over again.
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Pregnancy wasn’t easy.
Morning sickness. Mood swings. Cravings at odd hours.
But Chike became my personal assistant, nurse, chef, and comedian. He downloaded pregnancy podcasts. He argued with the doctor about prenatal vitamins. He even followed me to market and negotiated tomato prices like a pro.
Our one-bedroom apartment suddenly felt tighter—but also fuller.
Our lives were growing.
Not just our bellies—but our bond, our hope, our future.
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On the day we finally moved out of our compound, Mama Ifeoma cried.
“You two have shown me that love still exists,” she said, hugging me tightly.
Our new apartment was small, yes—but it had fresh paint, a water heater (luxury!), and best of all: a spare room we painted yellow for the baby.
We couldn’t afford a cot yet, but Chike made a crib from spare plywood and polished it with oil and love.
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One night, a month before my due date, I found our old wedding photo album under a pile of books. I flipped through it slowly—the bright smiles, the modest hall, our rented clothes, our plastic rings.
I laughed. Then I cried.
Chike joined me and looked over my shoulder.
“We looked so clueless,” I said.
He smiled. “But full of faith.”
“Yes. Faith is what carried us.”
He rubbed my belly gently. “And now, faith is multiplying.”
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Our son came on a rainy Tuesday afternoon.
After 12 hours of labour, 3 different nurses, and a power outage that nearly made me slap someone, I finally heard his cry.
Chike held my hand the whole time, whispering prayers and squeezing harder than I did.
We named him Chibundu—“God is my strength.”
Because truly, only strength brought us this far.
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Now, when people ask me about marriage, I don’t tell them about honeymoon locations or matching agbadas.
I tell them about late nights with no power, holding hands in the dark.
About boiling water on a stove to bathe.
About sharing one pack of Indomie and laughing like it was jollof rice.
About forgiveness after forgetting pepper.
About waking up each day and choosing to stay.
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Love doesn’t always roar.
Sometimes, it’s a whisper between tears. A touch across tired bodies. A promise kept in silence.
And if you wait long enough—after the pain, the noise, the struggle—you’ll see it:
The rainbow.
After the rain.
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A Coolvalstories Production
THE END.
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