Episode 3: A Body That Never Rests, A Heart That’s Always Waiting
A Coolvalstories Original
Some days, it feels like my body is no longer mine.
It belongs to the children—arms stretched out to carry, back bent from lifting, breassts emptied from nursing, knees worn from scrubbing, feet swollen from standing for hours.
It belongs to Obinna—shared in bits and pieces, in stolen midnight moments when he rolls over, expecting warmth without asking if I have any left to give.
It belongs to the house—its walls, its floors, its dishes, its demands.
But to me?
It’s just the tired vessel I drag around every day.
I used to love baths.
Those long, slow, hot showers with scented soap and music playing in the background—those were my little luxuries.
Now, my bath is three minutes of rushing before a child bangs on the door screaming, “Mummy, Chidera poured cereal on the floor!”
Sometimes, I don’t even rinse properly.
Sometimes, I come out with my towel still on, forget to cream my body, and fall asleep before lotion touches my skin.
I haven’t painted my nails in months.
Last weekend, I tried to rest.
Just one Saturday. One.
I told Obinna on Friday night: “Please, help me with the kids tomorrow morning. I need to sleep in, even if it’s just an extra hour.”
He nodded.
But by 6:45am, Chisom was already poking my face.
“Mummy, Daddy say you should come and check Junior’s pampers. He say he no sabi do am well.”
So that was it. The rest was over.
I got up. Again.
Cleaned pee. Again.
Boiled water. Again.
Cooked yam. Again.
By the time it was 10:30am, Obinna was watching football and eating like the house didn’t almost collapse without me.
I tried talking to him.
That evening, after the kids had slept, I sat beside him and said, “Obi, I’m tired. I really am. I feel like I’m just functioning, not living.”
He nodded. Kept scrolling through his phone. “Yeah, it’s not easy. But you’re strong. You’re doing well.”
That was it.
No further questions. No hug. No “What can I do to help?”
Just a pat on the back
I almost wished he had gotten angry or defensive—at least then, it would mean he cared enough to engage.
But silence?
Silence is the loudest kind of abandonment.
Later that night, he tried to cuddle.
I pulled away.
He didn’t ask why.
By Monday, the cycle had started again.
School runs.
Fever.
Pharmacy runs.
Soaked uniforms.
Refilling gas.
Nagging NEPA.
Drying clothes under ceiling fans.
Balancing account to feed five mouths.
Smiling so the children won’t feel my burden.
Washing the same spoons they’ll throw on the floor again.
Doing everything. For everyone. All over again.
And still hearing, “Amaka, you’re lucky na. You’re not stressing yourself like working women.”
I don’t correct them anymore. There’s no point.
They wouldn’t understand the kind of work that never ends.
That has no office.
No weekend.
No salary.
No recognition.
Only exhaustion.
The other day, Obinna made the same demand again.
We were lying in bed. I was exhausted from a full day of running after the kids, and still cooking his favorite egusi soup.
He turned to me and said, “Let’s have one more baby na.”
I stared at him.
“Obi, are you joking?”
He smiled. “The children are grown up. We can manage. You’re already doing well.”
Manage?
I didn’t shout.
I didn’t cry.
I just looked him dead in the eye and said, “I’m not having another child.”
His smile dropped. “But why? You don’t want to expand our family?”
“No. I want to find myself again before I disappear completely.”
He kept quiet. Rolled over. Slept off.
Like the conversation meant nothing.
That night, I sat on the toilet seat at 2:15am, unable to sleep.
My hands were trembling—not from fear, but from fatigue.
I looked at the dark tiles, the empty soap case, the dull mirror.
And I whispered to myself: “When did I stop mattering?”
Not just to my husband, but to myself?
I used to write.
Did I ever tell you that?
Short stories. Poems. posts about relationships, politics, and gender roles. I had a following. People looked forward to my thoughts.
Now, the only thing I write is grocery lists and reminders for the school WhatsApp group.
I used to read books. Now I read biscuit wrappers.
I used to take walks and listen to music. Now I walk to the market and listen to my thoughts scream.
I used to laugh freely. Now, I do it carefully—because too much joy feels like I’m being ungrateful.
I used to be Amaka.
Now, I’m just the woman holding everything together while silently falling apart.
Sometimes, I wonder: if I collapse today, who would pick up the pieces?
Who would know how to separate the twins when they fight?
Who would know the gas finishes faster when the burner leaks?
Who would know Chidera prefers cornflakes dry but Junior wants his with warm milk?
Who would even notice that I’m gone — not just physically, but emotionally?
And then I ask myself, again and again:
“When will my rest come — and will I still be alive to enjoy it?”
To be continued in Episode 4: “Not Just a Mother, Not Just a Wife”
