Episode 4: Not Just a Mother, Not Just a Wife
A Coolvalstories Original
There’s a lie they don’t say out loud, but we all hear it anyway:
“A good woman should be satisfied with a roof over her head, children by her side, and a man who doesn’t cheat.”
That’s the Nigerian gospel of womanhood.
So when you dare to ask for more—peace, recognition, companionship, rest—they say you’re ungrateful.
That’s what I thought about one morning as I washed the children’s bedsheet for the second time that week.
As I scrubbed, my back hunched over the basin, soap foaming over my arms, I remembered something strange.
I once gave a TEDx talk.
Yes, me—Amaka Nwoke.
I stood in front of hundreds of students, talking about economic development and women in leadership. I wore a fitted blazer. My natural hair was in a bun. I spoke with fire.
Now?
I was sweating over urine-stained cotton and wondering whether to cook ogbono or make do with leftover jollof.
That evening, Obinna came home unusually early—by 6:30pm.
The kids screamed with excitement. “Daddy! Daddy!”
He laughed, scooped them up, and kissed their cheeks. Then he turned to me.
“Babe, I told my boss you’re the strongest woman I know.”
I blinked. “Eh?”
He smiled. “He was complaining about how his wife nags. I said, ‘My own doesn’t even disturb me. She handles everything at home quietly. No stress.’”
I laughed, but it was hollow.
So… that’s what my silence was to him?
Strength?
I wanted to ask: “Have you ever wondered why I stopped talking?”
But I didn’t. There was stew on the fire, and the twins had already started fighting over a pencil.
Later that night, after everyone had eaten and the plates were stacked in the sink, I sat alone in the living room.
It was the first quiet I had tasted all day.
I didn’t touch my phone. I didn’t scroll Instagram. I just sat… thinking.
Is this it?
Is this the reward for sacrifice? For giving up my body, my career, my voice?
To be seen as “strong” simply because I don’t complain?
I remembered Ada’s mum—Mrs. Okonkwo—at the PTA meeting last term. She was in heels, with glossy nails and French tips. Her perfume lingered as she passed. Her son was in Chidera’s class.
She asked me what I “did.”
I said, “I stay at home for now.”
She smiled politely, eyes flicking past me like I was invisible.
That moment lingered.
Because deep down, I didn’t want her respect.
I wanted my own.
Two days later, I did something unexpected.
I brought out my old laptop. Dusted it. Plugged it in.
It still worked.
I stared at the blinking cursor for almost 15 minutes, unsure what to do.
Then I remembered one of the posts I had drafted before marriage. “The Modern Nigerian Woman: Balancing Dream and Duty.”
I opened it.
Rewrote it.
Tears streamed down my cheeks as I typed, but I didn’t stop. I was crying for the woman I once was—and the one trying to come back.
The next week, I started waking up 30 minutes earlier—not to cook, not to iron—but to write.
Just 500 words a day. In between chores. During nap time. Sometimes at night, when everyone was asleep.
I began to feel… alive again.
I didn’t tell Obinna.
Not because I was hiding it, but because I didn’t know if he would understand. He believed I was “living the dream”—no boss, no pressure, no alarm clocks.
But what is a dream when your mind feels like a prisoner?
One night, we lay in bed in silence—back to back.
He finally broke it.
“Amaka… you’ve changed.”
I turned slowly. “How do you mean?”
“You don’t talk much again. You don’t smile like before.”
I sat up. “Obinna… what do you know about me? What makes me happy? What makes me sad?”
He paused. “You’re happy when the kids are doing well… when I bring provisions…”
I sighed. “That’s not happiness. That’s survival. That’s duty. I mean me—Amaka. The woman you married. Do you know what I miss? What I dream of?”
His silence was my answer.
I turned back to the wall.
The next morning, he asked what I meant by “dreams.”
I told him: “I want to feel human again. I want to feel like more than a vessel for children and food. I want my life back.”
He looked shocked. “But I provide everything. What else do you need?”
I didn’t answer.
Not because I didn’t have an answer.
But because I realized he still didn’t get it.
That day, I watched him dress up and drive out with confidence. He had a clear destination, a purpose.
I looked down at myself.
I had plans too.
But first, I had to check if the okro had spoiled.
I know I love my children. I know I love Obinna in my own tired way. But love doesn’t mean losing yourself. It shouldn’t.
I can still be a good mother and chase my dreams. I can be a wife and be a woman with fire. I shouldn’t have to choose.
And so, as I stared into the mirror that evening, brushing out my tangled hair, I whispered to my reflection:
“You are still here.”
And then the thought crept in, one that wouldn’t leave me:
“Why do we celebrate women who die in silence, but shame the ones who speak up for themselves?”
To be continued in Episode 5: “A Room Full of Noise, and Still So Alone”
