Episode 5: A Room Full of Noise, and Still So Alone
A Coolvalstories Original
The twins were fighting again.
Over a pencil this time.
One had sharpened it, the other had claimed it. Within seconds, it escalated into screaming and slapping. Cries echoed through the small sitting room as I stirred egusi soup on the gas cooker with one hand and tried to separate two angry four-year-olds with the other.
Junior stood beside me in his usual position—one hand clinging to my wrapper, the other in his mouth, his diaper half-dangling from his waist. He needed a change. Again.
My phone buzzed on the table. School group chat.
“Reminder: Inter-house sports meeting for all parents – 10am on Wednesday.”
Another activity I would show up to, sweating, unfashionably dressed, and smiling. There would be mothers in heels and clean brows with housemaids in tow. And me—looking like a walking sacrifice.
That evening, Obinna came home at 8:48pm.
I had just managed to get the kids into bed. Junior had finally slept on my chest like a small bag of rice. My back was screaming. My stomach empty. My spirit… flat.
He walked in, dropped his bag, kicked off his shoes, and asked, “Any food?”
No “Hi.”
No “How was your day?”
No “How are the kids?”
I didn’t answer.
I couldn’t.
I just stood up, walked into the kitchen like a robot, and dished the soup I hadn’t even tasted.
When I returned to the sitting room, he was scrolling through Instagram reels, laughing at a skit.
I placed his food down.
He glanced up and smiled. “Thanks, babe.”
That was it.
After he ate, I tried to talk.
“Obi…”
He looked up, still half-smiling. “Hmm?”
“I need to talk to someone,” I said quietly.
“About what?”
“About me. About how I feel.”
He blinked. “What’s wrong?”
“I feel like I’m vanishing.”
He laughed nervously. “Ah ah, babe. Why would you say that?”
“I’m serious. I wake up every day and do everything—clean, cook, raise the children, plan meals, and budget expenses. And yet… I’m so alone.”
Obinna sat back, the laughter gone.
“You’re not alone. I’m here. The kids are here.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“Then what do you mean?”
“I mean I want more than just being useful.”
Silence.
It stretched between us like the distance we had both refused to acknowledge.
I continued, voice trembling.
“You come home, eat, and sleep. You don’t ask me how I am. You don’t notice when I cry in the bathroom. You don’t even see how hard I work to hold this house together.”
“But I provide,” he said firmly. “I give you everything.”
“No, Obinna,” I replied. “You give the house everything. You don’t give me anything. Not your time. Not your attention. Not your heart.”
His mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again.
“I didn’t know you felt this way.”
“Because you never ask.”
He sat in silence for a while.
Then he said, “I didn’t think you needed all that. I thought you were managing well. You never complain.”
“I stopped complaining,” I said quietly, “because it made no difference.”
The rest of that night was quiet.
He slept first, as usual.
I sat up in the dark, the dull hum of the ceiling fan my only company.
I thought of how many other women lay in beds like mine across Nigeria—wives, mothers, shadows—doing everything, getting nothing. Burning silently.
Not because they wanted to.
But because they were taught it was what good women do.
The next morning, he surprised me.
He helped the twins wear their shoes.
He asked if I had eaten.
He even said, “I can drop the kids today.”
And for a moment, I hoped.
But by Thursday, everything returned to normal. The one-day change was just guilt relief.
The truth was simple:
He was used to my silence.
He didn’t know how to deal with my voice.
So I began to talk elsewhere.
I joined a women’s support group online. Shared my story anonymously.
And what shocked me was how many women replied:
“Same here.”
“You’re not alone.”
“I feel this every day.”
One woman said:
“I realized I’m raising children and a grown man who thinks love is buying data and rice.”
Another said:
“I told my husband I needed a day off. He asked, ‘From what?’”
We weren’t mad.
We were just tired of being invisible.
That weekend, Obinna said something that made my stomach twist.
“why are you refusing to get pregnant for our fourth baby?”
I dropped the knife I was using to cut onions.
“Obinna, I said I’m not doing that again.”
He smiled. “Come on. The kids are growing. Let’s just try one more.”
I turned slowly.
“I said no.”
“Is that how you talk to your husband?”
“No. It’s how I talk to someone who doesn’t see that I’m drowning.”
His smile faded.
I walked out of the kitchen, wiping onion tears I didn’t even know had mixed with my real ones.
That night, I held Junior as he slept and kissed his soft forehead. I loved my children with my entire soul.
But I also loved myself.
And I would no longer bury that love just to meet the standards of a man who confused provision with presence.
And so, I asked myself as I folded Junior’s baby clothes the next morning:
“Why must motherhood feel like a prison before anyone believes we deserve freedom?”
