My Changing World

In Nigeria, we say, “no one says their mother’s pot of soup is not sweet”. In my eyes, my mother was the best person I knew. She could do no wrong and she was always right. She knew the remedy for every wound, had a song to soothe bad moods, a hug to make everything feel alright. She just seemed to have the solution to everything. She was an ardent Catholic, living her life dedicated to the church, and being wonderfully hospitable. She would cook the most sumptuous meals and I often wondered why visitors deserved such special treatment. Our house was like a hostel. Everyone was welcome. At some point, I remember counting 17 people, who lived in our house. I had no reason to question my mother’s sainthood…yet.

After earning my MBA, I vacationed in England for about 10 days; I spent some time in Nottingham, London, and Manchester, visiting friends and family. As a Manchester United fan, it would have been a sacrilege to not tour Old Trafford and kiss its holy grounds. So, I did. Yes, I got on my knees and kissed the grass. LOL!

When I returned to Nigeria, my then boyfriend asked me to marry him. I accepted. I broke the news to my family. They were elated. My mother was exceptionally happy. I lived up to her expectations. I finished school with flying colours, and now I was ready to get married and give her grandchildren. I was a good kid. Once again, I checked all the boxes. I made her proud. She could now be counted among women whose daughters have gotten married and followed diligently in the footsteps of their mothers. Wedding arrangements ensued until the wedding held in December of 2009.

One Sunday evening, I told my mother I wanted to leave the man I married about a year ago. I placed my head on her thighs and she rubbed my head while consoling me as I cried. She told me having second thoughts about getting married, and wanting to end the marriage was part of the rituals of marriage, and that everyone experienced such anxiety. She advised me to get pregnant because, somehow, in her opinion, children have the ability to fix the wrong in marriage and make happy homes. I almost believed her. I cried some more and told her I really wanted to come back home. She casually said “Ok.”

In the following months, my parents intervened to save the marriage. They suggested my husband and I attend therapy sessions with a Priest of the local parish, who happened to also be a close family friend. The sessions were nothing short of interesting. We both shared many revealing things as we tried to figure out why I was so unhappy. In one session, he revealed the fears he had when we were dating. He noticed that I always found an excuse to not spend time with him. That should have been a red flag -  to both of us. I am not sure which excuses he made on my behalf, but on my part, it was unconscious. It was not until he mentioned it that I began to evaluate my behaviour and realised he was right. He should have found it strange that I would only give minimal attention to the man I wanted to marry. But he didn’t.

The priest suggested we take an exclusive vacation to Dubai. It was supposed to be a getaway from the hassles of living in Nigeria to enable us focus on building our relationship. I thought the reason I was not attracted to my husband was because I didn’t like his style of dressing. We shopped enough for a total wardrobe overhaul, including colognes and shoes. Still, I found myself talking on the phone with my female lover back in Nigeria. I couldn’t wait to tell her about my day. I spent hours on the phone in the bar downstairs while my husband waited up for me. I wanted him to fall asleep before I returned so I would not have to deal with the awkwardness of me not wanting him to touch me. In the ten days of vacation, we were never intimate. 

We returned to Nigeria, and on March 1, I told my husband I wanted a break. Things were not working out and it would be nice to think things through and evaluate the functionality of the marriage. He agreed. I knew I was not coming back. I knew I was done. And I was ready for what lay ahead. I anticipated resistance from my parents, friends, and other family members, but I was not quite prepared for what actually happened in the following months. 

I arrived at home, unpacked my bags and settled into my room. My mother welcomed me, but not for long. As days became weeks, she worried that I was staying away from my husband for too long. She suspected that I had no intention to return. I dreaded what had become her customary visits to my room early in the morning, when she would sit on my bed and lecture me about the need to go back. 

At first, she was civil. I expressed my unhappiness with being in the marriage and she tried to cajole me into believing that I would grow to love him even if I did not love him then. As time went on, she got more worried, more desperate. People were talking. Her reputation was at stake. God forbid that her daughter would be a divorcee. I noticed she put a picture of my husband and I inside her Bible hoping the Holy Spirit would restore my reasoning. Priests called me to talk about marriage, and try to convince me to return to my husbands house, which I found strange given that these were men who have never been married. But, I digress.

One day, she came to my room as I was preparing to head out, and handed me a pamphlet on marriage. She was about to start her sermon when I said “Mummy, that marriage is over”. For the first time in many years, my mother slapped me. When I looked in the mirror, her fingers had left their imprint on my face. But even deeper, they had left their imprint on the soul that had always seen her as saintly. I was both shocked and very angry. I started crying because I couldn’t hit her back. She’s my mother. She began ranting about how stubborn I was, and how I never listen to anyone once I make up my mind. 

I had never seen my mother so angry. She looked so different as her face seemed to take on a stranger's aspect. She looked like she had fire in her eyes and her words felt like arrows piercing my ears. She told me she regretted the day I was born, and that I was bringing shame to the family. She alleged that I only cared about myself and never considered how my decision affected my family. She told me nothing would ever go well in my life and I would never find peace. She added that I would never find a husband if I didn’t return to him. Her invocation that I would never find a husband did not bother me much because I was not looking for one anyway. But every other thing she said was like a stab. She angrily walked out of my room and left the house. I had been getting ready to visit my dad in his office but I was completely destabilised. 

In Africa, a mother is supreme. We believe that no curse can harm you but your mother is your god on earth. My mother had more or less cursed me. I sat on my bed and wept as my mothers words rang in my ear over and over again. As horrible as this was, I believed that she was going through shock and disappointment,certain that soon she would feel better and her love for me would win out. I was in for a shocker.