“Did you ever love me at all?” Amaka’s voice trembled as her fingers clutched the fabric of her wrapper.
Jide stood across the living room, his shirt halfway tucked in, clearly caught in a rush. “Don’t do this now,” he said flatly, grabbing his car keys from the glass table.
“I saw the message, Jide. You called her ‘baby.’ You promised her a weekend away.”
Jide paused, then exhaled. “So you went through my phone?”
“That’s all you have to say?” Amaka’s eyes brimmed with unshed tears. “I gave up everything for you, Jide. I stood by you when we lived in a face-me-I-face-you with rats for neighbours. I hustled with you to build this life.”
“I didn’t cheat!” he barked.
“You lied,” she shot back. “And lying to your wife is a kind of betrayal.”
The silence between them stretched like a wound. Jide turned away. “We’re not doing this now.”
“Then when?” she whispered. “When it’s too late?”
It hadn’t always been this way.
When they first got married, they barely had more than the N80,000 Amaka’s father gave them in a white envelope. They turned that into something. She started making snacks to supply to offices, and Jide started printing flyers from a second-hand desktop he bought in Yaba. Slowly, they saved. They dreamed. They even laughed.
But somewhere along the line, ambition turned into obsession. Jide got a contract with a real estate company and began to drift. He bought better suits. Switched phones. And eventually, forgot the smell of chin chin frying on their stove.
Amaka, too, got busier. Her cleaning business picked up, and she hired five staff. But her dreams of starting a family quietly took a backseat.
Two weeks passed.
They barely spoke unless it was about money, errands, or the cleaning schedule. One evening, Amaka came back to find the power out. Jide was in the room, staring at the ceiling.
“We need to talk,” she said, lighting a candle.
He didn’t move.
“I want to fix this,” she said softly.
Jide turned, eyes hollow. “I don’t know how to be what you want anymore.”
“I want a husband, not a stranger.”
His voice cracked. “I didn’t sleep with her. I wanted to, but I didn’t. I was angry, and I thought maybe I deserved someone who didn’t question everything I do.”
Amaka sat down beside him. “And I wanted to run too. I nearly replied to my old boss on Instagram. He used to flirt with me. But I didn’t.”
Jide blinked at her, stunned.
“I realised something,” she continued. “We’ve both been holding our breath in this marriage, waiting for the other person to fail. But love isn’t about winning arguments. It’s about choosing each other, every day.”
Jide broke down.
It wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t poetic. But it was real.
The next morning, they did something neither of them had done in months.
They prayed.
And then they planned.
They mapped out new financial goals. Jide proposed moving part of their printing press online to reduce overhead. Amaka suggested forming a partnership with estate agents who needed frequent cleaning for show homes.
They started small again—this time, with clarity.
They signed up for a marriage workshop at church. They deleted numbers. Blocked people. Re-committed.
Six months later, Jide came home early with small chops from Amaka’s favourite roadside vendor.
“Guess what?” he said, kissing her cheek.
“What?”
“We got the real estate app contract. Five-year deal.”
Amaka smiled. “Then I guess it’s time we finally take that vacation we’ve been postponing.”
He held her close. “I never stopped loving you. I just forgot how to show it.”
She whispered, “Love remembered is love reborn.”
over again.