When Pride Sleeps Between Us

“Must you always say something back? Can’t you listen for once, Kelechi?”

Adaora’s voice cracked through the stillness of the dining room. The rice on the table had gone cold, uneaten. Zara’s chair sat empty again.

“And you think I don’t listen?” Kelechi stood, shoving his chair back. “You always want to talk, but it’s never a conversation. It’s a monologue with volume!”

“Oh, please! You only hear yourself these days. It’s either your job or your ego speaking. Never you.”

He rubbed his forehead and walked away, heading for the sitting room like he always did when their fights reached this point.

Adaora sighed. “And there he goes again. Mr. Silent Treatment.”

Behind the staircase, Zara clutched her teddy bear tighter, her tiny heart pounding. She had memorised this dance, her parents’ voices rising and falling, her mother pacing, her father withdrawing like a ghost fading into the wall.

That night, no one said goodnight.

Before Pride Visited

It hadn’t always been this way.

Kelechi and Adaora were once inseparable, the couple who held hands through Lagos traffic, shared suya by the roadside, whispered dreams into each other’s ears beneath mosquito nets. But that was before the promotions, the long commutes, the silent assumptions before pride began to sleep in their bed.

They used to talk, really talk. Now, even their silences were loud.

“I’m not the enemy,” Adaora once whispered while lying beside him.

Kelechi pretended to be asleep.

Another night, he came home late. Adaora waited with Zara’s school report in hand, eager to show him their daughter’s excellent grades. He brushed past her.

“Later, Ada. I’m exhausted.”

She watched him slump on the couch, shoes still on, phone in hand. The report stayed folded in her lap till midnight.

Breaking Point

The breaking point came quietly.

It was a Sunday afternoon, and the house was filled with the smell of jollof rice. They had argued earlier over money again. Adaora had retreated to the kitchen while Kelechi pretended to nap.

Zara walked into the room, eyes wide with worry.

“Daddy, are you and Mummy getting a divorce?”

The words slapped both of them at once. Kelechi sat up straight. Adaora dropped her spoon.

“Why… why would you say that, baby?” Adaora asked, kneeling before her.

“Because you shout a lot… and you don’t look at each other like you used to.” Zara looked between them, her eyes glossy. “You don’t look like you’re happy.”

The silence that followed was heavier than any fight.

The next day, neither went to work.

Instead, they sat side by side in the front row of Pastor Bamidele’s office.

“I’m tired, Pastor,” Kelechi admitted. “Tired of fighting. Tired of being misunderstood.”

“And I’m tired of feeling alone in my own home,” Adaora added.

The pastor leaned forward. “Marriage is not two perfect people trying to win every argument. It’s two flawed people committed to understanding, even when pride says ‘walk away.’ You two have let pride speak louder than love.”

They were quiet, both absorbing the truth. It wasn’t the fights that broke them; it was the refusal to bridge the silence afterwards.

They started small.

That week, Kelechi showed up at Adaora’s salon with a bag of her favourite moi-moi from the market near her mum’s house in Surulere.

She blinked. “What’s the occasion?”

“No occasion. Just… thank you. For all you do.”

Another day, she left a sticky note in his car: I see you. Even when you don’t say much. I’m still rooting for us.

They agreed to have dinner together without their phones, twice a week at first. Then every night.

They learned to say sorry. To explain rather than accuse. To hug before sleep, even if their backs had been turned hours before.

Mending

Zara noticed the change.

One Friday, she tiptoed into their room.

“Mummy? Daddy?”

“Yes, sweetie,” Kelechi responded, holding Adaora’s hand.

“I’m happy you’re happy again.”

Adaora’s eyes brimmed with tears. She pulled Zara into their arms. “So are we, baby. So are we.”

Their marriage wasn’t perfect. There were still disagreements over school fees, house chores, and even what movie to watch. But there was a softness now, a space to feel seen. They stopped keeping score and started keeping faith.

Pride still tried to visit now and then. But they always made sure it didn’t get a seat between them again.