When the House Went Quiet; Reality of Happily Ever After

In the peaceful town of Ilorin, where the air still smelled of early morning dew and roasted corn, retired school principal Mr. Olatunji and his wife, Mrs. Ronke Olatunji, a retired nurse, sat in a home that used to ring with noise. Their last child had just moved to Abuja for NYSC, and their house was quiet for the first time in thirty-two years.

“Can you believe this house used to be so noisy?” Ronke muttered one evening, looking at the corridor that once echoed with footfalls and laughter.

Tunji grunted from behind his newspaper. “It’s peaceful now. Isn’t that what we always wanted?”

Ronke said nothing, but the loneliness gnawed at her. She spent her days tending her small garden and watching Zee World, but when night came, the emptiness wrapped around her like a cold shawl.

One afternoon, she found herself crying quietly in the kitchen, hands trembling over a pot of egusi soup.

Tunji walked in, surprised. “Why are you crying, Ronke? Are you hurt?”

She shook her head. “It’s just… the silence, Tunji. It’s too loud.”

He sighed and walked away. He didn’t know how to respond. He, too, missed the noise, but he had never been good with emotions.

Weeks passed.

One morning, Ronke found an old photo album. In it were pictures from their early years—her in her nursing uniform, him in his teaching suit, smiling at the University of Ilorin gate. They looked in love.

She took the album to him. “Do you remember this day?”

He smiled faintly. “That was our third anniversary. We had akara and pap at that roadside joint near Tanke.”

“Do you miss that?” she asked.

“I miss us,” he replied.

It was the first honest thing he’d said in weeks.

That weekend, Tunji surprised her with a walk to that same roadside joint, now run by the daughter of the original seller. They shared akara, laughed about old colleagues, and for a moment, they weren’t just parents or pensioners—they were Tunji and Ronke again.

But old habits die hard.

Two months later, they fell into routine again. Tunji spent his time listening to radio football commentary; Ronke took up crocheting, barely talking to each other.

Then came Ronke’s birthday. He forgot.

The silence at dinner was louder than thunder.

The next day, ashamed, Tunji went to town. He returned with a small cake, her favourite white roses, and a handwritten note:

“I may not always remember the dates, but I’ll never forget the woman who made my life worth living.”

Ronke’s eyes welled with tears. “Tunji, let’s not wait for memories to remind us how to love.”

That night, they danced slowly in their living room, no music, just heartbeats and history.

Since then, they’ve taken turns planning weekly “dates”some as simple as reading the newspaper together with a cup of tea, others walking hand-in-hand to the mosque or sitting under the mango tree reminiscing.

The kids were gone, but love had moved back in.

And this time, they were intentional about keeping it home.