I Did Everything Right… But My Marriage Still Fell Apart (Part 1)

I was the perfect wife.

At least, that's what I told myself every morning as I woke up at 5 a.m. to prepare his breakfast before he left for work. That's what I believed when I smiled through another family gathering where his mother critiqued my jollof rice seasoning. That's what I clung to when I swallowed my own dreams to make room for his.

I had the checklist, you see. The one every Nigerian girl gets handed at some point - by her mother, her aunties, the women at church, the marriage counsellors with their spiral-bound manuals. "Be submissive. Respect your husband. Don't be troublesome. Pray more. Cook better. Dress well but not too well. Have needs but don't be needy."

I ticked every box. I mean, I tried ehn. And still, my marriage crumbled like poorly mixed akara batter.

Here's everything I did 'right':

I woke up early - before him, before the sun, before my own body was ready - to prepare breakfast. Not just any breakfast. The kind with fresh pepper sauce, perfectly fried eggs, bread toasted just so. I packed his lunch with the care of someone preparing a king's feast.

I kept the house spotless. You could eat off my floors. His clothes were always ironed, always ready. I learned to fold his boxers the specific way he liked. Yes, that level of detail.

I prayed for him. Every single day. I went to every marriage seminar our church organised. I underlined passages in my Bible about submission and patience. I fasted. I asked God to make me a better wife, to give me more grace, to help me understand him better.

I dressed well when he wanted me to look good for his friends. I dressed modestly when we visited his family. I laughed at his jokes even when they weren't funny. I kept my voice low during disagreements because "a virtuous woman doesn't raise her voice."

I gave up my plans to go back to school because he said we couldn't afford it yet, but somehow, there was money for his boys' night out every weekend. I stopped hanging out with my close friends because they said they were "putting ideas in my head." I made myself smaller and smaller, thinking that's what love required.

I performed perfectly. And I was exhausted.

The breaking point came on a Tuesday.

It wasn't dramatic. There was no big fight, no discovered affair, no violence. It was quieter than that - and somehow, that made it worse.

I had just finished cooking dinner. Jollof rice (the good kind, the one that takes actual effort), fried plantain, chicken. The house smelled amazing. I set the table and called him to come eat. He walked past me without looking up from his phone and grabbed his car keys.

"I'm going out," he said.

Not "thank you." Not "maybe later." Not even "I already ate." Just... going out. Again.

Something in me snapped. Not loudly. Not dramatically. But definitely.

"Where are you going?" I asked.

"Out. Why are you asking me like you're my mother?"

I stood there, wooden spoon still in my hand, staring at this man I'd rearranged my entire life for. This man I'd cooked for, prayed for, shrunk myself for. And I realised: he didn't even see me. I had become invisible in my own marriage. A maid. A fixture. A service provider.

I wasn't a wife. I was a role he expected me to play. And no matter how perfectly I played it, it would never be enough, because he wasn't looking for a partner - he was looking for an employee.

That night, after he left, I sat on the kitchen floor and cried. Not the gentle, pretty crying. The ugly kind. The kind where you're gasping for air, and your chest hurts. I cried for every dream I'd buried. For every time I'd silenced my own voice. For every moment I'd chosen his comfort over my own dignity.

And when I was done crying, I made a decision. This wasn't working. And more importantly: this wasn't love.

TO BE CONTINUED...