Since my wife took in, peace packed its bags and left. She now makes me do ridiculous things—all in the name of the baby.
Okay, see, I don’t like going to the market, and cooking is a no for me too. She knows all this. But now, I do everything just to make her happy. Brethren, have I not done enough?
But that’s not even the main issue. I want to run away. What my wife craves now makes me scared. The other day, she asked for an egg. If it was a regular egg, I would’ve said okay. But no—she asked for a guinea fowl’s egg.
I searched the entire market until I found it. And guess what? Out of the 20 eggs I bought, she ate two and said the rest should be trashed. She didn’t want them anymore. Nobody warned me about this.
Another day, I was washing, and this woman placed her leg on my head. I tried to complain, and she said, “That’s what the baby wants.”
My wife is gradually turning into King Nebuchadnezzar the Second. She now eats vegetables and grass—without them being properly prepared. When you ask why, she’ll say, “The baby wants it.”
The baby wants roots and herbs. Are you sure this woman no carry native doctor for belle?
They’ve turned me into an object of ridicule, steeze zero. What did I do to deserve this level of insult?
Can you imagine—I stay awake at night, dancing because the baby wants to see Daddy dance. No music, just clapping to one old tune while I shake my pot belly in the middle of the night like a confused demon. If I don’t look funny enough, she’ll apply powder to my face.
Agnes, why? Why are you doing this to me?
My steeze don drop finish. I can’t bear this anymore. If this woman pushes me one more time, I’ll go back to my father’s house. Let everybody go back to their father’s house!
If one child can stress me like this, the second will drive me mad. So I’m planning to have only one child—for my mental health. I’ll name them Emmanuel and Emmanuella. One child, two names. He will serve both purposes.
Abeg, I no dey do again.
Source: African Stories-Bcdblog
