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I don’t even know who gave me the idea but I used to think marriage was like a delicious soup, a perfect mix of ingredients that, when cooked just right, becomes something greater than the sum of its parts.

Five years in…

I am starting to wonder if I have been served a plate of overcooked, burnt offerings instead.

Don't get me wrong o, I love my wife. Or at least, I'm pretty sure I still do.

It's just that lately,things with her feels like trying to hug a porcupine - painful, and leaving me wondering why I keep attempting it.

Why?

I usually drag myself through 12-hour shifts at work, working until my eyes blur, all to keep a roof over our heads and food on the table.

Meanwhile, my wife stays home with our son. It should be a fair division of labor, right?

Except lately, I feel like I'm working two full-time jobs: one at my work, and another cleaning up the messes my wife leaves in her wake.

Take last week, for instance…

I came home to find my son with a nasty bump on his forehead.

Well, my wife had been scrolling through TikTok videos while he climbed onto the kitchen counter and took a dive onto the tile floor.

When I suggested maybe she could pay a bit more attention, you'd think I'd accused her of trying to sacrifice our child to Moremi.

"Are you saying I'm a bad mother?" "Do you have any idea how hard it is to watch a toddler every second of every day?" she shouted at me like my manager at work.

I suggested it might be easier if she spent less time debating BBN housemates with her Twitter friends and more time, oh I don't know, actually watching our son. But I have learned that logic and my wife go together about as well as garri and palm oil.

Then there was the great stovetop incident of last month.

I came home to find the kitchen filled with smoke, my wife fanning at our glass-top stove with a dishcloth.

You won’t have guessed what happened.

Apparently, she decided to cook vegetables directly on the stovetop. No pot. No pan. Just leaves sizzling away on the glass surface.

"I was trying a new recipe!" she protested when I asked what in the name of the gods she was thinking. "The blog said to cook the vegetables on high heat!"

I took a deep breath like a supervisor when he had just finished listening to a terrible project defense, channeling the patience of a thousand ancestors. "Sweetheart," I said, as calmly as I could manage, "when recipes say that, they generally assume you're using some kind of cookware."

Her eyes narrowed. "Are you calling me stupid?"

And there it was.

The minefield I step into every time I try to address these... let's call them quirks. Any suggestion, no matter how gently phrased, is met with defensiveness sharper than my mother's best paring knife.

More often than not, I find myself lying awake at night, staring at the ceiling fan as it whirs above us.

I think about the bright-eyed girl I fell in love with, the one whose laugh could light up a room. I wonder where she went, and when she was replaced by this doppelganger who seems to view me as her personal enemy.

Some days, I feel the love I have for her slipping away, like sand through an hourglass.

I catch myself daydreaming about a life where I don't have to constantly be on guard like Arsenal supporters trying to defend why they have never won the UCL.

Where I can come home and relax instead of wondering what new disaster awaits me.

But then my son will come up to me, arms outstretched, babbling "Daddy!" And I'll see my wife eyes in his face, her smile on his lips.

In those moments, I remember why I fell in love with her in the first place.

She called earlier today, her voice tight with that usual tone that always spells trouble. "We need to talk," she said.

Those four words hang in the air as I write this on my laptop.

I know for sure when I get home that I will sit in the car for a long moment, gathering my courage. Whatever awaits me behind that door, I know it will test the very foundations of our marriage.

You're a good literature student.

Frustrate her back

Op, are you a novelist?

Cuz how can someone whose wife is frustrating have the time to be constructing grammars like Patrick Obayaigbon when his mind isn't at peace?

When you don dey serious,we go know.....Cuz na warri langua you go use explain your predicament by then

How's the s3x, is she giving you enough attention in za oza room?

I catch myself daydreaming about a life where I don't have to constantly be on guard like Arsenal supporters trying to defend why they have never won the UCL.

you just had to go there

One of the calamities to befall any man is marrying a lazy, nonchalant, stubborn and social media addicted wife.
You are virtually marrying yourself oo!
Such a woman is a great recipe for the thunderous downfall of any man.
Such a woman will be in the parlour and her child will run carelessly into the road and get hit by a car; and it will take 15 hours for her to notice her child is not around in the house.

Hmm biko take it easy with her,good boy

Sonnobax15:

Op, are you a novelist?

Cuz how can someone whose wife is frustrating have the time to be constructing grammars like Patrick Obayaigbon when his mind isn't at peace?

When you don dey serious,we go know.....Cuz na warri langua you go use explain your predicament by then

Na way of life baba mi

Mood11:
Frustrate her back

Na my next move be that.

God knows I can't tolerate a spoilt brat as wife all in the name of marriage. I no kuku see seperation as anything. If you ain't making me happy then make everybody dy go . Will not live my life in agony to please any daughter of eve

Coolsat:
God knows I can't tolerate a spoilt brat as wife all in the name of marriage. I no kuku see seperation as anything. If you ain't making me happy then make everybody dy go . Will not live my life in agony to please any daughter of eve

She is the LOML. I fight for fuel during the day; I fight for love in the night and I fight demons in my dreams.

I stopped reading at the smoke part.. cooking vegetables without pot?. Who does that?

She still had mouth to say.. 'Are you calling me stupid?'. Stupid mof0, alakoba.

Lolllzzz, literature student in the building

Better write simple English, all this rhymes and grammar no fit save your marriage oo

Jacktheripper:
She is the LOML. I fight for fuel during the day; I fight for love in the night and I fight demons in my dreams.

You got what you wanted so deal with it.
Enjoy your marriage. I don't want to see you here with anymore complaints

Jacktheripper:
I don’t even know who gave me the idea but I used to think marriage was like a delicious soup, a perfect mix of ingredients that, when cooked just right, becomes something greater than the sum of its parts.

Five years in…

I am starting to wonder if I have been served a plate of overcooked, burnt offerings instead.

Don't get me wrong o, I love my wife. Or at least, I'm pretty sure I still do.

It's just that lately,things with her feels like trying to hug a porcupine - painful, and leaving me wondering why I keep attempting it.

Why?

I usually drag myself through 12-hour shifts at work, working until my eyes blur, all to keep a roof over our heads and food on the table.

Meanwhile, my wife stays home with our son. It should be a fair division of labor, right?

Except lately, I feel like I'm working two full-time jobs: one at my work, and another cleaning up the messes my wife leaves in her wake.

Take last week, for instance…

I came home to find my son with a nasty bump on his forehead.

Well, my wife had been scrolling through TikTok videos while he climbed onto the kitchen counter and took a dive onto the tile floor.

When I suggested maybe she could pay a bit more attention, you'd think I'd accused her of trying to sacrifice our child to Moremi.

"Are you saying I'm a bad mother?" "Do you have any idea how hard it is to watch a toddler every second of every day?" she shouted at me like my manager at work.

I suggested it might be easier if she spent less time debating BBN housemates with her Twitter friends and more time, oh I don't know, actually watching our son. But I have learned that logic and my wife go together about as well as garri and palm oil.

Then there was the great stovetop incident of last month.

I came home to find the kitchen filled with smoke, my wife fanning at our glass-top stove with a dishcloth.

You won’t have guessed what happened.

Apparently, she decided to cook vegetables directly on the stovetop. No pot. No pan. Just leaves sizzling away on the glass surface.

"I was trying a new recipe!" she protested when I asked what in the name of the gods she was thinking. "The blog said to cook the vegetables on high heat!"

I took a deep breath like a supervisor when he had just finished listening to a terrible project defense, channeling the patience of a thousand ancestors. "Sweetheart," I said, as calmly as I could manage, "when recipes say that, they generally assume you're using some kind of cookware."

Her eyes narrowed. "Are you calling me stupid?"

And there it was.

The minefield I step into every time I try to address these... let's call them quirks. Any suggestion, no matter how gently phrased, is met with defensiveness sharper than my mother's best paring knife.

More often than not, I find myself lying awake at night, staring at the ceiling fan as it whirs above us.

I think about the bright-eyed girl I fell in love with, the one whose laugh could light up a room. I wonder where she went, and when she was replaced by this doppelganger who seems to view me as her personal enemy.

Some days, I feel the love I have for her slipping away, like sand through an hourglass.

I catch myself daydreaming about a life where I don't have to constantly be on guard like Arsenal supporters trying to defend why they have never won the UCL.

Where I can come home and relax instead of wondering what new disaster awaits me.

But then my son will come up to me, arms outstretched, babbling "Daddy!" And I'll see my wife eyes in his face, her smile on his lips.

In those moments, I remember why I fell in love with her in the first place.

She called earlier today, her voice tight with that usual tone that always spells trouble. "We need to talk," she said.

Those four words hang in the air as I write this on my laptop.

I know for sure when I get home that I will sit in the car for a long moment, gathering my courage. Whatever awaits me behind that door, I know it will test the very foundations of our marriage.

u need another voice of an elder to talk to her

Sonnobax15:

Op, are you a novelist?

Cuz how can someone whose wife is frustrating have the time to be constructing grammars like Patrick Obayaigbon when his mind isn't at peace?

When you don dey serious,we go know.....Cuz na warri langua you go use explain your predicament by then

If by the touch of love every man becomes a poet then it's possible that a good dose of frustration can make a man a novelist.

oga na u marry demon keep for house
every house get em own demon

Elders in the house, with your kind permission, should we tell him what is going on with his wife behind him or allow him to find out by himself?

You'll be surprised to know that's similar to what most men go through in marriage. They just keep schtum and live everyday like it's the last. Don't worry it never ends!

Youj iw how to minse words.... anyway, I'm also going through the same thing with my wife.

It isn't easy though for them, but at least, the house and our children should look clea when we return....I fit cun go cook for my self.

Patience is key bro

If your dog start barking at you that means someone else is feeding it

I was enjoying the write up, until you sheepishly brought Arsenal into it. .
Nice write up.

Mood11:
Frustrate her back

[color=#006600][/color]

Good advice, I didn't bother myself in reading the long story.

You write so well, I must say. To the issue on ground, dialogue, dialogue and dialogue. Marriage is like a two man partnership. It's so unfortunate that you have hit a storm, but if you do not step up as a team and navigate this situation, the ship(Your marriage) would sink. Thank heavens she said you two needed to talk, albeit in a nasty way.

You need to douse the tension at home. Get her flowers on your way back from home. Tell her to dress up and take her to a restaurant. Unless your wife is under a spell, these acts should calm her nerves. Once you are at the diner having dinner. Talk some sense in your wife. Remind her of the good old days, probe on what went wrong, do not trivialise her concerns, remind her of how hard you work to hold the forte.

Finally, madame needs to get a job to support you, else you would burn out. If she can find a job no matter how small, that can be channelled into sponsoring a secondary hand to cater for the child during her work hours.

Again, remember that marriage is partnership and communication is like the third wheel on a Wheelbarrow.

All the best!

Jacktheripper:
I don’t even know who gave me the idea but I used to think marriage was like a delicious soup, a perfect mix of ingredients that, when cooked just right, becomes something greater than the sum of its parts.

Five years in…

I am starting to wonder if I have been served a plate of overcooked, burnt offerings instead.

Don't get me wrong o, I love my wife. Or at least, I'm pretty sure I still do.

It's just that lately,things with her feels like trying to hug a porcupine - painful, and leaving me wondering why I keep attempting it.

Why?

I usually drag myself through 12-hour shifts at work, working until my eyes blur, all to keep a roof over our heads and food on the table.

Meanwhile, my wife stays home with our son. It should be a fair division of labor, right?

Except lately, I feel like I'm working two full-time jobs: one at my work, and another cleaning up the messes my wife leaves in her wake.

Take last week, for instance…

I came home to find my son with a nasty bump on his forehead.

Well, my wife had been scrolling through TikTok videos while he climbed onto the kitchen counter and took a dive onto the tile floor.

When I suggested maybe she could pay a bit more attention, you'd think I'd accused her of trying to sacrifice our child to Moremi.

"Are you saying I'm a bad mother?" "Do you have any idea how hard it is to watch a toddler every second of every day?" she shouted at me like my manager at work.

I suggested it might be easier if she spent less time debating BBN housemates with her Twitter friends and more time, oh I don't know, actually watching our son. But I have learned that logic and my wife go together about as well as garri and palm oil.

Then there was the great stovetop incident of last month.

I came home to find the kitchen filled with smoke, my wife fanning at our glass-top stove with a dishcloth.

You won’t have guessed what happened.

Apparently, she decided to cook vegetables directly on the stovetop. No pot. No pan. Just leaves sizzling away on the glass surface.

"I was trying a new recipe!" she protested when I asked what in the name of the gods she was thinking. "The blog said to cook the vegetables on high heat!"

I took a deep breath like a supervisor when he had just finished listening to a terrible project defense, channeling the patience of a thousand ancestors. "Sweetheart," I said, as calmly as I could manage, "when recipes say that, they generally assume you're using some kind of cookware."

Her eyes narrowed. "Are you calling me stupid?"

And there it was.

The minefield I step into every time I try to address these... let's call them quirks. Any suggestion, no matter how gently phrased, is met with defensiveness sharper than my mother's best paring knife.

More often than not, I find myself lying awake at night, staring at the ceiling fan as it whirs above us.

I think about the bright-eyed girl I fell in love with, the one whose laugh could light up a room. I wonder where she went, and when she was replaced by this doppelganger who seems to view me as her personal enemy.

Some days, I feel the love I have for her slipping away, like sand through an hourglass.

I catch myself daydreaming about a life where I don't have to constantly be on guard like Arsenal supporters trying to defend why they have never won the UCL.

Where I can come home and relax instead of wondering what new disaster awaits me.

But then my son will come up to me, arms outstretched, babbling "Daddy!" And I'll see my wife eyes in his face, her smile on his lips.

In those moments, I remember why I fell in love with her in the first place.

She called earlier today, her voice tight with that usual tone that always spells trouble. "We need to talk," she said.

Those four words hang in the air as I write this on my laptop.

I know for sure when I get home that I will sit in the car for a long moment, gathering my courage. Whatever awaits me behind that door, I know it will test the very foundations of our marriage.

No kill yourself.
When you come back home,jelely walk to your room and rest. Leave d house as it is. Buy food as you dey come back home so weda she cook or not U go eat. Give her d silent treatment. Her brain go set on its own.

manmade:
Elders in the house, with your kind permission, should we tell him what is going on with his wife behind him or allow him to find out by himself?

Don't tell him yet, surprise is a very interesting event.

Jacktheripper:
I don’t even know who gave me the idea but I used to think marriage was like a delicious soup, a perfect mix of ingredients that, when cooked just right, becomes something greater than the sum of its parts.

Five years in…

I am starting to wonder if I have been served a plate of overcooked, burnt offerings instead.

Don't get me wrong o, I love my wife. Or at least, I'm pretty sure I still do.

It's just that lately,things with her feels like trying to hug a porcupine - painful, and leaving me wondering why I keep attempting it.

Why?

I usually drag myself through 12-hour shifts at work, working until my eyes blur, all to keep a roof over our heads and food on the table.

Meanwhile, my wife stays home with our son. It should be a fair division of labor, right?

Except lately, I feel like I'm working two full-time jobs: one at my work, and another cleaning up the messes my wife leaves in her wake.

Take last week, for instance…

I came home to find my son with a nasty bump on his forehead.

Well, my wife had been scrolling through TikTok videos while he climbed onto the kitchen counter and took a dive onto the tile floor.

When I suggested maybe she could pay a bit more attention, you'd think I'd accused her of trying to sacrifice our child to Moremi.

"Are you saying I'm a bad mother?" "Do you have any idea how hard it is to watch a toddler every second of every day?" she shouted at me like my manager at work.

I suggested it might be easier if she spent less time debating BBN housemates with her Twitter friends and more time, oh I don't know, actually watching our son. But I have learned that logic and my wife go together about as well as garri and palm oil.

Then there was the great stovetop incident of last month.

I came home to find the kitchen filled with smoke, my wife fanning at our glass-top stove with a dishcloth.

You won’t have guessed what happened.

Apparently, she decided to cook vegetables directly on the stovetop. No pot. No pan. Just leaves sizzling away on the glass surface.

"I was trying a new recipe!" she protested when I asked what in the name of the gods she was thinking. "The blog said to cook the vegetables on high heat!"

I took a deep breath like a supervisor when he had just finished listening to a terrible project defense, channeling the patience of a thousand ancestors. "Sweetheart," I said, as calmly as I could manage, "when recipes say that, they generally assume you're using some kind of cookware."

Her eyes narrowed. "Are you calling me stupid?"

And there it was.

The minefield I step into every time I try to address these... let's call them quirks. Any suggestion, no matter how gently phrased, is met with defensiveness sharper than my mother's best paring knife.

More often than not, I find myself lying awake at night, staring at the ceiling fan as it whirs above us.

I think about the bright-eyed girl I fell in love with, the one whose laugh could light up a room. I wonder where she went, and when she was replaced by this doppelganger who seems to view me as her personal enemy.

Some days, I feel the love I have for her slipping away, like sand through an hourglass.

I catch myself daydreaming about a life where I don't have to constantly be on guard like Arsenal supporters trying to defend why they have never won the UCL.

Where I can come home and relax instead of wondering what new disaster awaits me.

But then my son will come up to me, arms outstretched, babbling "Daddy!" And I'll see my wife eyes in his face, her smile on his lips.

In those moments, I remember why I fell in love with her in the first place.

She called earlier today, her voice tight with that usual tone that always spells trouble. "We need to talk," she said.

Those four words hang in the air as I write this on my laptop.

I know for sure when I get home that I will sit in the car for a long moment, gathering my courage. Whatever awaits me behind that door, I know it will test the very foundations of our marriage.

She should get a job, that will keep her intelligence sharpened and it's wrong to have a full time house wife these days. It will give her some sense of responsibility. Some Women nowadays are just outrightly lazy and you are encouraging it now she is distracted by joblessness and delving into social media gossips. And hope it's not those fine assy naturally entitled women with peanut brain you married cause they are the ones that always see trouble when there isn't one; they see every correction as insult or spite. Omoh let her go and work she'll appreciate your efforts when she does.

You have to take hard decision
Firstly for benefit of doubt
You will complain to her parents or friends she listen to, at least let them talk to her.
Secondly if she doesn't correct herself, proceed to let her visit her parent home. Apparently sperate from her until sense of wife and motherhood enter into her mind and also for you to restrategize

If you fail to address this on time you re digging your grave soonest

Wow... Pls ooo..lemme ask what are your benefit in the marriage

You can’t say you didn’t see red flags and red banners while dating her. Na you use your hand carry problem for hux.. Saw one engaging one yesterday.. From her looks you go know say na active ashawowo .. Seeing her frds ,you go sabi say na ashawowo crew. Mumu kneel dey propose. Tomorrow he will come here and be complaining. Oga go eat food when you use your money package for house