I just ended an hour long phone call with my wife and I’ve never been this angry in my life. You know the anger that has your face burning and arrests your speech making it dissolve into stutters. As I walked into my room to stay on the bed, her voice continues to ring in my head : “This is not what you promised me, Jide. You said you’d support me. You said you’ll be with us.”

The gift of eloquence. That’s one of the things my wife possesses. She knows how to say words that will linger on in your mind years later. I lay down on the bed and shut my eyes. I saw nothing but her. Her beautiful, innocent looking face, her dreads neatly twisted into a lock. The face depressed my anger into sadness and as I heard her voice over and over in my head, the words started making their way downwards into my heart, leading the way for the feeling of guilt.

It has now been 7 months since the last time I visited my wife, A’isha, and my two children in the United States. The past two months have been ones of fighting over the phone almost every week. I don’t know about A’isha, but I’m tired. I go to work in daze and I return in daze. The food the caterers stock in the freezer are there. Caffeine is my best friend these days. I am wealthy but I live a miserable life. I earn in Nigeria and pay rent in the United States. I’m trying to ensure sustainability and build more things for my family, but all I get is a yelling match over the phone everyday from the one I’m serving. And the children I’m doing all of these for, do they even know? What do they think?

I took out my phone and surf Facebook. Perhaps there’s an issue online making waves or a funny meme to distract me. As I scrolled down my feed, I saw a picture of a young woman, a Gen Z from the look of things. She is gorgeous. I reacted with the love emoji. I kept scrolling. Then I went back to the picture and did a second take. And for a moment my anger dissipated and I felt a flicker of attraction for the Gen Z sister.

—

Later that day, I drove to one of my farms just outside the city. As I discussed with the farm coordinator, A’isha called came through and I stepped aside.

“What’s up?” I said.

“Oga Ó. Not even salam alaykum.” She attacked.

   “Okay. Salaam alaykum. What’s up?”

   “Wá alaykum salam. Does something have to be up. Can’t I call you?”

    “Okay. Since we just talked about two hours ago and you knew the things you said about me… Anyways. That’s not the point.” I stopped myself. I was already getting angry again.
   
“Okay forget about it. I wanted to ask if. Actually don’t worry.”

    “What do you want to ask?” I said in a calm voice.

     “I need to send money to Fadilah. But TapTap is not working. So, I wanted to see if you can do transfer of 400K for me please.”

     “Okay. Alright. GTBank or Opay.”

     “Do Opay.”

We dropped the call. On my way back to the city, a friend’s words, whose wife is also overseas, in Australia, came to my mind. As long as women get what they want, you’re a good man even if you don’t get what you need. I had disagreed with him then vehemently, arguing how selfless my wife was and how she’s always looking out for me. But then in hindsight, she was still in Nigeria with me at that time and my friend’s wife had been in Australia for a year.

I got home and prayed Isha. I sat on the prayer mat after that and think hard and long about where my life is heading. I’m climbing the peak of my career in one of the big 4s in oil and gas. I have three thriving large scale businesses, pulling incomes in the millions monthly. I’m respected in the family and among peers. But I’m essentially a bachelor at the age of 45.

Five years ago when my wife told me she wanted to go the United States with the kids to get her doctorate and for the kids to have better schools and better opportunities in life, I had given my consent because I knew it was something she was passionate about. Many of her friends from the university days have left the country in the face of crumbling, unstable economy and the huge spike in insecurity. She is very brilliant and her career had taken a backseat when the kids were younger while I climbed the socioeconomic ladder and expanded my capacity. I was fulfilling my dreams. So, I asked myself, won’t it look selfish if I stopped her from following her own dreams?

So, I agreed, and smiled, and cheered. And I meant it. I wanted her to go. I paid for everything with the money gotten from the crumbling economy. I got a visa too. Our children were Americans because my wife gave birth to them during her prior visits to the US. I visit here and there. I bear the lonely, cold nights and threw myself into work. But slowly the visits became less frequent as the exchange rates continue to fall, and as my workstreams became even more pronounced.

In the midst of these, I bear patently the comments, the rolled eyes, the snide remarks from friends and family, particularly those from my close relatives, namely my parents and sisters. Remarks that had led me to become a recluse. Ẹ̀gbọ́n mi, are you okay? My sisters would come and keep me company at home during the weekends in the early days of my family move to the US. But for one reason or the other they stopped. When I asked Hafsah why she stopped, she said she could see the hurt in my eyes when she and her kids leave, and she didn’t like it.

—-

As you probably might have guessed, Gen Z sister and I started chatting frequently and the times we talked are the moments I looked forward to the most. I started feeling less angry when A’isha yelled at me and complained that she is stressed and that she needs me there with her. I would reason with her that it would be starting from the scratch for me if I did so. My businesses would crumble without me here. I always sidestepped the fact that I don’t like living in the US. It’s a strange, emasculating place for a man like me. I can’t.

Soon, the talks with the Gen Z sister started getting more and more serious and the affections got more intense, so I started considering marrying her. I would go to the US and be with A’isha and the kids like three or so times a year. The kids can come and stay with me in Nigeria every summer vacation. A’isha can choose to come, too.

I’m an openbook man. I told A’isha. Her reaction was bombastic. As if I said mo fẹ́ pá èèyàn. “I’m stressed out of my mind here raising your kids and juggling things, paying bills and being practically a single mother, and the only solution you can think of is with that thing between your legs? Try it! You will regret it!”

You know the saying that introspection is the best form of advice? It is the day she said I’m a bad, self-centered man that I realized that this situation is not one I can go to people for advice on. One of the things she said is that I would not be able to deal justly between her and the wife if I married because the wife will be getting more time with me than her. So, it won’t be fair. I asked her if the sharia she’s invoking now for just treatment between wives wasn’t at home when she spent more than 4 months away from her husband on something that was not a  necessity? She replied that I gave her the consent to do that and that I shouldn’t have allowed her to go if I didn’t want her to.

At this point I couldn’t respond. She was technically right. I could have said no. But I didn’t. So, I’m responsible for everything that went down. At the end of the day I’m the leader of the house. And the bucks stop at my desk. But why didn’t I say no?

Because I was, like many “modern” educated Muslim husband, trying to balance between my power and my compassion. I was atoning for the actions of many of our grandfathers and fathers who could care less about their wives dreams left unfulfilled as long as there’s food at home. Even the men of past generations who didn’t provide food adequately couldn’t care less. I was trying to be reflective, supportive and selfless. I was trying to sacrifice my own comforts, wants and needs for the cohesion of my family. To please my wife so my children can live with both their parents. Right. I could have said no. But what options did I have?

Say no, refuse to support. She goes through without my support. She achieves the dream but unfulfilled because she left me. Or she stays, silent and disappointed, resenting me for the rest of her life for an unfulfilled life and dead dreams. What options do these young, blessed, good men have?

As I battle with these thoughts, I turned my attention to the Qur’an and do a tilawah of Surah Fussilat. I slept after that and had a dream.

In the dream, I was on a beach in the US with A’isha, the Gen Z sister and the kids. When I woke up I had an epiphany. I needed to drop everything and hop on a plane to the US.

I got to Texas on a Friday morning. A’isha was pulled to work at the last minutes so she sent a Uber to pick me up. She had left a key under the door mat. The kids were at school.

I prayed istikhara after Isha. After the kids had gone to bed that night, A’isha and I talked at length.

We had been misunderstanding and misconstruing each other’s intentions and actions. It had to stop. We loved each other and we must back track and define things so we can move forward for the betterment of our family. A’isha was fed up with Nigeria. Any employment for her PhD in Organic Chemistry in Nigeria would pay her peanuts compared to what she’s already making now. Her parents are living with her brother in New York City, so other than myself, there’s really no anchor for her back home.

I like the stability here. She said. The security. There are better opportunities for the children here and quality education. Nigeria is not for me anymore.

I sighed, folding my arms over my chest.

“But you, my love, you’re for me. Jide, I don’t want to lose you. I’m going to have my permanent residency soon. I can file for you and you too would have a green card. You can operate your businesses in Nigeria by proxy. You can go back and forth.”

I have a job, A’isha. I have families and friends. I can manage back and forth for business. But at the end of the day I’m still an employee. Say I leave the job. I come to the US. You’re making six figures. How much would I be making with my Master’s in accounting? Won’t I need to do CPA here? Pending that time, who’s going to be paying for things here. For the mortgage if you decide to buy a house. For car insurance? For groceries?

I felt myself getting angry, but I controlled it. This is a time for calm communication. I put my ego in order. I switched tones.

“Darling, I’m not trying to be difficult. I understand you. I know you would like me to be here. I would like that too. But I just, I just can’t be here as you would want.”

At this point I looked at her. Tears were rolling down her cheeks. Then it came out of her mouth.

“I really thought I could have it all. When I got this job, and then you said you were coming, I thought this is it. The perfect picture.”

Again, A’isha’s eloquence hit me. The words pierced.

Very gently, I pulled her to myself on the sofa into a warm hug. I kissed her. She kissed me. Then hugged her again. She wept into my arms. I felt something on my eyelids. I held it down. Then I said,

“Darling, no one can have it all. Look at me, in terms of money, Alhamdulillah, ahead of many of my peers, yet here I’m trying to make sense of how to keep us glued. Couples living together in the US don’t have it all either. To each it’s own. We cannot have everything we want. This life is designed that way. But we do what we can with the cards we’re dealt with.”

I looked at her and her face was more radiant than before. She’s so beautiful. Oh. So brilliant. So loyal. I can’t lose her. I won’t.

---

A’isha and I came to some agreements. She would stay in the United States. The kids would come home for summer and winter holidays. I would spend at least 12 weeks split into four traveling seasons in the US every year. We would keep the communication line open. If there’s a need, I would get on the next flight to the US. If I don’t have the fund for such emergency tickets, A’isha offered that she would be happy to pay.

And oh, I almost forgot something. A’isha came around and was okay with it. The Gen Z sister, Nusaybah, became my wife. A’isha would send her gifts every now and then. In fact, last month, she attended a public health conference in Dallas and stayed with A’isha throughout. She’s still in Dallas as I write this. She found an accelerated master’s of public health program that she liked and would be starting soon. A’isha said she loves to have her around. 👀

The End.

Remember to keep the line of communication in your marriage open. Talk gently and clearly. Listen. Listen to understand. Not just to respond. And always define your why so you’re not just doing something because everyone is doing it or just on a whim. Why? To what end? And know that some dreams will see the light of the day and some will make way for more important things: Some won’t. Your spouse is human with all of the complexities. Thank you for reading.

Baba Oni Story says Be kind to each other.🤷🏿‍♂️

PS: Characters and settings in this story are fictional. Any semblance to real persons or real events are purely coincidental.

– Baba oni Story greets you. And says arojinlẹ ni bàbá ìmọ̀ràn. 😎 Ẹ jẹ ká ṣe pẹlẹ pẹlẹ.