Is the man really the head of the house?
They say a man is the head of the house. Provider. Protector. Decision-maker. Well, I took that role seriously. Maybe too seriously.
My name is Akinwale Ajayi, a Yoruba man from Ondo State. I work with one of the top engineering firms in the country. I provide everything my family needs—food, shelter, school fees, upkeep money, even matching Christmas clothes.
I married Chika, an intelligent, beautiful Igbo woman from Anambra State. We met during NYSC. She was… everything. Soft-spoken, hardworking, and respectful. I knew I wanted many children—just like my father did. Eight of us grew up together, and our house was always filled with laughter and love.
Chika? She wasn’t thrilled about the “many kids” idea. “Let’s just have two, biko. Raising children is not easy,” she said. But I convinced her. We had four—David, Desmond, Diane, and Divine. Three boys and one precious girl in between. The last one, Divine, is still breastfeeding.
Chika is a full-time housewife. Not because she’s lazy—she knits, sells her crafts online, and makes small money. I didn’t want her to work, just take care of the house. But the bulk of her time is for the children. School runs, homework, cooking, laundry… Me? I just go to work and come home. That’s the deal. Or so I thought.
We argued often—mostly about stress and house chores. “I’m tired, Akin. I barely sleep.” “Chika, what are you tired of? “Is it not just children”, And you don’t even go to work!”
She would go quiet. Or cry. Sometimes we won’t talk for days. Anytime she mentioned getting a house help, I shut it down immediately. “Never. I grew up seeing house helps cause problems—stealing, sleeping with men, doing jazz. I don’t want that nonsense in my house.”
She stopped arguing. Started enduring. And I… I continued enjoying.
Until the day my mother came.
Mama couldn’t come for Divine’s omugwo because she had travelled to China for business. She’s one of those stylish Lagos big madams with container loads of Ankara and lace. Loved by everyone, especially her daughters-in-law. When she finally came to visit, she noticed something I had refused to see.
One night, she called me aside. “Akin, Chika is tired.” “Mama, tired how? She doesn’t lack anything, just to take care of the house and the children, Is it not just children?”
She smiled and didn’t say much.
Two weeks later, she returned to Lagos. Then came her plan. She called me. “Akin, I need Chika to come and help me for just three days.
There’s something urgent I need her to do.” Three days? That was fine. I didn’t know Mama and Chika had already planned everything.
Before Chika left, she filled the freezer with different soups—egusi, ogbono, okra, stew… All labelled. She even arranged the kids’ uniforms and packed snacks. Chika took Divine with her—he was still breastfeeding. I was left with David, Desmond, and Diane.
“Is it not just children?” I scoffed. I was even on leave. Easy work, I thought. Ah. I was wrong.
Day One: Chaos started at 5:30 a.m. David wanted cornflakes. Desmond insisted on Golden Morn. Diane refused both—crying for tea bread. I begged, shouted, even threatened. No peace. I found one sock here, one shoe there. Ironed uniforms while boiling water. We got to school late.
One of the teachers gave me a look. “Sir, your children have never been late. Everything okay?” I nodded, speechless.
Came back home—plates everywhere. Laundry. Toys. Books. Before I could rest, it was 2 p.m. Time to pick them up again.
Evening: Homework. Fighting. Screaming. Diane spilled juice on the carpet. “STOP THAT!” I shouted until my voice cracked.
At 9 p.m., Desmond said, “Daddy, mummy doesn’t shout like you.” I sat on the bed and held my head. Oh, Chika.
Day Two and Three: Same madness. Same tears. I missed my wife. I missed her strength. I missed her peace.
Then Mama called. “Ehn Akin, Chika will stay a bit longer. Something came up. But thank God the children are now on holiday. At least no school runs,” And is it not just children?” She used my own line on me. I couldn’t even argue.
The children were home full-time. TV noise, hunger, fights over remote. I couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t eat. I wanted to cry. How did Chika do all these?
One evening, while Diane was pulling my hair and the boys were wrestling and breaking their toy car, I called my mum. “Mama… please, let Chika come home. Please.” There was silence.
Then, the next evening, Mama arrived—with Chika and baby Divine. When I saw them… I ran to my wife and hugged her tight. “I’m sorry,” I whispered. She looked surprised. Mama smiled.
“My son,” she said, “I just wanted you to learn from your heart.” And I did. Oh, I did.
The moment Chika stepped into the house, something in me softened. She looked well-rested, glowing—even with a baby strapped to her back. And me? I looked like I had just survived a war. Because truly, I had.
I watched her drop her bag, pick up Diane and kiss her forehead like she hadn’t been gone for seven days. Then she turned to me. I could barely meet her eyes.
“I’m sorry,” I said again. “I didn’t know. I really didn’t know.” She smiled gently. Not with pride. But with love. “It’s okay, Akin. I’m just happy to be back.”
Mama stood in a corner, quietly observing. I turned to her. “Thank you, Mama. I needed that experience.” She nodded. “A man does not become a husband by only providing. You must see your wife, too.”
That night, I didn’t just lie beside my wife—I held her hands, truly grateful.
I saw her now. Not just as ‘the woman who stays at home,’ but the one holding the entire house together—piece by piece, every single day.
The very next morning, I made calls. I contacted an agency. By evening, we had arranged for two people to resume the following week:
– A live-in maid for house chores
– A chef who would handle all meals
I could afford it. I had just never thought it was worth it—until now.
When I told Chika, she looked at me as if she was seeing a new man. “Are you sure?” she asked.
I nodded. “I am now. I want you to be okay. You’re my home.” She hugged me. That moment—silent, deep—I’ll never forget.
Two weeks later, she picked up her knitting again, smiling in her quiet way. The kids were calmer. The house was happier. And for the first time in years, we had peace.
Dedicated to every woman out there:
The ones who are tired but still show up.
The ones who are never thanked but keep giving.
The ones who cry in silence and wipe their own tears.
You are seen. You are strong. You are loved.
Culled from Facebook
