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3 cups

A Loving Heart

3 cups

Healthy Communication

2 tsp.


1 cup


2 tsp.


2 tbsp.

Truth &Honesty

1½ cups

Listening Ear

I Am Fat, And It's Your Fault!

It has been quite eerie in the past few weeks. I felt my husband wanted to tell me something. I felt it in his voice and body language. How he walked around me and looked at me while talking gave me a few crumbs, but not enough to put my finger on the issue. My Joey looks me in the eyes while talking until he doesn’t, then you know there is a problem. These past few weeks have been one of those days our eyes never met, sex hurried, and compliments, which he is good at, came sparingly.

I knew I had done nothing wrong. It had been a particularly mundane period, with our lives literally on autopilot, going through the routine of waking up, rushing to beat the crazy East Legon traffic so I can drop the kids off at school and still make it to Ridge before 8 am. The evenings have equally been boring and lacklustre. Sex has also been on autopilot, lately, for both of us, with nothing great to look forward to, yet wanting it like we need air. After six years of marriage and practically having it every day or every other day, the tingle in the jungle has numbed up a bit. But don’t get me wrong; I live for the pounding!

So yea. Nothing much had changed to warrant his cat mood. Oh, he found this awesome wine from this place around Adjiringanor; super uber smooth and full-bodied South African Wine. So yes, if anything had changed, it was that we were getting a lot tipsier, and monstrous in bed… monstrous as in one of us falling flat asleep in the act. I kid you not. There was this one time, I noticed he was shrinking out right inside of me, then the pounding slowed; dude was snoring in the next second! You should have seen me scream! I thought he has had a cardiac arrest. Dude was already dreaming.

Bloody red wine.

Aside that, nothing had changed. Well, there was the house-help skirmishes. She was rude to me so I kicked her rude behind out of my payroll. I don’t pay you for the attitude. And if I needed someone to give me one for cash, I wouldda hired myself. In my father’s house are many attitudes! Girl Bye!

First, I thought Joey was upset about it since he tacitly told me the girl was tired and probably reacted as any girl her age would do, so she needed a shard of slack cut for her. But I know my Joey; he didn’t like the girl that much. He hates slow people, and this girl would run behind a spoon of honey poured on a flat surface. No, my Joey was not in her panties. No.Ugh! Hell to the No! Oh he knows me; I fix little flies with Sledgehammer. There is a little Monster in we ladies from the Coast.

So what was it?

Ding Ding Ding! Yesterday evening, Mandem came home, all nice and smooth, gifts floating around like a rain of confetti, giving a Sista a foot and a neck massage with some expensive essential oils and all. Heck, he pulled out a bottle of Moet. But the flowers got me like! Flowers get me emotional *sniff*.

By this time, my Short Waves Sista Antenna was up and searching. What was about to go down? I was totally enjoying the treat, but a Sista had one eye opened. Ain’t nobody gonn’ booze me out of my senses. Mm Hm! And if some crap was about to hit the fan, I needed to be sober to administer a smack or two across his face before I chill.

“Baby,” he started. “There is something I need to discuss with you.” By this time, we were done with two Earth Quakers. The Orgasm was intense. Femdom is the New Feminism, babes! Get with the programme.

“Is she prettier and more qualified than me?” I asked quietly, dreading what was coming. That line he started with had all the markings of a man coming out of the closet with his infidelity. But it was not just the line; it was the attitude he had been dishing out to me, and then suddenly the pomp and the pageantry. “Who is she?” I asked totally shocked out of my skin

“What?” He asked, equally shocked at the question. “What are you talking about? She? Another woman? I am struggling to cope with you alone to add one more. Can’t you see me struggling to catch my breath?”

My Joey is political and sensitive; I guess my suspicion cut him deeper than I had anticipated. His reaction was brief and unlike him. He didn’t say much, and that was disturbing. My temperature dropped like a piece of metal going down a pool of water. One fear eliminated.

“No! Hell no! I won’t ever cheat on you. Why would I do that to you?” He said without screaming, trying hard to suppress whatever it was he was feeling.

“My bad!” I quickly said, planting a kiss on his lips and hugging him with my naked body so tight it hurts. We were both laying in bed, with the duvet strewn somewhere on the floor.

“I am sorry. It’s just that your initial line got me scared, coupled with your attitude for the past few weeks. I thought this was you coming to give me the ultimate news”

“Are you for real? So that was what was going through your mind all this while?” He burst out, struggling not to lose his cool.

“No. No. Baby no. It was after all this sudden party and change in attitude that got me like…well heck, what could be going on?”


“I know. I am sorry. Forgive me”

He shook his head in amazement

“I know. I am sorry. Babe, I am” I planted another kiss and I made it count.

“So,” he started, “It is something I have noticed…”

“About me?” I cut in anxiously.

“Yes. He continued. “I have been wondering how to tell you, but I guess the time has never been right. And for the past few weeks, it has been eating me up without respite. While I have tried to keep a lid on it, I also know that opening it up and discussing it is the way to go. This is us; we fight, talk, thrash and shag things out. This is the secret to the strength of our marriage.”

“Absofreakinglutely. So we…or you… have sulked, we have shagged…just now, now I guess is time for talking it out, anaa?" I quickly offered, desperate to get to the root of things.

“Exactly. Your weight” He threw the phrase so casually, it could have been a random someone saying hi, in a super market. So casual.

“Wait, what?” I quickly sat up as the force of the phrase caught me head on. “My weight?”

“Yes. No, not just your weight, Adeline, it is you; everything you. Your hair, your skin, of course, your weight, the house. It is not like it used to be.”

By this time, my pressure and rage had moved from 0 to 210km in 4.0 Seconds. You Mofo!!! But of course, I respect my husband so much to use those words on him. Besides, I am a Gey Hey lady; I don’t swear...well I don't admit I know. But this and a thousand more were the words dancing in my head and begging my tongue to give expression to them.

The Lord Rebuke you, you foul language!

I was shattered in all manner of pieces, and I had so much rage in me I could just walk out of the window and drop dead just to piss him off. But heck, he would sure bury me and marry a Hopsan. Nope, you are not getting that luxury. We are in this for the long haul; big English and big brains, so steady your throat and choke on it. In-coming!

However, somewhere in the crevice of my mind was the appreciation of the low key respect he had shown me. I mean, not by telling me I am fat and my skin is stretch-marked, and I have transitioned from Half-caste looking lady to a brown-skinned hag, and my hair looks like Santa's beard and all that. No. That is disrespect worthy of an extra dowry of appeasement. No.

He had struggled with this for close to a month. He had tried to relate with me in a way that won’t let it come out in a bad way. He had probably gone through the entire nine yards of emotions trying to figure out how to go about it. Who knows how long it took him to let it out; how much it cost him to throw the party we had just had. I appreciated that, as needless a drama as it was.

Many a man won’t bother. They just go straight to their secretaries, their maids, their friends’ daughters, or find some hustling uni girl, and get their share. When the issue comes up and elders sit on it, they tell you, to your shock, they went out because you were fat! Ah! Akwaa weiii paaa? Gyama wo yale ohn? And you couldn’t tell me? Some will wait till you tell them to help you zip up, then they will allow the devil to enter their tongue and say it before the Angels could intervene. You have to lose weight ooh. Can’t you see your little sister? W’aka no easy koraa. No politics about it. You can whack your head against a tree for all he cares.

So yea, thanks Boo, for bringing this to the attention of HR. But We need to have a conversation.

“Are you done?” I asked, suddenly feeling the peace of the Lord which passeth all understanding engulf me. My mind has never been this clear. I could literally see through my minds’ eyes, the blood and the oxygen diiing aforo sane (going up and down) in my brain. This level of clarity and sobriety was almost ethereal

“Yes.” He replied.

“Joseph, thank you for letting me know how you feel. As you know, and you have rightly said, we man up and fight or talk things through without the emotions. We will do this the same way. I am not sure if you are expecting ‘Ok baby, I will work on it, answer’. But well, breaking news, this issue does not have an 'I will work on it' answer. We will work on it; that is the answer.

Hold on, hold on! Yes, it is my body, it is my skin, it is my hair, but we own it. Don’t get me wrong, I am not talking about the two becoming one. We are still metamorphosing into it. Soon Come.

Let me help you with a few fan facts, shall we?

When we met, I was single, clearly. I was doing the same job, scratching a living at the lower strata of the ladder. I was closing at 5 pm and getting home at 5:30 pm. I was living in Kanda, and I could walk home from my office, literally. That left me with enough disposal time to jog and exercise and spoil myself till my ancestors turned in their graves. Then I got a raise; a raise came with more responsibilities, more responsibilities meant staying longer at work. But that was recent.

In the beginning, the very beginning, came along a sweet-talking spider, who swept me off my feet and the rest is us, as we can see. When you came along, I no longer cooked for my self alone. I no longer did my random stir fries and the recycling of various leftovers in the fridge. When you came along, I became intentional about food, cooking, cleaning and serving. I started thinking beyond myself and what my priorities were, and started putting you in the picture when ever I had to do me. That was the time for jogging, and a huge chunk of my low-key narcissism, going through the window.

I don’t know if it was unfortunate for you or for me, but your mum, bless her soul, didn’t teach you how to boil water to save your life. As we have it here, I am trying but you are not learning. So I continue to boil water to save your life, literally. Basically, if it is not corn flakes or gari soakings, I must prepare it myself for you. That is more of my disposable time dwindling out like my salary from January to December 2018, as the Dollar took a trip to Jupiter!

In between trying to warm your food for you, because your allergies are triggered by the waves from the Microwave, to serving you, my king, you let go of the semen and got me swelling all over the place. But it was not just my tummy that got bumped up; the distance from home to work increased as well. You wanted me to move into your plush Adjiringanor home. #RichCoupleAreUs. But of course, that is the right thing to do. That basically meant long hours in traffic. To beat that, we must set off early.

I wake up every morning torn between morning jogging, morning sex, morning bedroom chores, as I don’t particularly like a house help in my matrimonial bedroom, and fixing of breakfast, which you don’t want the house help to do.

While I divide myself into tiny pieces to get it all sorted so we all leave the house by 6:30 am, I have a husband who was raised by a single mum to believe that a woman has got you; all you do is wake up and be great. Leave the details out for Nancy to fix. For six years, I have followed the king without complaining, trying to right the wrong, while the king sucked his thumb like the world is part of his diapers – He shits in it. But today, I am speaking truth to power, in its purity! Please oblige me.

In six years, we have had three children; Alison is a year old. I don’t have a nanny, and I don’t have a house help, because the whore thought we look alike, so we are equals. The cost of letting her see her smoothness level is me seeing my smoothness level in a huge house, with three children and a husband who does not exist in the real scheme of things.

Let me ask you this, Joey. God forbid, but if I fall sick suddenly, can you take care of these children for 48 hours while you try to organize help? Which cereal do they like? Which meal is Walter allergic to? Which Diaper gives Alison diaper rash? George likes only one cereal, I hope you know the name of it, and the stores that sell it.

Joe, When was the last time you bathe these kids and prepared them for school? When was the last time you helped them with their homework? Your first two children are boys; when did you last take them out to play? Five years and three years, Joe! I am everything to them. All you do is to take the line of least effort; Clothes, toys, gadgets. Anything to make them leave you alone.Anything to let them be distracted from following you around; make them give you time. I shudder when I think about the fact that one day I may leave you with these children for something I don’t know yet. I wonder how you will cope.

Don’t get me wrong; I appreciate all you do for me. It is a fair balance and I am a grateful wife. I literally don’t spend a dime of my salary. Your argument has always been to work for us and make us comfortable; you have done a good job and the family is grateful. My entire family is grateful. Your largesse has gotten to them; we lack nothing. So yea. More Pia to you.

But baby, not everything is done with the money. Money won’t prepare three hyper children for school in an hour. Money won’t fast track cooking for a man who wants detailed and well thought out meals. Money won’t clean a house without help. And Money won’t certainly buy me back the time lost trying to make the house look habitable.

Have you any idea how I manage to keep the walls clean from Pencil marks? A task so mundane, yet more arduous than guarding the president? Do you know How I manage to keep the children from choking, drowning, electrocution, falling, scalding, cuts and bruises? Do you have any idea what it takes to have these toddlers at home and still make time to get the house in shape by the time you walk through that door at 8 pm?

When you come home, you go upstairs to your study and do your own thing. I don’t ask whether you are chatting with Toni Braxton or Amber Rose. So long as you are happy, I am happy. And I have trusted you to make the right choices. Never for once have I called you downstairs or nagged for being insensitive to the challenges I have, especially since I got the help to leave. I was hoping you will step in while we looked for a new one. But that was my decision so I am quietly suffering for it. But a sensitive man would have asked how his wife was coping.

You could be asking me something stupid like, How do you cope with changing Alison's diapers and seeing Walter, who is fixated with water, disappear from sight? How is it like mopping a tiled floor with children who won't sit down, or allow to be locked for a few minutes for the floor to dry?

These questions, as mundane as they are, will tell me my husband cares

I give it to you; you operate the washing machine, so wash our stuff. You do groceries, buy gas, get the house painted; the big strategic things. But this house, Joey, needs more than a general manager to make strategic decisions. This house houses a young family with young children. We are a young couple with so much to figure out and to shape together. You elevating yourself to a king and everyone else including me, being a slave is not on!

But see, I have never complained. I grew up in a narrative that tells you to choke on it and be a super wife. So each day, I ask for grace to be able to do it all; work, children, house chores, and…of course mind-blowing sex. Thank God that is one of my favourite part of this marriage, otherwise, you would be getting it once in an eclipse. But it is at great sacrifice that I make all these things work. I am a balanced person who is willing to go crazy length to find balance in all spheres of my life. I do well to spare you the nagging.

I have become so regimented I have no spare time to give to my hair, weight, skin colour and whatnots. And for your information; when a woman delivers, she puts on weight. My family is a family of weights, fats and waist gathers! Wake up to that reality. When I had all of the time to myself, I made a conscious effort at keeping it at bay. When you came in, you didn’t come alone, but with three others. What, am I supposed to handle all of you in this 24 hours we all have, in the exigencies of the reality I find myself in and still look like Beyonce? What the hell have you been smoking lately, Joey?

The F…! Sorry I couldn’t catch it. But I hope you feel my frustration. Do you think I feel great in my skin? This smooth skin you could lick from face to toe and jerk off by just doing it, is now stretch-marked. I know! And I hate you for it! Yes, I hate you for not helping me out so I can free my hands to work on me. But it is politically incorrect to criticize the king, so I suck it all the way in. I don’t even know which colour my complexion is now. My hair feels like crap. Hello Sister Locks, here I come! But I don’t have two days and two people to braid it, because my husband is not sensitive enough to see the need, and handle the children while I am away getting my funk on!

Thank God my sense of fashion is still on, Thank God I have sisters who won’t allow me to rot. Bless you, for the luxury you throw on me. Thank God, that I naturally have the heart to serve, and working the house is never a chore, so I still keep my joy and laughter. Otherwise, people would look at me and use me as the epitome of a bad marriage.

So yes, your observations are right. I look like really really nasty right now. I could used a Kardashian Endorsed Make Over! But before you come telling me to Beyonce up, you could do yourself a favour, and get me a glass of Moet, and while on your way out make a commitment on your mother’s grave that from today, you will give me a hand. You will make that personal decision to learn, or allow yourself to be taught. On your way out, think it over in your head and ask yourself if you have been fair to me; if my views of the situation represent the reality on the ground.

Add Ice, and while it freezes your fingers ask yourself if that is the wife you want. Because guess what, that is what I will be turning into if it finally gets to me – heartless frozen Bitchy hag of a wife. I have coped for six years, Joey, six bloody years and never complained. But glad you noticed it because I was beginning to think you really didn’t give two rat nuts what happens to me so long as things just happened.

Thank you for bringing this up; at least it tells me you are seeing the symptoms of the problem. Now that I have properly helped you diagnosed it, go get me my Moet, and come back with a firm commitment to be an apprentice while I teach you how to cure it.

I am not the kind that tell people what is wrong without telling them how to fix it. I am a lady, I am a mother, most importantly I am married to you. And don’t you ever dare underrate it; I love you to the moon and back while the wolves howl at me. The only thing that has kept my Fante lips shut, is this inexplicable love I have for you. But wetin I gain if this love don dey kee me?

Now we all know why my hair looks like Willy Wonka’s, my skin like an Orc’s and my tummy, the strait of Gibraltar, so sit your butts down and follow my lead. This is a cool chop; I will teach you all you need to do to turn things around and move me from Size 16 back to 10.

Now off you go. Full glass! Don’t forget the ice!!! Should I go clean myself or you want a final round? Wait, we can pour in some Moet while you sip it, don’t you think?

That’s my boy!

And so that is how the conversation basically went last night. This morning, I saw him struggling with one child for 30 minutes. And that is the calmest of them all. Naniama! But that is a start. I have all the time in the world, to watch him change. Don't you love a man who listens to reason and not get all emotional when the truth comes for his Jugular?

I totally love my Joey!

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