MY HUSBAND SAID THAT MY TOTO IS TOO WIDE
( Episode 6)
It was one of those nights when the power was out and the heat was unbearable. I was in my room when my phone rang—it was Blessing.
She didn’t say anything at first. I could only hear her breathing. Then, in a soft, trembling voice, she said, “I don’t want to be here anymore.”
I jumped up. “Blessing, what do you mean?”
She didn’t answer.
I threw on my slippers and ran to her house. Luckily, I had a spare key.
When I opened the door, I found her sitting on the floor, holding her baby so tightly, it looked like she was trying to protect him from something the rest of us couldn’t see. The baby was crying softly. She was too.
Her eyes were distant. Her face was pale. She looked like someone at the edge.
I knelt beside her. “Blessing, talk to me.”
She whispered, “I’m tired. I’m so tired. I’ve given everything. I’ve tried everything. What am I still doing here? What’s the point?”
I held her face in my hands. “You’re here because your child needs you. Because your story is not over. Because this pain—this horrible pain—is not the end of you.”
She shook her head. “He made me feel like I’m nothing. Like I’m not even human. How do I live with that kind of wound?”
I wiped her tears and said, “You live by remembering who you were before he came. And you keep living because that baby in your arms sees you as everything.”
We sat like that for a long time.
Eventually, she placed the baby down and lay on my lap, like a child seeking peace.
“I feel like I’m dying inside,” she said.
“And you will feel like that for a while,” I told her honestly. “But it won’t last forever. You will rise. You will heal. But you have to decide you want to live again.”
She closed her eyes, and for the first time in a long time, she allowed someone else to carry the weight with her.
That night, she didn’t sleep in her room.
She slept in mine—with me and the baby curled up beside her.
And I held her tightly, praying silently that God would carry her through the storm she could no longer fight alone.
The morning after that long, painful night, Blessing was different.
She didn’t say much.
She fed the baby quietly, cleaned up the room, and took a long shower. When she came out, she wore one of her old gowns—the yellow one with little flower prints. I hadn’t seen her wear that in months.
I watched her move slowly around the room, folding clothes, packing diapers into a small bag.
“Are you going somewhere?” I asked gently.
She nodded. “I’m leaving.”
I stood up quickly. “Leaving? Where?”
“Anywhere that is not that house,” she said. “I’ve stayed too long in pain. I kept thinking it would change. I kept trying to fix myself. But it’s not me that’s broken.”
Her voice was calm. Too calm. But her eyes held a strength I hadn’t seen in a long time.
“I can’t keep begging someone to love me. I can’t keep living in a place where I feel like a stranger. My child deserves a mother who smiles. I deserve peace.”
She didn’t pack much—just a few wrappers, baby clothes, and some feeding things.
“I don’t have a plan,” she said. “I don’t even have enough money. But I have to go. If I stay one more night in that house, I will lose what’s left of me.”
I helped her carry her things. We found a small, one-room flat not far from my place. A friend of mine had just moved out, and the landlord agreed to take her in.
The room was small, with a leaking roof and no fan, but it was hers.
Her own space.
Her first night there was quiet.
There was no shouting.
No rejection.
No cold shoulder.
Just her and her baby, sleeping in peace.
She called me that night and said, “It’s small… but I can breathe again.”
And I smiled, because I knew that this was the beginning of something new.
She had finally taken a stand.
Not just against Emeka.
But for herself. Adebayo Adetunji
( Episode 6)
It was one of those nights when the power was out and the heat was unbearable. I was in my room when my phone rang—it was Blessing.
She didn’t say anything at first. I could only hear her breathing. Then, in a soft, trembling voice, she said, “I don’t want to be here anymore.”
I jumped up. “Blessing, what do you mean?”
She didn’t answer.
I threw on my slippers and ran to her house. Luckily, I had a spare key.
When I opened the door, I found her sitting on the floor, holding her baby so tightly, it looked like she was trying to protect him from something the rest of us couldn’t see. The baby was crying softly. She was too.
Her eyes were distant. Her face was pale. She looked like someone at the edge.
I knelt beside her. “Blessing, talk to me.”
She whispered, “I’m tired. I’m so tired. I’ve given everything. I’ve tried everything. What am I still doing here? What’s the point?”
I held her face in my hands. “You’re here because your child needs you. Because your story is not over. Because this pain—this horrible pain—is not the end of you.”
She shook her head. “He made me feel like I’m nothing. Like I’m not even human. How do I live with that kind of wound?”
I wiped her tears and said, “You live by remembering who you were before he came. And you keep living because that baby in your arms sees you as everything.”
We sat like that for a long time.
Eventually, she placed the baby down and lay on my lap, like a child seeking peace.
“I feel like I’m dying inside,” she said.
“And you will feel like that for a while,” I told her honestly. “But it won’t last forever. You will rise. You will heal. But you have to decide you want to live again.”
She closed her eyes, and for the first time in a long time, she allowed someone else to carry the weight with her.
That night, she didn’t sleep in her room.
She slept in mine—with me and the baby curled up beside her.
And I held her tightly, praying silently that God would carry her through the storm she could no longer fight alone.
The morning after that long, painful night, Blessing was different.
She didn’t say much.
She fed the baby quietly, cleaned up the room, and took a long shower. When she came out, she wore one of her old gowns—the yellow one with little flower prints. I hadn’t seen her wear that in months.
I watched her move slowly around the room, folding clothes, packing diapers into a small bag.
“Are you going somewhere?” I asked gently.
She nodded. “I’m leaving.”
I stood up quickly. “Leaving? Where?”
“Anywhere that is not that house,” she said. “I’ve stayed too long in pain. I kept thinking it would change. I kept trying to fix myself. But it’s not me that’s broken.”
Her voice was calm. Too calm. But her eyes held a strength I hadn’t seen in a long time.
“I can’t keep begging someone to love me. I can’t keep living in a place where I feel like a stranger. My child deserves a mother who smiles. I deserve peace.”
She didn’t pack much—just a few wrappers, baby clothes, and some feeding things.
“I don’t have a plan,” she said. “I don’t even have enough money. But I have to go. If I stay one more night in that house, I will lose what’s left of me.”
I helped her carry her things. We found a small, one-room flat not far from my place. A friend of mine had just moved out, and the landlord agreed to take her in.
The room was small, with a leaking roof and no fan, but it was hers.
Her own space.
Her first night there was quiet.
There was no shouting.
No rejection.
No cold shoulder.
Just her and her baby, sleeping in peace.
She called me that night and said, “It’s small… but I can breathe again.”
And I smiled, because I knew that this was the beginning of something new.
She had finally taken a stand.
Not just against Emeka.
But for herself. Adebayo Adetunji
MY HUSBAND SAID THAT MY TOTO IS TOO WIDE
( Episode 6)
It was one of those nights when the power was out and the heat was unbearable. I was in my room when my phone rang—it was Blessing.
She didn’t say anything at first. I could only hear her breathing. Then, in a soft, trembling voice, she said, “I don’t want to be here anymore.”
I jumped up. “Blessing, what do you mean?”
She didn’t answer.
I threw on my slippers and ran to her house. Luckily, I had a spare key.
When I opened the door, I found her sitting on the floor, holding her baby so tightly, it looked like she was trying to protect him from something the rest of us couldn’t see. The baby was crying softly. She was too.
Her eyes were distant. Her face was pale. She looked like someone at the edge.
I knelt beside her. “Blessing, talk to me.”
She whispered, “I’m tired. I’m so tired. I’ve given everything. I’ve tried everything. What am I still doing here? What’s the point?”
I held her face in my hands. “You’re here because your child needs you. Because your story is not over. Because this pain—this horrible pain—is not the end of you.”
She shook her head. “He made me feel like I’m nothing. Like I’m not even human. How do I live with that kind of wound?”
I wiped her tears and said, “You live by remembering who you were before he came. And you keep living because that baby in your arms sees you as everything.”
We sat like that for a long time.
Eventually, she placed the baby down and lay on my lap, like a child seeking peace.
“I feel like I’m dying inside,” she said.
“And you will feel like that for a while,” I told her honestly. “But it won’t last forever. You will rise. You will heal. But you have to decide you want to live again.”
She closed her eyes, and for the first time in a long time, she allowed someone else to carry the weight with her.
That night, she didn’t sleep in her room.
She slept in mine—with me and the baby curled up beside her.
And I held her tightly, praying silently that God would carry her through the storm she could no longer fight alone.
The morning after that long, painful night, Blessing was different.
She didn’t say much.
She fed the baby quietly, cleaned up the room, and took a long shower. When she came out, she wore one of her old gowns—the yellow one with little flower prints. I hadn’t seen her wear that in months.
I watched her move slowly around the room, folding clothes, packing diapers into a small bag.
“Are you going somewhere?” I asked gently.
She nodded. “I’m leaving.”
I stood up quickly. “Leaving? Where?”
“Anywhere that is not that house,” she said. “I’ve stayed too long in pain. I kept thinking it would change. I kept trying to fix myself. But it’s not me that’s broken.”
Her voice was calm. Too calm. But her eyes held a strength I hadn’t seen in a long time.
“I can’t keep begging someone to love me. I can’t keep living in a place where I feel like a stranger. My child deserves a mother who smiles. I deserve peace.”
She didn’t pack much—just a few wrappers, baby clothes, and some feeding things.
“I don’t have a plan,” she said. “I don’t even have enough money. But I have to go. If I stay one more night in that house, I will lose what’s left of me.”
I helped her carry her things. We found a small, one-room flat not far from my place. A friend of mine had just moved out, and the landlord agreed to take her in.
The room was small, with a leaking roof and no fan, but it was hers.
Her own space.
Her first night there was quiet.
There was no shouting.
No rejection.
No cold shoulder.
Just her and her baby, sleeping in peace.
She called me that night and said, “It’s small… but I can breathe again.”
And I smiled, because I knew that this was the beginning of something new.
She had finally taken a stand.
Not just against Emeka.
But for herself. Adebayo Adetunji
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