I had everything a Lagos big girl was supposed to have — a thriving job at a multinational, two cars parked in front of my rented duplex, a wardrobe full of designer bags, and an accent I’d polished with trips to Dubai and London.
But no matter how far I traveled or how high I climbed, my mother’s voice never let me forget the one thing I didn’t have.
A man to call my husband.
Every time I picked up her calls, it came like clockwork: “So when will I come and carry my grandchild, Chinwe? Or is it car I will rock in my old age?”
My younger sisters — Ngozi with her twins, and Ifeoma with her doting husband — would exchange those pitying glances behind my back during family gatherings. Aunties whispered. Old classmates giggled whenever I posted vacation pictures without a ring.
It stung. God knows it did.
So when my mother called me a “male-dressed spinster” at my cousin’s wedding, something inside me snapped like dry broomsticks.
Two days later, under the cloak of shame and moonlight, I drove four hours down to my village in Umunnede — alone. I ignored the barking dogs, the curious eyes of night traders at the junction.
I went straight to the river behind my late father’s compound — the one my grandmother once called the “mother of the village” — where no girl was allowed to speak certain words after dusk.
But I didn’t care for old warnings.
I fell to my knees at the mossy bank, my tears mixing with the cold river water that lapped gently at my palms.
“Please... whoever listens here... water spirits... ancestors... gods... anybody!” I sobbed, my voice cracking into the darkness. “I’m tired of being laughed at! Give me a husband — a man I can call mine! I don’t want to di!e single... please!”
After my words, there was no thunder, no rustle. The water simply gurgled on, swallowing my secrets.
By dawn, I dragged my weary body back to the city, clutching a fragile hope that maybe, just maybe, something or someone had heard me.
I threw myself into work the next day, ignoring my mother’s calls. By midnight, exhausted, I dozed off on the couch, still in my office blouse and skirt.
A strange chill brushed my cheek. My eyes fluttered open.
At first, I thought my mind was playing tricks — that the silhouette by my window was a trick of shadows.
Then the figure moved. Into the light. A tall man, bare-chested, skin glistening as if he’d been bathed in moonlight. Eyes dark, unblinking. Handsome in an unearthly way.
My breath caught in my throat. I could not scream.
“Who... who are you?” I croaked, pressing my back against the sofa, eyes darting to the door I knew I could never reach in time.
The man smiled, slow and haunting, and spoke in a voice that felt like cool river water washing over burning skin:
“Your husband... from the waters of Umunnede.”
TO BE CONTINUED... STAY TUNED.
GIVE ME A HUSBAND
Episode 1
To be automatically notified when the next episode drops, f0ll0w Jane James
#creativewriting
#storytelling
#storytime
#fictionwriterI had everything a Lagos big girl was supposed to have — a thriving job at a multinational, two cars parked in front of my rented duplex, a wardrobe full of designer bags, and an accent I’d polished with trips to Dubai and London.
But no matter how far I traveled or how high I climbed, my mother’s voice never let me forget the one thing I didn’t have.
A man to call my husband.
Every time I picked up her calls, it came like clockwork: “So when will I come and carry my grandchild, Chinwe? Or is it car I will rock in my old age?”
My younger sisters — Ngozi with her twins, and Ifeoma with her doting husband — would exchange those pitying glances behind my back during family gatherings. Aunties whispered. Old classmates giggled whenever I posted vacation pictures without a ring.
It stung. God knows it did.
So when my mother called me a “male-dressed spinster” at my cousin’s wedding, something inside me snapped like dry broomsticks.
Two days later, under the cloak of shame and moonlight, I drove four hours down to my village in Umunnede — alone. I ignored the barking dogs, the curious eyes of night traders at the junction.
I went straight to the river behind my late father’s compound — the one my grandmother once called the “mother of the village” — where no girl was allowed to speak certain words after dusk.
But I didn’t care for old warnings.
I fell to my knees at the mossy bank, my tears mixing with the cold river water that lapped gently at my palms.
“Please... whoever listens here... water spirits... ancestors... gods... anybody!” I sobbed, my voice cracking into the darkness. “I’m tired of being laughed at! Give me a husband — a man I can call mine! I don’t want to di!e single... please!”
After my words, there was no thunder, no rustle. The water simply gurgled on, swallowing my secrets.
By dawn, I dragged my weary body back to the city, clutching a fragile hope that maybe, just maybe, something or someone had heard me.
I threw myself into work the next day, ignoring my mother’s calls. By midnight, exhausted, I dozed off on the couch, still in my office blouse and skirt.
A strange chill brushed my cheek. My eyes fluttered open.
At first, I thought my mind was playing tricks — that the silhouette by my window was a trick of shadows.
Then the figure moved. Into the light. A tall man, bare-chested, skin glistening as if he’d been bathed in moonlight. Eyes dark, unblinking. Handsome in an unearthly way.
My breath caught in my throat. I could not scream.
“Who... who are you?” I croaked, pressing my back against the sofa, eyes darting to the door I knew I could never reach in time.
The man smiled, slow and haunting, and spoke in a voice that felt like cool river water washing over burning skin:
“Your husband... from the waters of Umunnede.”
TO BE CONTINUED... STAY TUNED.
GIVE ME A HUSBAND
Episode 1
To be automatically notified when the next episode drops, f0ll0w Jane James
#creativewriting
#storytelling
#storytime
#fictionwriter
English
Arabic
French
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek