relationships

That Time I ‘Controlled’ My Husband

The dynamics of my marriage and household baffle my mother.

The dynamics of my friends’ marriages baffle my mother.

“You people and your London husbands,” is how she greets them when they come to my house solo, leaving her husbands at home with their children.

When my daughter was about two months old, my mother almost had a heart attack when I told her I was making a day trip to Paris for a bridal shower.

“Who will look after Pork Chop?!” she asked, like I was a single mum with no one to share the responsibility of raising my child.

I understand that my marriage and the dynamics of my household are not what she is used to. She is a sixty something year old Nigerian woman who was raised in a time where women did everything and men, nothing. Well, nothing besides being ATMs.

She pinches me if he walks into the kitchen to serve his dinner and berates me when he takes out the bin. She flies off the sofa when she hears him doing dishes and chases him out lest the water washes away his manhood.

On one occasion, she watched in quiet support while some twice removed aunt laid into him for carrying my handbag.

“What is wrong with you London people?!” the aunt asked as he helped me carry my bag into the house so I wouldn’t smudge my freshly varnished nails (you know that struggle!).

To my mother, his willingness to do household chores, serve his wife and be a hands on father are as foreign as his postcode.

She is consistent in her beliefs.

She frowned in disapproval the day I told her I was popping over to the petrol station to pump air into my car tyres.

“Shouldn’t your husband do that?”

She worried about how we would pay our bills when he was made redundant, despite my income. Yet, she managed to sleep at night when I was going on maternity leave, making him the sole/primary earner.

I am used to her lectures and pinches and I’m not mad at her because I understand that she is a product of the culture of her time just as I am a product of the culture of mine.

But one day, she stunned me.

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“Why are you controlling your husband?”

I stared at her in disbelief.

“Controlling my husband?”

“Yes, you are controlling him.”

My daughter’s name was the cause of the accusation, the straw that broke the camel’s back.

I am Benin but married to a Yoruba man. The expectation (of the general public) was that my daughter would have a Yoruba first name or perhaps an English one. No one expected her first name would be a Benin one because god forbid she be identified by her mother’s tribe.

When we came up with three names for her (Yoruba, Benin and English), my husband loved her Benin name as much as I do. As soon as I told him what it means (and its significance to us), he was sold. When he suggested we use it as her first name, I was all for it.

It didn’t occur to me that anyone would have an issue with it till my mother accused me of controlling my husband.

For a time (albeit brief), she insisted on calling my daughter by her Yoruba name because she was concerned about “what people would say.” In her mind, there was no way a Yoruba man would choose to give his daughter a Benin first name so I must have beaten him into submission.

She wasn’t alone; one of my Uncles outright stated that he would only call her by the name her father gave her. It gave me great pleasure to tell him that I was responsible for BOTH her Benin and Yoruba names. He’s a traditionalist so I knew he’d rather lose a limb than use her English name…the name her father picked. 

They didn’t take into account that my husband is a different kind of man to the one they are used to.

He takes out the bin and does dishes.

He helps me carry my handbag when I need help.

He changes our bedsheets because I’m lazy with that stuff.

His culinary skills are pretty limited (the chink in his armour) but he makes a mean corned beef stew.

He bathes our daughter every night and derives great pleasure (the man is strange) from changing her poopy nappies.

He helps me take out my weaves…even though it takes him forever and a day.

He goes to the butchers to buy meat.

He looks after our daughter when I need baby free time.

He looks after our daughter because she is HIS daughter.

He listens when I speak and values my opinions.

He says ‘my wife and I have decided’ because we make decisions as a team.

These are some of the things that make my mother think he is being controlled.

I know I am opinionated and strong willed but surely, it is possible for a man to be a willing contributor to his household in every way and for a woman to have a voice in her own home?

Not everything is voodoo. Sometimes, they are just great men.

 

 

Back and Forth and Back and Forth

We had breakfast together like we always did but I couldn’t eat, hadn’t eaten much since she died a month ago. I watched him swallow mouthful after mouthful of boiled yam and corned beef stew, with the occasional sip of water to help pave the way. The temptation to pray he choked was overwhelming; I envied his ability to satisfy his hunger. The fist of grief that had made its home in my throat, making it impossible for anything to get past it, had obviously not paid him a visit.
I wanted to ask how he did it, how me managed to make it from one day to the next with such ease, but I didn’t know how. We didn’t talk much, we never had, and we certainly didn’t trade confidences or dabble in emotions. I wanted to ask if he also lay awake at night, the sound of her voice gliding gracefully in his head until he was convinced she was lying next to him, whispering softly in his ear. Did he see her when he closed his eyes? Did her scent dance under his nose too? Did he stand in front of his bedroom mirror watching his snot and tears collide, feeling sorry for himself, and intermittently bursting into laughter at the idiocy of it all?
Nothing seemed to faze him, not once in the last month had he deviated from normality. Her journey to death was sudden, we didn’t see it coming. One Tuesday morning she woke up with a headache, by night fall she’d died of a brain haemorrhage. Three days later, she was buried. Screams and sobs, wails and paranormal expressions of pain, echoed throughout the grave yard as her body was lowered into the ground. Yet, not a sound did he make, not even a dignified sniff. Not as much as a lone tear fought its way past his eye lids. Hadn’t he loved her, didn’t he care enough for the barest tinge of sadness to cast a shadow over his expressionless face?
“Your father is not the emotional type,” she always said when I complained about his matter-of-fact approach to life, “but it doesn’t mean he doesn’t care, he just doesn’t show it.”
My heart was getting crushed under the weight of my unspoken grief. I wanted to talk about her, share my memories with him. I wanted to tell him I wasn’t coping, couldn’t cope. I’d woken up a few days before to find my underwear and bed sheet soaked in blood. I’d started to panic before realisation hit me; I’d become a woman. Who was I supposed to tell? I’d been walking around for three days with my underwear lined with my old tank tops.
The tears I’d been struggling to keep hidden from public view began to slide down my cheeks. I tried to stop them, to make them retrace their steps, but the harder I fought them, the faster they flowed. I gave in to the grief and wept so hard, my chest felt like it would burst open. Eyes blinded by tears, I didn’t realise he had moved to sit beside me till his arms embraced me. I lashed out in anger, pounding my fists against his chest. How could he be so quietly calm when my whole world was falling apart?!
Gently, he lifted me off my seat and settled me in his laps, cradling my head against his chest. Slowly, he began to rock me back and forth. Back and forth, back and forth, till my fists stilled. Still he continued to rock me, back and forth, back and forth. My breathing evened out. Back and forth, back and forth, till the tears subsided. Eventually, I looked up. It was then I saw the stream of tears flowing steadily, silently, down his face. I wrapped my arms around him and squeezed as tightly as I could. My heart felt lighter. I knew I was not alone.

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The Man I Met

20131028-155827.jpgI met a man, the perfect man. Gentle, yet a tower of strength when I lost my mother. I sat and watched as he calmly but firmly took charge of the funeral arrangements when I didn’t have the energy to deal with it all. Patient, he sat with me in silence for days on end, when the words wreaking havoc in my mind wouldn’t escape through my lips. Caring, he held me when I sobbed uncontrollably as her body was lowered into the ground, his arms, the only things stopping me from plunging six feet under the ground. Funny, his unlimited selection of rib crackers teased the first smile from my lips, proving his emphatic declaration that he’d make me smile again.

When we are together, he makes me feel like the single most important thing in his world, the world. Some nights he stays over and I dream of what marriage to him would be like;

I dream of the moment our eyes would meet as I walk down the aisle, towards him. I imagine his, bright with tears, staring deep into my soul, making promises that transcended words. I imagine stirring every morning with the certainty that he’d be right there, lying next to me, when I open my eyes. I’d be home waiting when he got in from work; table set, dinner ready with a glass of wine waiting to take the edge off his day. I’d be showered and wrapped in satin and lace, a parcel for him to unravel. I imagine myself gently stroking my stomach, swollen with his child. I imagine my feet swollen, waist thickened, neck blackened and nose doubled in size; none of which would matter as he gazes adoringly into my eyes.

Would our daughter inherit the lone dimple in his left check? Would she be collectedly confident like her father or a boisterous scatterbrain like me? Would our son be his father’s copy or a spitting image of me?

The nights he goes home, I try not to think about it, try not to picture his boys running into his arms as he walks through the door, screaming, “Daddy!” I try not to wonder if she wonders where he is when he isn’t with her. I try not to picture her lying in bed with him, touching him, kissing him. I know how much he loves a good cuddle and I try not to picture his arms wrapped tightly around her, as he snores gently through the night.

Does he love her, really love her? Do his eyes light up when she walks in the room? When they are together, does he make her feel like the single most important thing in his world, the world?

We share a home; his clothes hang next to mine in the wardrobe, his toiletries sit next to mine in the bathroom. The smell of his cigar permeates the entire flat and the fridge is full of his favourite things. I could have his babies, permanent reminders of him left behind when he’s not around and I know he’d be there for us, look after us, come what may. But I hate that the thing I want the most, his name; a public declaration that I belong to him and he, to me, he’s already given to someone else.

Fighting For Forver: Part V (Final)

They say good things happen in three’s but bad things I tell you, happen by the dozen. I started my day rowing with Alex and it was downhill from there on in. My conversation with Nneka didn’t help matters but when I got to work to find that my MD was wanted by the EFCC for fraud, my day fell apart at the seams. Having being tipped off, he’d absconded to England with his family the previous day. The building was on security watch and operations, shut down by the commission.
How were Alex and I going to survive?!
I didn’t even get the opportunity to reclaim my personal effects. The place was ferociously guarded by frustrated policemen, hungry for opportunities to let off steam. I watched in horror, as they slapped Femi, the IT guy, senseless, for daring to attempt to bribe his way into the building. As tensions rose between angry staff and frustrated officers, I climbed back in my car and slowly made my way home. After the row we’d had earlier, I didn’t know how to break the news to Alex.
As I crawled along the streets of Victoria Island, I remembered the day he told me he’d lost his job. I suddenly understand how he must have felt. His distraught speech about needing time to get himself together suddenly made sense.
Where was I going to start from trying to find a new job?
I knew I’d been hard on him, I’d seen what happened when men got lazy and there was no way I was going to let him fall into that cycle, but for the first time, I realised I’d been unfair to him too.
I remembered when we first started dating. We were only two months into the relationship when mum had a stroke. At the time I told him I’d never forget everything he did to help her, but I lied. It’s wasn’t till I was sat in the car, dreaming up ways to avoid telling him my job had gone down the drain, that I remembered.
I’d forgotten how he’d sold his second car to help settle the hospital bills. I’d forgotten how he’d employed someone to look after her because I was away a lot with work. I remembered the sacrifices he made to ensure she had everything she needed.
I remembered the first time I tried to pay the electricity bill after we got married; he looked at me like I’d lost my mind, said it was his responsibility to provide for me and not the other way round. Up until he lost his job, he’d never asked me for a penny.
I had forgotten that.
I remembered how excited he got every time he had a new project at work. He’d bounce ideas off me and I’d dutifully listen, many times feigning interest. Many nights he’d stay at work long after his colleagues had called it a day, trying to perfect his designs. The man had loved his job.
I had forgotten that.
My fears had blinded me to the reality that the man I married is nothing like the man I accuse him of being. Slamming down on the gas, I sped home to say the words I should have said when he came home lost and hurting having just lost his job,
“We’ll get through this.”

Fighting For Forever: Part IV

“What do you mean you lost your job?” she asked, her eyebrows meeting in the centre of her forehead.

“I got fired, sacked, get it?!”

“Don’t get smart with me, you know what I mean.”

“I’m sorry babe, it’s just that today has been the worst day of my life. I don’t know how to feel, what to think.”

“You still haven’t explained what happened.”

I took her by the arm and led her to the sofa. I hated having to admit to her that I’d failed and foolishly too. I knew how proud she was of me and everything I’d achieved in the 4 years we’ve been together. I opened my mouth to explain how it had happened but the weight of my shame silenced me.

“Go on Alex, talk to me. Your silence is driving me crazy!”

“I’m sorry, I just feel like such an idiot. I made a big mistake that lost the company a multi-million dollar contract. I swear I didn’t know the guy was a conman. I didn’t know!”

“Calm down Alex and start from the beginning,” she said, clasping my hands in hers, her fingers drawing comforting strokes.”

“Remember the deal I told you about? Turns out the guy I contracted to supply the marble tiles was a fraud.”

“How’s that possible? I thought you said you were using Zania? They are the largest importers of marble in Africa!”

“Yeah they are but it turns out the guy doesn’t work for them.”

“Didn’t you check him out? But you said you said he showed you round their warehouse in Matori?”

“Honey, I don’t understand it. I even went to his office in their main building on Adeola Odeku. I don’t know how the guy did it. He gave us an invoice and we paid for the tiles but they didn’t arrive on the day he said they would. When we tried to call him to find out what was going on we got no response so I sent one of my assistants to his office. I was dumbfounded when she came back and said she was told no one by that name worked there. I went there myself and met the MD, he confirmed it. I explained what had happened and he asked to see the contracts and all the paper work. Turns out they were all fake.”

“Oh my God, Alex this is huge!”

“Like that wasn’t bad enough, the client threatened us with legal action if we didn’t produce either the tiles or their money so the company had to pay back the money. It wasn’t my fault Karen, it wasn’t but the losses were too great, someone had to pay for it.”

“I’m so sorry baby, I know it wasn’t your fault.” She cradled my head against her breasts while I sobbed my heart out. Everything I’d worked for was gone in an instant. My reputation was in shreds and I was forced to pay back the $200,000 commission I had received for landing the project. No other design firm in the country would hire me, my MD had made that much clear to me.

“Don’t worry about it baby, things will work out,” she soothed, stroking my head, “you’ll get another job and things will go back to normal soon enough.”

“To be honest Karen, I don’t even know what I want to do with myself anymore. No design firm will hire me now and to be honest, I’m not sure I want them to. I need time to get my head around this and figure out what I want to do with the rest of my life. Perhaps this is God’s way of getting me to explore other options.”

“When up say you need time, how long are we talking? A couple of days? A week?”

“A month, maybe two. I don’t know babe. I just need time to get my head round this.”

Her fingers stilled against my head and looked up into her eyes questioningly.

“And how are we supposed to survive while you’re getting your head round this?”

“I know it’s not ideal but we could live on you salary till I sort something out.”

“Ah, I see. I’m supposed to go out to work, while you laze around all day right?!”

“Karen!”

“Don’t Karen me! This is how it starts. One month turns to six and before you know it it’s been sixteen years and you’re still trying to get yourself together. If you think I’m going to work my butt off while you live a life of leisure, do yourself a favour and get that fantasy out of your head.”

“Who said anything about living a life of leisure? All I said is I need a little time to figure out where to go from here, is that too much to ask? I know what my responsibilities are as a man, as your husband, and you should know better than to think I’m trying to abdicate them!”

“Story! All I know is you need to find a job and fast too. You want to take a break from your career? Joker! The next thing I know you’ll be spending your days getting drunk in front of the TV and slamming my head against walls. If you thought you’d struck it lucky, you had better think again. I am not my mother.”

“And I Karen, am not your Father.”

Fighting For Forever: Part III

As I stormed out of the house trying not to slam doors, I could scarce contain my anger.
Where does the man get off thinking he can get away with trying to feel me up when he knows I’m mad at him?!
A voice in my head tried to tell me that perhaps I was being a little harsh but I silenced it. I know I’ve been mean to him lately but there’s nothing like tough love to cure a lazy man. I’ll drop dead before I turn into my mother!
Desperate to vent I called my best friend Nneka.
“Alex needs to get his act together because I have no intention of financing his lazy ass for much longer. This is not the life I signed up for. Who wants a man that can’t look after his family?!”
“Good morning to you too.”
“Whatever Nneka, I’m serious! I’m sick of Alex’s crap!”
“Calm down Karen, you know Alex isn’t that kind of man. He is just going through a difficult patch. He’ll be back on his feet soon enough.”
“Yeah, that’s what my mother said for 20 years while my father sat on his ass getting drunk and fat off her hard work.”
“Haba! How can you say that?! Alex is nothing like your father! He will find a job soon enough, be patient with him. You’re his wife, you should be supporting him. Cut the guy some slack. He has been good to you and deserves the same from you now that he is in a difficult place.”
“And I haven’t I been good to him too? In the last six months I’ve paid every bill that needed paying, fed him and fuelled his car so he could attend the many meetings he claimed would help get him a job. I’m done doing it. If he really wanted a job he’d have found one by now. He knows people, surely it’s not that difficult?! ”
“Wow Karen, when did you become so unfeeling? And since when is finding a job in Lagos or anywhere in the world for that matter, not that difficult?”
“You know what, you’re getting on my nerves. I will speak to you later.”
I hung up without waiting for a response. I forget how annoying Nneka can be. It’s why she gets on so well with my mum, association of door mats. I can’t stand weak women. I love Alex but I’m no fool.
Karen, don’t you think you’re being too hard on the man? You know he has been trying.
I remembered how my mum would rush home from work night after night to cook dinner for a man who had done nothing but sit in front of the TV all day. One day, she came home late and he was so mad that he wasn’t served dinner at the usual time, he beat her till she ran out of the house screaming for help. I will never forget the sight of her kneeling in the driveway begging for his forgiveness, after he locked her out of the house. The house her salary paid for. It was the moment I lost all respect for her. She is a weakling but I, Karen, am made of sterner stuff.
If Alex thought he was marrying my mother’s daughter, he thought wrong.

Fighting For Forever: Part II

I remembered the first time I took Karen to see my mother. Knowing how quick mama’s tongue is, I’d briefed her on the right things to say and do. As soon as mama came into the living room, Karen fell to her knees and greeted her like a good servant would greet his master. I was impressed. When mama went into the kitchen to serve lunch, she trailed her offering to help. Not wanting to be left on my own, I followed them into the kitchen but one sharp look from mama told me I wasn’t welcome. I groaned as I realised she intended to grill Karen. Much as I wanted to protect her from mama’s interrogation, I realised it would have to happen at some point so I conceded and left them to it.
Half an hour later when they both surfaced with smiles on their faces, I breathed a sigh of relief. All through lunch Karen wouldn’t shut up about how fantastic a cook mama was and I was certain she had passed the test when she promptly cleared the table and offered to do the dishes after lunch. I couldn’t have been more shocked when mama called me later that night and gave her verdict.
“My son, leave that girl, she is not a good woman.”
“Mama! How can you say that?! You met her today, what’s not to like?!”
“I am a woman and your mother at that. I know a good wife when I see one and I am telling that she will not make you a good wife.”
“You can’t just say that,” I groaned in frustration, “help me understand how you came to that conclusion.”
“It’s in her eyes my son, she smiles a lot but the smile doesn’t reach her eyes. She is shrewd, she is not a kind person.”
“How can you know that when you’ve only just met her? I’ve been dating her for two years and she’s never yet given me reason to agree with you.”
“Call it feminine intuition but I know what I’m saying. I’m your mother, I won’t lie to you. Oju e buru gan, her eyes are wicked.”
I was furious with the old woman. The very eyes that made me feel like a million dollars when they smiled at me, how could she call them wicked?!
“Look mama, we both know how you are. You never see the good in people, always quick to criticise. Karen is the woman I have chosen to marry. If you want to convince me otherwise, you’ll have to come up with something better than this your wicked eyes theory.”
“My son, you are not a baby. Marry whoever you want to marry but know that the day I cease to tell you the truth is the day I will join your father in the grave. I cannot sit back and watch you make a mistake without saying my piece. If you want to marry her, marry her but for your sake, I hope the blackness I see in her eyes is just her pupils.”
“I’m grateful for the advice but I think I know Karen better than you do. She is a lovely girl and I have no doubt she will make me happy. You wanted me to find a wife, I’ve found one. Please be happy for me, that’s all I ask.”

Oh mama, I wish I’d listened to you!

Karen has made my life hell the last six months. Initially I told myself I deserved her anger. I’d made a mistake and though a part of me wanted her support and understanding, on some level, I felt I deserved to be punished for being so gullible. Any fool that does business with a man that wears a white suit in this Lagos deserves to be conned! But six month of hostility from my wife was more than I deserved. I’ve begged, grovelled and worked my butt off trying to find a new job. What more does she want?
I will never forget her reaction the day I broke the news to her. It was the first time I saw what my mother saw in her eyes. Blackness.

Fighting For Forever: Part I

I sat and watched as she got ready for work. My eyes liked what they saw and judging by the increased rate of my heart beat, my body did too. For the first time in months, I felt alive. Her dress nipped and tucked in all the right places, I could never get over how tiny her waist was. It was one of the first things I noticed about her the night we first met. That and the way her smile lights up her eyes. I miss that, so much! There was a time when all I had to do was walk into a room for that smile to appear. These days, my presence has the opposite effect.
I screwed up, I know I did, but show me a person that’s never made a mistake and I’ll show you God. How was I supposed to know that the client I brokered that deal for was a con man? I followed procedure, did everything by the book. That I lost my job over it doesn’t mean I did wrong. Someone had to take the fall to pacify the board and understandably, that someone was me.
“You look beautiful baby,” I said, moving to stand behind her, eyes glued to her reflection in the mirror. Lowering my head, I planted a kiss in the cleft of her neck. She tried to hide her reaction but there was no mistaking the flinch.
“Do you have a problem with me kissing you?”
“I don’t have time for this,” she growled, “Someone needs to go to work to provide for this family and seeing as you’ve refused to get off your backside, I am that someone.”
The force of her resentment left me temporarily speechless. I knew she was mad I’d lost my job but for the first time, I realised it went a lot deeper than that.
“Move out of my way Alex, I need to get to work.”
“Tell me Karen, what are you so mad about? I’ve told you what happened at work, it wasn’t my fault! Even my boss acknowledged that but his hands were tied. Why won’t my wife show some support?”
“It’s been six months, surely that’s enough time to find another job? Or do you expect me to support you forever?!”
“Is that what this is about, the fact that I haven’t got much money to add to the pot?”
“Much? Don’t you mean any? Look Alex, I’m sick of paying all the bills in this house. Like that’s not bad enough, you expect me to line your pocket too. What kind of man doesn’t know to save for a rainy day? You don’t work, you don’t spend. That’s how it will be from now on. Let’s see if a job won’t miraculously appear.”
“Tell me, who paid all the bills in this house before I lost my job? Who bought you your car? Who took you on holidays and lined your pockets when you didn’t have two pennies to rub together?”
“And is it not your duty to provide for your wife? If you want me to wear the trousers in this relationship tell me so I know where I stand. What kind of man doesn’t feel uncomfortable having his woman feed and clothe him?”
“You talk like I haven’t been frantically looking for a job. You think I like relying on you for money? You think it doesn’t break my heart when the bills come in and there’s not a damn thing I can do about paying them? Tell me, before I lost my job did I ask you for a penny? Didn’t I handle everything that needed handling in this house?”
“Then be a man and continue handling things! I really can’t do this now, I have a job to get to. For the love of god, get out of my way!”
I stepped aside and watched her pick up her handbag and walk out of my bedroom. My mother’s warnings came flooding back and I sank against the wall as the truth of her predictions hit me. I did not marry a good woman.

What Would You Do If…Your Partner Was Unfaithful

Infidelity is not a new phenomenon. It existed in biblical times and it’s done a pretty good job of staying relevant.  Every day I open a newspaper, there’s one more politician that’s been caught cheating on their partner and one more pop star caught frolicking with their backing dancer. I speak to people I know and someone’s uncle’s been cheating on his wife while someone else’s mother’s been cheating on her husband. Someone is always cheating on someone and I pray fervently to God that my name will never be someone.

The women I’ve asked about infidelity are more likely to be analytical about it, conjuring different scenarios and factors that would affect their decisions. I’ve met some women who have accepted that men will always cheat and as a result have resigned themselves to the inevitability of marrying a cheating man.  The average man on the other hand, is much less forgiving about the prospect of his woman cheating. Every time I’ve consulted a man on the issue, the speed and passion with which they’ve declared the hypothetical marriage over, has been consistent.  

My heart literally (and I mean that) aches when I imagine my partner cheating and I beg heaven every day, that it will never be my reality.  I wouldn’t know what to do. If he was my boyfriend I would most likely end the relationship in a heartbeat but if he was my husband would I divorce him? Would I forgive him? How would I know he wouldn’t do it again? What if he wasn’t even sorry he did it in the first place, would I fight for my marriage for the sake of any children we might have?

The scenarios are plenty and questions even more so.

So tell me, what would you do if you discovered your partner/boyfriend/husband was cheating on you? Would there be any factors that would make you more tolerant of his/her action?

I’d really like to know.

xxx

Waila Caan

Get Ready to Think

Hey guys,

I know it’s only Tuesday but so far my week’s been good. Really good. I’m in good spirits and I pray it stays that way.  

When I posted the blog “Faith or Foolishness? You Decide” last week, I wasn’t really expecting anyone to respond but as I type this, my email inbox is chock-a-block. A lot of people had interesting opinions on the village bride’s actions and your responses have got me thinking about how complex relationships are.  I’m currently single and though I’m enjoying life as a singleton, when the time is right, I’d like to bag myself a hubby, have my two children and live happily ever after. For that reason I think about relationships.  

I’m a thinker and I’ve been known on many an occasion to think things to extinction. I’ve analysed relationships to the point that the thought of being in one is beginning to give me a headache. Being single is so much simpler (I think) but seeing as that isn’t the fate I wish for myself, I’d better start grappling with the intricacies of two becoming one.

Over the next few days (or till I run out of scenarios), I’ll be asking your opinion on some of the popular complexities that people in relationships face.

Stay tuned ‘cause the first question is coming right up!

Love,

Waila Caan