Married to Hormones, Not Madness

Married to Hormones, Not Madness

It started quietly so quietly that I almost blamed myself.

Debbie didn’t change overnight. She evolved. Every day, she seemed to learn a new way to make my life more miserable, more confusing, more emotionally draining. At work, I became slower, quieter, lost in thought. My colleagues noticed.

“Guy, you dey sleep for meeting these days,” Kelvin said one evening as we packed up. “You sure say everything dey alright?”

I forced a smile. How could I explain that I was scared of going home? That my own house felt like a battlefield I didn’t understand?

I couldn’t tell them. I was embarrassed. What if they thought my wife was mad? Worse what if they thought I was weak for not controlling her?

That evening, Debbie called me more than five times.

“Don’t forget, I won’t cook tonight.”

My chest tightened. I knew what that meant.

Two days earlier, she had asked me to cook, and I had gladly agreed trying to be the “supportive husband” she always accused me of not being. I planned to make white rice and stew, but midway into cooking, she changed her mind.

“Cook jollof rice instead.”

I hated jollof rice. She knew that. But I swallowed my frustration and cooked it anyway, sweating like a Christmas goat for almost two hours, hoping just hoping for praise.

When I served it, she stared at the plate.

“What is this?”

“Jollof rice, babe. Very sweet. Taste it.”

“Oh God! Is this what you want me to eat?”

My heart sank.

What was happening? Just moments ago, she asked for jollof rice.

“Babe, you said jollof rice,” I reminded her gently.

“Must you take the whole day to cook jollof rice for a pregnant woman? Now the baby is sleeping and I want white rice and stew. You can enjoy your jollof!”

She spat words like poison and walked away.

That night broke something inside me.

I begged. I apologized. I promised. I even agreed to cook again at almost 10 p.m. because she was pregnant and I couldn’t let her sleep hungry.

While parboiling rice, I heard her footsteps. My heart skipped.

Another problem is coming, I thought.

But she didn’t enter the kitchen.

I went to check on her and froze.

Debbie was sitting on the floor, comfortably eating the same jollof rice she had rejected… with her bare hands.

“Oh babe, you’re here?” she said casually. “Help me bring cold pineapple juice and water.”

Pineapple juice? She hated pineapple juice. She preferred beer.

Still, I nodded and went back.

“Bring more food while coming!” she shouted.

That was the moment I accepted it.

I have married a mad woman.

By the time I returned, she complained the food was small, drank all the water, and devoured everything like she hadn’t eaten in a year rice on the floor competing with rice in her stomach.

In the chaos, I forgot the pot on fire. The rice water dried up. I didn’t even know whether I was parboiling or cooking anymore.

Later, I found her asleep on the floor, the sitting room dirty. I carried her upstairs like a wounded soldier and laid her on the bed.

The next morning Monday she called again.

“Please come back early to cook dinner.”

That was when I knew I needed help.

At work, I finally opened up to Kelvin.

“You’re married with two kids,” I said quietly. “Did your wife manipulate you during pregnancy?”

He stared at me, then burst out laughing, tapping my shoulder.

“Welcome to adulthood, my brother. I’ve been waiting for this conversation.”

Seeing my confusion, he became serious.

“Bro, your wife is not mad. She’s pregnant. Hormones will scatter sense temporarily. Today she wants jollof, tomorrow she hates the smell. Today she cries, next minute she’s eating like nothing happened.”

“So… I’m not being punished?” I asked.

“No,” he smiled. “You’re being trained.”

That night, I went home calmer. Debbie was lying on the couch.

“I’m sorry for stressing you,” she said softly. “I don’t even understand myself sometimes.”

I held her belly and smiled.

From that day, I stopped taking everything personally. I learned patience. I learned humor. I learned that pregnancy is not madness it’s a storm you walk through together.

Today, our baby laughs at night while Debbie sleeps peacefully.

And me?

I still hate jollof rice.

But I can cook it with love now.

The End.