Diary of a Nigerian Woman

I turned 28 last month, and you'd think I'd celebrated a funeral the way my family reacted. My aunty actually said, "Ah ah, 28 already? Time is going o." As if I wasn't aware. As if my phone isn't filled with wedding invitations after wedding invitations. As if I don't see the worry creeping into my mother's eyes every time we attend an owambe together. The thing about being a Nigerian woman approaching 30 is that suddenly, nothing else you've achieved matters. For goodness'

Dear Diary, Today, I stood in the Shoprite parking lot for fifteen minutes, staring at a gift I wanted to buy for my friend’s baby shower. ₦25,000. I could afford it ten times over. But I couldn’t buy it. Because I had to call my husband first to ask if I could spend the money. My own money. I earn ₦450,000 every month as a senior analyst. The alert comes in on the 28th like clockwork. And on the 29th, like clockwork, I transfer every single naira to my husband’s account. He

What came after wasn't easy. People talk about "choosing yourself" as if it's simple. Like waking up one day, deciding to leave, and everything falling into place. They don't tell you about the guilt. The voices in your head that sound like your mother, your pastor, your aunties: "You didn't try hard enough. Marriage is work. You're giving up too easily. What will people say?" They don't tell you about the loneliness. How quiet your house becomes when you're no longer perform