Our First fight
Richard and I prided ourselves on being a couple that overcommunicated, ironing issues before they were even spared a wrinkle. His friends often remarked that we were a match made in heaven, and I couldn’t agree more. Richard made life effortless and love extraordinary. Through him, I experienced a glimpse of divine love; he would move heaven and earth for me, he promised me eternal love, and I believed him — not out of naivety, but because, with him, everything felt possible. That was, until our first fight.
Our first fight might as well have happened on our wedding night. Mrs. Aiyegbola, my mother-in-law, decided it was the perfect time to pay us a visit and conduct a prayer vigil to “bless” our marriage. In hindsight, I should have caught on earlier. During the reception, I approached her to let her know I would visit her once we’d settled in. She smiled and said, “Don’t worry about coming to my place; I’ll see you very soon.” I didn’t realize “very soon” meant three hours later.
Richard, though initially enthusiastic about our wedding night, quickly expressed his exhaustion and excused himself, leaving me alone with his mother for the vigil. When I confronted him, he reasoned that we should indulge her “just this once” to keep her off our backs. “She means well,” he insisted.
I found myself casting and binding demons out of my marriage bed — a sentiment eloquently articulated by Mrs. Aiyegbola during the six-hour vigil. Exhaustion consumed me, but it seemed to fuel her fervour. She didn’t leave for an entire week, during which we endured five more vigils. Well, I endured five. Richard attended two, excused by his “more pressing commitments,” according to her.
Richard and I were both career-driven. He ran a factory while I worked as a business consultant. Despite his lighthearted quip, “My money is our money, and your money is your money,” I ensured I contributed to the household in my own way. Still, my mother-in-law paid no heed to my efforts or exhaustion. Every time I voiced my concerns, she apologized, insisting her actions were for my own good and the family’s future.
Our second fight would have occurred ten months into our marriage, during the holiday season. We had planned a getaway to Ghana, but Richard persuaded me to spend the holidays at his family estate instead, citing his mother’s persistence. I had initially disagreed but his rationale was that bigger family gatherings are what make the holiday festivities more exciting and we should honour his family in our first.
Reluctantly, I agreed.
Upon arrival, I was thrust into endless tasks — pounding yams fitting for a whole community, fetching water, and cooking without any assistance from the maids, per her instructions. She believed I needed to “train” myself to be a proper woman. My protests to Richard fell on deaf ears; he dismissed them, claiming her strictness stemmed from her love for me.
The breaking point came when she introduced me to her friends and other family members during a gathering. In a loud, dramatic tone, she lamented how I had “tricked” her son into denying her the joy of grandchildren. She insinuated I was barren, attributing it to our decision to delay having children — a plan we had agreed on and communicated to both our families.
The room fell silent, thick with tension, until Richard broke it with laughter, dismissing her comments as a joke. The guests followed suit, but the damage was done. Later that night, Richard apologized, saying she didn’t mean it. He whispered sweet words and offered intimacy as consolation, but the wound lingered.
Our first fight, the one that ended us, began when my mother-in-law tricked me into attending a prayer meeting under the guise of a shopping trip. Upon arrival, she told the priest I had been promiscuous and once had an abortion. This was a deeply personal and painful chapter of my past — one Richard and I had agreed never to share with his family. At seventeen, I was raped by a boyfriend, and the trauma was compounded by an abortion my mother arranged to save me further pain.
Hearing this betrayal broke me. My mother-in-law instructed the priest to “beat the evil spirit out of me,” and I was whipped. I called Richard, sobbing, only for him to justify his mother’s actions later.
When I confronted her, with Richard present, I accused her of overstepping her boundaries and betraying my trust. She responded by slapping me, calling me “second-hand goods” unworthy of her son. As I stood there, tears burning my cheeks and pain radiating through my body, Richard rushed to her side to console her. He chose her.
That night marked the beginning and end of our fight — the only fight our marriage ever endured. Richard gave his mother his heaven and left me to my hell.
Hi there, My name is Erinola and welcome to my Creative writing Journey. If you are a first-time visitor, this is the first creative story on medium and I intend to start a weekly series so let me know the stories that interest you so I can build on them. If you like my stories please share them and leave a comment on the post, I would love your reviews.
Stay blessed and Thank You.
p.s Happy New Year
