MY JOURNEY TO BECOMING WHOLE

MATRICULATION DAY

Trigger Warning: This chapter contains references to emotional neglect, body shaming, and marital conflict. Reader discretion advised.

I searched for the best catering school.

Not just any school. The one with a certificate so valuable, people respected it. If Kelvin wouldn’t give me university, I would make catering school my university. I would be the best.

I started going to classes. We learned continental dishes. We learned sewing. We learned beading. My hands that once washed his family’s plates in the village now learned how to garnish a plate for five-star hotels.

One day I asked Kelvin for transport fare.

He looked me up and down. “You are getting too fat,” he said. “It’s like I will start going to events without you.”

I wasn’t fat. I had just added weight as a new mom. Valeria was four months old. My body was still recovering from bringing a human into this world. But to him, I was “too fat.”

So I started trekking to school with my baby on my back.

Every morning, I tied Valeria with my wrapper, put my books on my head, and walked. One hour there. One hour back. People stared. “New mom, why are you stressing yourself?” they asked.

I smiled. “I want to burn all the fat out,” I said.

And yes, I achieved that. The weight fell off. But I didn’t do it for him. I did it for me. Because if I could carry my baby and my books for two hours every day, what else could I carry?

Then matriculation came.

We were having our ceremony as newly admitted students. For most people, it’s small. But for me, it was everything. I told Kelvin about it weeks before. I reminded him that I’ve not had any form of ceremony before — not graduation, not birthday, nothing.

“This means a lot to me,” I told him. “Your presence will mean a lot.”

He nodded. “I will support you,” he said. “I will come.”

He lied.

He didn’t give me one naira. So I sponsored my own matriculation. I raised money from selling the little pastries I learnt in class — meat pie, doughnuts, buns. My classmates bought from me. My teachers bought from me. I saved every coin.

On matriculation day, I woke up at 4am. I made jollof rice and fried beef. Enough for everyone. I dressed Valeria in a new lace gown. I wore my new wrapper. I called Kelvin.

“I’m coming with my friends,” he said. “Keep food for us.”

My mom and siblings were present. A few friends of mine came. We waited. The ceremony started. Students danced. Names were called. Certificates were blessed.

I kept checking the door.

He didn’t show up.

My mom kept asking, “Where is Kelvin?” I said, “He’s on the way.”

The ceremony ended. People ate my jollof. They praised my beef. They took pictures with me and Valeria. But the chair I saved for my husband stayed empty.

I came back home angry. My wrapper was still fine, but my heart was in pieces.

He came home late that night.

“Why didn’t you come?” I asked. My voice was shaking. “I told you your presence will mean a lot, but you never showed up.”

He sat down and removed his shoes. “Me and my friends had an important place to be,” he told me to my face.

Important. More important than me.

He never celebrated my birthdays. Not one. But I made him cake each time his birthday came. Chocolate. Vanilla. Red velvet. I stayed up late to ice it perfectly.

It now made sense to me that I was not important to him at all.

I didn’t give up on myself.

After one year of catering school, he started talking about another child. “It’s time,” he said.

I looked at Valeria playing on the mat. She was one. Still a baby.

“It’s not yet time,” I told him. “Our baby is still small for another.”

He got upset. “Your mates have two, three, and you’re complaining about one,” he snapped.

Something broke inside me. Something that had been bending for years.

I shouted at him for the first time.

“I AM NOT MY MATES!”

The room went silent. Valeria stopped playing and looked at me.

Kelvin became quiet.

For the first time since “I do,” he had nothing to say.