From the very first day I married Tunde, his mother hated me.
She said I wasn’t “good enough,” that I was “too loud,” “too lazy,” “too educated,” and “not respectful.”
We all lived together in Tunde’s father’s big house in Ibadan.
Four rooms, six housemaids — yet she made me do everything.
She would insult me in front of visitors.
Wake me up by 5 a.m. to sweep the compound.
Call me names like “empty-headed slay queen” and “useless barren woman” — even though I gave birth to her grandson!
One day, she called me into her room and pointed at her soaked underwear.
“Since you want to enjoy my son’s money, you will wash my pant and bra every week. Starting now.”
I thought it was a joke.
But she meant it.
That day, I snapped.
I refused.
She slapped me. I slapped her back.
She screamed like someone poured hot oil on her. The next thing I knew, she collapsed and started Keep_Read!ng.
