On the flip side

By Abimbola Ola

Sometimes I wonder if Oladele remembers that I gave him the most beautiful gift in September—a child, our child. Yet, instead of gratitude, I get shouts, insults, and threats.

At the slightest misunderstanding, his voice rises: “Fat body, you look like a pig! Are you the only one who just gave birth?” Those words pierce me every time, louder than any slap could ever feel.

I carried life for nine months, I endured pain, I bore sleepless nights, and my body is still healing. But all he sees is flesh that isn’t tight enough, a belly that hasn’t gone down, a body he suddenly despises. He tells me, “By December, if you don’t do something about your look, I will throw your things away.”

The same body he once held with love, the same body that gave him pleasure, the same body that gave him a child—now mocked, shamed, rejected.

I feel torn between two worlds: the joy of being a mother and the pain of being unloved as a wife. I look at my child and see a reason to keep going. I look at myself in the mirror and whisper: “You are more than his words. You are strong. You are worthy.”

I don’t know what tomorrow holds, but I know my scars and stretch marks tell a story of survival, of strength, of life. And no matter what Oladele says, my body is not a curse—it is proof that I am a woman who gave life.