Unbelievable. Unacceptable. Irritating. How could a wife of 30 years never, for once, pound yam for her husband? A woman of Ekiti blood where pounded yam is more than just food, but a cultural heritage, yet she has refused, with audacity, to lift a pestle on my behalf.
And you want me to celebrate and praise her to high heaven? It is an unheard-of atrocity. An embarrassment of the highest order.
But whether I like it or not, I have had to accept my fate. Because of the vow we made – both at the Marriage Registry in Akure and during our wedding at St. Leo’s Catholic Church, Orita Challenge, Ibadan. For better, for worse.
Yes, my wife of three decades, this one beside me in the picture, has never, for once, pounded yam for me. She is a classical Ekiti woman: quiet, refined, and dignified. Yet, fate decided she should marry a local Iru-hawking boy of Ekiti origin, a man whose roots are deep in the culture of traditional food, whose soul longs for the rhythmic thud of a pestle against a mortar, whose taste buds demand the heavenly smoothness of freshly pounded yam.
It is truly a serious matter. Honestly, this woman has been something else. If I had my way, I would not even be in this picture with her. Why, you ask? Don’t worry. By the time you finish reading this epistle, you will understand why I am lamenting.
Thirty years ago, I found myself entangled with a woman who would become the very essence of my being. She has been my soul, my breath, and the silent architect of my deeds. If she is unwell, I am unwell. If she smiles, my world glows.
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Like every woman, she is not perfect. But from every angle, she excels beyond what I ever thought I deserved. She knows my ways — my adventures, my relentless pursuits, my side activities — and sometimes, she even encourages them. She married a man turbulent by nature, stubborn at heart, aggressive in spirit, restless in pursuit, and uncompromising in his ideals. A wanderer who finds solace in movement, in exploring the unknown.
Yet, despite all this, she has never been a victim. I may be fiery, but never violent. I have never raised my hands against her, and she has never raised her voice beyond what is necessary to steady our ship.
I love pounded yam, a delicacy I must have at least three times a week, but she has never pounded it for me. She has never washed my clothes.
Still, she knows how to subtly discipline me without causing an uproar. She is composed, calm, collected, yet with a silent power that keeps me in check. She is the economic stabiliser of our home – frugal where I am flamboyant, strategic where I am spontaneous, measured where I am extravagant. With her brilliant mind and a Master’s degree to her name, she has been the anchor that steadies my waves. Praise the Lord!
This remarkable woman has tolerated me for 30 years , three decades of patience, understanding, and extraordinary wisdom. Yes, 30 years ago, Moyo Adewale made the courageous decision to marry a cantankerous, mercurial, restless, and fiercely ambitious young man called Wale Ojo-Lanre. She has not only endured my idiosyncrasies but has also navigated our marriage with grace, ensuring our boat never capsizes. She has displayed a rare virtue of tolerance that I doubt many women possess.
First, by accepting me as I am, flaws, imperfections, and all. Second, by embracing and sponsoring my daughter from a past relationship, whom I had before we met. What shocked me even more was her willingness to allow my daughter’s mother not just to visit, but to stay under our roof, even sharing the same bed when she came around. Third, by choosing to protect me even in the face of provocation. When my younger sister assaulted her, an incident that could have shaken any marriage, Moyo bore it with dignity, never even informing her family.
And how can I forget that fateful day when a lady stormed into our home, claiming she had a right to a room in my house? Without a hint of anger, Moyo took her by the hand, led her to one of the rooms, and said with a smile: “I think you’ll like this room – it even has an air conditioning unit.”
The lady was speechless, utterly bewildered. She turned to Moyo and said: “Aunty Moyo, you are a rare woman.” And that was the last I ever heard of the matter. After that incident, you began treating me like a king. You would wait for me late into the night, ensuring my meal was ready no matter how late I returned.
You always pushed me out of the kitchen, saying: “A man is not supposed to be here.”
You are simply too wonderful. I remember the day you caught me red-handed in the act of indiscretion. In desperation, I knelt before you, clutched your legs, and muttered: “Someone must have laid a spell on me!” Without hesitation, you grabbed a Bible and began a deliverance session. I can only hope it worked!
Moyo, if you had refused to marry me, I would probably be counting five or six wives by now. However, my dear wife, you must try to tone down the ‘Oganganmodu’ in you – your fiery spirit that sometimes emerges with full force.
I thank God, and I thank your parents. Even if a man doesn’t marry the best woman, having good in-laws can make all the difference. But in my case, God blessed me with both: A deeply affectionate wife and extraordinary in-laws.
Moyo, I have no regrets about choosing you. I never will. May God keep you shining always.
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