10/08/2025
When I became pregnant, there was NOTHING I didn’t crave.
One day it was ice cubes.
The next day, I was licking groundnut and ogiri like it was Swiss chocolate.
But this particular day?
Ah. I knew I had crossed into another spiritual realm.
We were just returning from antenatal. AC was on, blowing like Siberian winter.
Suddenly, I turned to my husband and said,
“Turn off the AC! I’m cold! The baby is not in the mood for breeze!”
He looked confused... but he turned it off. Smart man. He's learned not to argue with me and my fetus.
As we entered our street, BAM!
An aroma hit me so hard, I nearly pushed.
JOLLOF RICE. Not just any rice — this one smelled like it was cooked with ancestral firewood, smoky love, and village spirit.
I gasped, clutched my bump and declared,
“Honey… the baby wants THAT rice. The one I’m smelling NOW.”
He said, “Okay, let me drop you at home and I’ll go buy jollof.”
I screamed, “NOOO! I don’t want just ANY jollof — I want THIS one I’m perceiving on THIS street!”
He blinked. “But baby, this is a residential street… nobody is selling anything here.”
Cue the tears. Full drama.
“So you want the baby to starve? After all we’ve been through? You don’t love us again??”
This man sighed the sigh of all tired husbands in Nigeria. Then said,
“Okay. I’ll find the rice.”
He started knocking on gates like a Jollof missionary. Left, right, compound to compound.
One hour later, he returned like a battle-worn champion — carrying 4 packs of different jollof rice, salad, and assorted meats.
I opened the first pack, sniffed, stood up like a trained K9 unit, and said:
“YUCK! This is not the rice I smelled. This one will poison me! Do you want to kill me?!”
He looked like he was questioning every decision in his life.
“Baby… it’s the same rice. Same Maggi. Same Nigeria.”
I burst into tears. Again.
Then — like divine intervention — he opened one last pack.
Assorted meat. Roasted. Grilled. Fried. Every kind of meatable meat.
I stopped crying immediately.
Wiped my face like royalty, picked a piece, tasted it and said,
“Why didn’t you just show me the meat first? You like to stress me emotionally.”
He gave me chilled juice and asked,
“Is the baby happy now?”
I nodded. “Yes. He sends his regards.”
Fast forward to midnight.
He got up to p*e and found me in the kitchen, sitting on the floor, fridge open — eating the same rice I previously swore was “poison.”
He blinked.
“Madam… is that not the poison rice?”
I whispered,
“Shhh… the baby changed his mind. Don’t make him angry.”
He just looked at me, shook his head slowly and said,
“My ancestors warned me not to marry an actress. But I didn’t listen.”
Then he walked away quietly…
Like a man who had seen too much for one lifetime.
Pregnancy is NOT for the weak. And guess what? I am the weak. 😭
Moral lesson—Pregnancy will humble you.
Your husband.And possibly your ancestors, too even ogbanje no do reach like this
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