Shindara*, 34, has been married for six years. She and her husband decided early on that parenthood wasn’t for them. But in a society where marriage and babies are treated like a combo, that decision has come with its own challenges.
This is Shindara’s* story as told to Queensie
The phone calls started three months into my marriage. Every other week, my mother-in-law would call with the same question, just phrased differently each time:
“Any news?”
“How is your body?”
“Have you been to see a doctor?”
At first, I tried to be polite. I’d laugh, change the subject, or give vague answers. But the calls didn’t stop. They got bolder.
About six months in, I decided to be honest. I told her I wasn’t interested in having children and never had been. My husband knew that before he proposed, and we were both happy with it. I thought being honest would end the constant check-ins and fake concern.
Well, I was wrong.
This woman cried, loud, heaving sobs over the phone. She said I was wasting her son’s life, that I must have tricked him into marrying me, that she didn’t raise him to end up with someone who would deny her grandchildren. Then she hung up. I just sat there staring at my phone, wondering how a personal decision about my own body could offend someone so deeply.
My husband spent the next two hours on the phone calming her down. I overheard him telling her that this was a mutual decision, that he’s always known, that we were happy. But she wasn’t having it. In her mind, I was the villain and her son was my victim.
That phone call changed everything. She stopped calling me directly. Instead, she’d call him and ask to speak to me. Whenever he handed over the phone, she’d start with awkward small talk that always had a hidden meaning. “How’s work?” — code for “Are you too busy to have a baby?” “Are you eating well?” — really meant “Are you taking care of yourself so you can give me grandchildren?” The indirect approach was almost worse than when it was direct. At least, before I knew what I was dealing with.
And to be fair, my own family hasn’t been much better. My mum tells people I’m “still praying about it,” as if my decision is temporary and subject to divine intervention. She’s convinced herself that one day my biological clock will suddenly start ticking and I’ll come to my senses. She’s been waiting for six years now. The clock is still silent.
People don’t believe me when I say I don’t want children. They think I’m scared, influenced by “Western ideas,” or that I just need to meet the right gynaecologist. As if choosing not to have children is some foreign concept imported from abroad.
My family even organised prayer sessions for me. One of my aunts sent me anointing oil from her church. I used it to cook Jollof rice. What else was I supposed to do with it? Wake up at midnight, rub it on my stomach and beg for babies I don’t want?
Then there are my husband’s siblings. His younger brother got married two years after us and had a baby almost immediately. Suddenly, the family WhatsApp group was full of baby photos and subtle jabs at me. “At least one of you is giving Mummy grandchildren,” his sister said once during a video call. My husband shut that down very quickly, but the damage was done. The implication was clear: I was the problem. I was the one failing to fulfil my wifely duties.
What no one tells you about being childfree in Nigeria is how lonely it can feel. Most of my friends are mothers now, so they don’t really get it. When I try to talk about how tiring it is to constantly defend my choices, they tell me to “just ignore it” or “people mean well.” But it’s hard to ignore something that comes at you from every direction. And meaning well doesn’t make it any less invasive.
The most annoying comment? “Who will take care of you when you’re old?” As if children are a retirement plan. I have investments, thank you. I also have friends, community, and unlike most of them, I actually have money because I’m not spending it on school fees and JAMB forms. That’s a solid retirement plan if you ask me.
The irony is that my husband’s family sees him as this golden child who can do no wrong, but somehow, I’m the one leading him astray. Because obviously, a Nigerian man could never willingly choose a childfree life. There has to be a woman behind it, manipulating him.
These days, I just smile and change the subject when people ask me about children, I just smile and change the subject. I’ve learned that you can’t convince people who’ve already decided what your life should look like. My husband and I are happy. We travel when we want. Our home is peaceful. That’s more than a lot of people with children can honestly say.
I’ve stopped looking for validation from people who will never give it. I’ve stopped explaining myself to those who think I’m wrong. Instead, I’m focused on building a life that feels right for me. Some mornings, I wake up and think about all the things I get do because I’m childfree.
I think about the peace in my home, the freedom in my schedule, and the resources I can invest in myself and my marriage. And I smile, because despite the judgment, the prayers, and the tears, I made the right choice for myself. That’s not selfishness. That’s self-awareness. And in a world that constantly tells women what to do with their bodies, that’s its own form of resistance.
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