Wura* (51) thought giving birth to Ayomide*, after years of struggling to conceive, was the miracle that would complete her life. But two decades later, she’s grappling with the reality that the same son no longer speaks to her, even though he spoils his stepmother and half-siblings with gifts.
This is Wura’s story as told to Betty:
In 1990, when I was 16, my aunt — the woman who raised me in Ife—told me I had to get married before I turned 20, or find somewhere else to live. I didn’t take her seriously at first. I was still in secondary school, so it felt like a distance problem. But when I graduated at 18, I started feeling the pressure of the deadline.
In 1992, I got a job as a waitress at a small bar in Ife; that’s where I met Alade*. He was 28 years older than me, the biggest spender at the bar, good-looking, and always generous with tips. He wasn’t interested in me at first; other curvier, older women were trying to get his attention. But I started putting more effort into my looks, makeup and flirting skills. Soon, we were seeing each other regularly outside the bar.
I kept our relationship a secret from my aunt and the bar owner because they thought I was too young for him. I later found out Alade was Muslim and already had two wives. That didn’t faze me. I was ready to become wife number three, even if it meant changing my religion.
By August 1994, Alade met my people, and we had a Nikkah wedding ceremony. I was happy about the whole situation. I met my aunt’s deadline and married a rich husband who rented my own apartment, so I didn’t have to be with his other wives.
Alade doted on me and spoiled me for the first two years of our marriage, but things changed when I couldn’t get pregnant. His other wives had a daughter each, but I was the only childless one. We visited the hospital to investigate, but the doctors said we were both healthy. My in-laws and family started mounting pressure, so I turned to mountain-top churches and prophets for help. It took four years, but I got pregnant in 1998. It was an extremely difficult pregnancy with many scares, but I had my baby boy, Ayomide*, in 1999.
Alade went all out to celebrate the birth of his first son. He showered me with gifts and even moved in with me for a while. My co-wives were green with envy, which strained my relationship with them. They’d each had another daughter during the years I waited for my miracle, so my son’s arrival sparked envy. One accused me of bewitching my husband. The other said the baby wasn’t legitimate. But Ayomide was the spitting image of his father, and Alade didn’t mind any juju as long as he had a son, so he dismissed both accusations.
Ayomide’s arrival soured my relationship with the other wives, but I didn’t care. Once Alade moved back in with them, it was just me and Ayomide in my apartment, and I fear I spoiled him silly. I never got pregnant again, so he was all I had. I disciplined him when necessary, but I treated him like an egg. Everyone else did too. The other wives weren’t allowed to mistreat him, even when he visited the main house. I didn’t mind that they hated me, as long as my son was happy and treated well.
As my husband aged, he became frail and sick. His businesses suffered mismanagement, and the income circulating in our family reduced drastically. Each wife had to start a business or get a job to cover their upkeep. I didn’t have an issue with this. I opened a small provision shop and used the profits to care for Ayomide as he grew.
In 2015, Ayomide graduated from secondary school but couldn’t get into a federal university. Things had gotten so bad financially that a private university wasn’t an option, so we agreed he would stay home for a year and write JAMB again the following year. However, 2016 was when everything went wrong.
First, Ayomide got into internet fraud. No matter how much I begged, he didn’t back down. I reported him to his dad, but even Alade couldn’t control him. This led to a lot of friction between Ayomide and me. At just 16, he started showing up with expensive clothes and gadgets. And as ashamed as I am to say it, he bought me gifts too, and I accepted them. By the next year, I had grown comfortable with his lifestyle, even though I kept it hidden from others. When it was time to register for JAMB again, Ayomide refused. He said he had no interest in school and wanted to run a business like his father. I hated the idea, but Alade supported him. He said Ayomide was becoming a man and had to choose his path. So, I kept my reservations to myself.
Later, Alade moved to Lagos to start a crop importation business. I thought that meant he was moving away from illegitimate hustles, but I was wrong. He doubled down. I had more and more fights with Ayomide. He stopped answering my calls and texts. When I brought it up during a visit to the main family house, my husband and the other wives smugly told me they spoke to Ayomide regularly.
My son and I were inseparable, so hearing he was in touch with his father and step-mothers bothered me a lot. I got his address from one of his half-sisters and paid him a surprise visit in Lagos. This was sometime in 2018.
It broke my heart that Ayomide wasn’t happy to see me. He and his friends lived in a lavish three-bedroom apartment, and they each had a car. I cried that day and begged my son to reconsider his lifestyle. He said he’d think about it and asked me to leave his house. Our relationship got much worse after that visit. He completely avoided me, moved away from the address I visited and warned his sisters not to share it with me.
I begged his dad to step in, but he said I shouldn’t force his son to do anything he doesn’t want to do. Meanwhile, Ayomide’s wealth grew, and he started showering his step-mums and half-siblings with lavish gifts. In 2019, he bought them new phones and even got a car for his dad. But my son never sent me a kobo since he moved to Lagos. He placed his older sisters and step-mothers on a monthly allowance, but never even called to ask after my well-being.
I started praying and visiting mountaintop churches and crusades. A prophet told me Ayomide had entered a money covenant that stopped him from giving to the person he loved most. I texted Ayomide about what the prophet said. He said, “So?” I called to explain, but he didn’t pick up.
Fast forward to 2020, his dad passed away. It was a rough time for our family. Ayomide returned to Ife for the burial but stayed in the main family house, not with me. He contributed a lot of money toward the funeral, but barely looked in my direction. After the burial, he returned to Lagos and continued to ignore me. I haven’t seen or heard his voice since 2021, when we did a one-year memorial for Alade.
It feels like my heart aches every day. The worst part is that no one wants to intervene because they benefit from Ayomide’s money. I see Ayomide and his sisters hanging out on their WhatsApp statuses. He’s close to the rest of the family, but I feel like an outsider to my own child. My friends say I shouldn’t stop praying for him, but I’ve started losing hope.
I haven’t stopped reaching out to him, though. I let him know that I still pray for him every day, and I’m ready to forgive him whenever he wants to reconcile. I feel so alone. I have considered adopting another child and starting from scratch again, but I don’t know if I can afford it at this age. I just keep hoping that one day, God will touch Ayomide’s heart and bring my son back to me.
*Names have been changed to maintain anonymity
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