As an operations manager at one of Nigeria’s top banks with three beautiful kids to care for, my day starts before sunrise and ends long after dark.

I walk into the office by 6 a.m., and I’m often the last to leave. Like many working mums, I’ve mastered the art of juggling deadlines, managing teams, solving crises—

Until one evening, I came home to a crisis I never saw coming.

August 17th, 2022.
I’ll never forget that date.

I walked into our bedroom to find a cardboard sign on our bed.
In thick, black marker, it read:
“Get a Divorce, Your Job, or Healthy Eating in this house.”

I froze and was confused.

My husband is not a dramatic man. In fact, he’s so indecisive that I usually have to push him to choose between white rice or jollof. But when he does make up his mind, he doesn’t go back.

So, I waited. Calmly.
My heart -pounding.
My mind- racing.

When he walked through the door, I held up the cardboard and asked gently:

“Honey, Why this? Has it gotten so bad that divorce is now an option?”

His answer cut through me.

“How many times do you want me to complain about the food? The lack of it. The quality. The feeling of being neglected when I’ve provided everything, we need to eat well… and still, there’s nothing hot on the table.”

I tried to explain.
I reminded him how I’d suggested hiring a cook—even offered to pay for it myself.

But that only made things worse.

“You already know I don’t eat from a stranger’s pot. You knew this before we married. My mum even warned you—when it comes to food, handle me with care.”

In that moment, it hit me:

I was standing at a crossroads between my career and my marriage.
Between the woman I wanted to be… and the one I was becoming under the weight of burnout.

But deep inside, I knew this wasn’t about food alone.

It was about connection, care, and that unspoken love language every family understands: a warm, home-cooked meal.