For eight months of my marriage, my husband gave me one strict rule, and I followed it without asking questions because I believed love required obedience and silence inside a peaceful home.
He told me never to look under our matrimonial bed, never to sweep beneath it, and never to allow any cleaner to move it for any reason whatsoever.
I am twenty-six years old, and before I married Obinna, I used to think love meant comfort, laughter, and soft evenings with someone who protected you from the world.
Obinna was already established when we met, a respected oil contractor with government connections, expensive suits, and a calm voice that made everyone around him listen carefully.
When he proposed, my parents said I was blessed beyond measure because not every girl from a modest background marries into sudden wealth without struggle or delay.
The wedding was loud and extravagant, with imported flowers, gold decorations, and cameras flashing from morning until late into the night without stopping.
