It was my son’s naming ceremony early August. The house had been full, music loud, meat and drinks everywhere. People came in their numbers, eating, dancing, and congratulating me. From the outside, it looked like joy, but inside me, I wasn’t really happy.
I had already given birth to five children before, with only three alive, all girls, and for each of them my husband didn’t even buy a fowl. No celebration, no party, no drinks. Nothing. But now that I finally gave him a boy, I saw the difference with my own eyes.
When I was pregnant with this child, my husband often warned me. He said if I gave him another girl, he would take me back to the village. Those words haunted me throughout the pregnancy. I spent many nights praying, begging God, whispering prayers, “Please let it be a boy.”
And every time I said those words, shame washed over me. How could I, a woman, be praying against having another woman? How could I look at my daughters and still pray not to have more of them? The guilt was heavy, but fear always pushed me back to those prayers.
My husband had never really been a responsible man. Every month, he gave me fifteen thousand naira for upkeep. The rest I had to find myself. I was the one hustling, struggling, making sure my daughters ate, dressed, and went to school.
He wasn’t concerned about them going to school, and we had a small battle before he agreed to let them go to school even though I would be footing their bills.
When I complained, he brushed me off, saying he was already doing enough. “After all, what do women need? What do girls need? Women that will grow up and marry another man.” That was his excuse.
But the day I gave him a son, everything changed. Overnight, he became a different man. He brought bags of rice, cartons of drinks, meat, oil, and foodstuffs I hadn’t seen him do in years. He pressed twenty thousand into my hand and said I must eat well so the boy would have milk to suck.
I sat there, shocked. For years I had survived with almost nothing, and suddenly, because of a boy, he cared.
As I watched the guests that day, I could not help comparing. The loud music, the clinking glasses, the plates of meat being passed around. Laughter filled every corner of the house. But when I remembered my daughters’ births, it was silence. No drums, no drinks, no dancing.
Just me, a tired mother, holding her child quietly while the world moved on as if nothing happened. The only people around were my friend and other women from the neighborhood. The difference was like day and night.
And I kept asking myself: what exactly was the difference between a son and a daughter? Were women not children too? Were they not flesh and blood? What had my girls done wrong? Why was their worth so much less in his eyes?
That thought broke me. I looked at my daughters that day, innocent and happy, running around, laughing, playing with their cousins. They looked so full of life, yet I already knew life would not treat them the same way as their brother. Even their own father had drawn the line with his actions.
It was heartbreaking. Yes, things would now be different for me. Yes, life would now be easier. But it came at a cost. And the painful truth was that my value as a wife and mother had only increased because I finally gave him a boy.
And maybe that’s why I can’t stop thinking about it, because I know I am not the only woman who has prayed such prayers in fear, who has begged God for a son just to survive in her own home.
I know many women will read this and recognize themselves. So I ask again, what is the true worth of a girl? Have we only come to this world to marry men and give birth to them to be seen as useful?
She’s shared her story with raw honesty. Now she wants to hear from you, what would you have done? What would you tell her if she were sitting across from you right now? Your words might just be the comfort or clarity she’s looking for.
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