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If I Knew Then What I Know Now About Marriage
If I knew then what I know now about marriage—especially heterosexual marriage—I would have done a lot of things differently.
Not because I regret my choices, but because experience has made me wiser, sharper, and far less romantic about institutions that depend on women’s silence to function.
If I were that young woman again, somewhere between 18 and 35, or honestly at any age at all, I would make sure I had something very important before saying “I do”: a prenup or some legal agreement.
And not the kind that only talks about money. No.
I’m talking about a living, breathing legal document that spells out how we will live, love, parent, and part ways if it ever comes to that.
Something like a constitution for marriage—because, really, marriage is an institution. It’s a business. It’s a contract.
When you sign your name on a contract, you are pledging to do something. If you fail to do that thing, you are in default.
Yet, in marriages, we see men default all the time. On purpose!
They vow to love, to protect, to provide, to honor, and to cherish, and then they turn around and do the opposite. With their full chest! That’s when they remember culture and tradition—when they break vows!
Women, on the other hand, we take our vows literally. Through sickness and health, we stay. Through betrayal, we pray. Through pain, we persist. And somehow, society normalizes that imbalance and calls it endurance.
But endurance is not love—it’s survival.
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I met my husband in 2006, about three years after my first marriage ended.
At that time, I didn’t want to get married. I told him so plainly. I said, “I want to marry someday, maybe, but right now, I don’t want to tie my fate to another man. It took too much strength to extract myself from the first one.”
I was 100% clear:
I was not a “blind submission” kind of woman.
I had opinions, I had a mouth, I had agency.
I had been independent since I was fifteen.
I told him I had plans—I wanted to be a diplomat, to travel the world, to live outside the United States. I said, “I love being American, but I don’t necessarily like living in America.”
And he said, “Me too.”
He said he also wanted to leave. He said once he got his papers together, we could move abroad.
It sounded like alignment.
We made plans.
We agreed on how many children we wanted. I told him I could only handle two more—three if I was feeling generous—because I already had one.
We talked about where we’d live, what we’d do, how we’d raise our family. It all seemed balanced, reasonable, shared. We got married.
But what I didn’t realize then was that verbal agreements evaporate with time.
We never put any of it in writing.
And years later, the very things we agreed on—my career, relocation, our children’s lives—became sources of tension and control.
Now, when I talk about moving abroad, he insists the only acceptable destination is Nigeria.
And the moment I say I won’t be spending the holidays in his hometown because of the disrespect I endured there, he says I’m not ready to relocate.
And I ask myself: how did we get here?
Simple. There was no constitution. No document to hold us both accountable to our words.
If we’d had a prenup, maybe we’d have clarity instead of confusion.
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What a Prenup Really Means
When I talk about a prenup, I don’t just mean dividing property.
I mean an agreement that says:
• Our children belong equally to both of us.
• Your promises about my career and education are binding.
• Your financial responsibilities during pregnancy, childbirth, and beyond are non-negotiable.
• If the marriage ends, there will be no emotional or financial terrorism.
Too many women have suffered because men change their minds mid-marriage. They go back on promises and call it “life happens.”
No, sir. That’s not life—that’s a betrayal.
If a man says he will support you through school, let him sign.
If he says he doesn’t mind if you don’t want children yet, let him sign.
If he says you can relocate together, let him sign.
If he needs you to give him residency based on your marriage, let him sign a prenup.
Women laugh these things off, but the truth is: men remember only what benefits them.
We remember every word because we build our lives around them.
They develop selective amnesia and then weaponize confusion.
A prenup is not mistrust—it’s insurance against revisionist history.
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Even my father taught me this lesson, though indirectly.
When he remarried, he told his friends he wanted a much younger, less educated woman.
This was shocking to me because my father was the same man who had once pushed me and every woman in his family to be educated, confident, and ambitious.
His new wife was 19. He was 44.
He promised her the world: to take her abroad, to join her church, to give her a better life.
He did none of it.
And he laughed about it prior to her moving in and later, as though dishonoring those promises made him clever.
Her life became a struggle. Her health and finances deteriorated, and she died too young. By the time I was a teenager, my father was already ill, and the responsibility of supporting her fell partly on me. But what did she gain?
He didn’t have to ruin her life to live his. But because she had no legal protection, no written agreement, she became a casualty of his choices.
And I think about that often—how many women suffer simply because they negotiate their terms, but most of us don’t get what we agreed to. Men? They extract everything and humiliate their wives when they feel like it.
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So, if you are thinking of marriage, especially to a man raised in patriarchal traditions—Igbo, Yoruba, Nigerian, or otherwise—ask him real questions.
Not “what’s your favorite color?” but:
• What will you do when I’m sick?
• How will you support me during pregnancy?
• If I earn more than you, will you resent me?
• What are your views on childcare, travel, and education?
• If we ever break up, how will you handle custody?
• Do you believe in 50/50—and if so, where is your 50% during childbirth?
And then, put the answers in writing.
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Most men do not marry you the way you think they do.
Some marry you for status, some for documents, some for convenience. There is always a caveat to justify dehumanizing the wives.
For example, when they marry foreigners,
they tell their families, “She’s just my Akata, my American wife,” as though she’s a temporary stop on their journey. They discard their children along with the foreign wife. Same can be said for marriages involving different states and tribes.
But marriage is not a visa application.
And women need to stop treating it like an emotional gamble where the man holds all the legal chips.
A prenup is your constitution.
It says: I am a human being with a mind, a career, a body, and dreams that matter.
It sets terms for love and accountability.
If you break the terms, I can walk away in peace—and you cannot contest it.
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If It’s Too Late for You, Teach Your Daughters
Maybe it’s too late for some of us.
We’ve lived, we’ve loved, and we’ve learned the hard way.
But teach your daughters.
Teach them that boundaries, contracts, and legal clarity are not unromantic—they are wisdom.
They are what protect love from turning into loss.
Because love without accountability is chaos.
And in a world where women are still expected to sacrifice their sanity for stability, I say this with my full chest:
A prenup is not a betrayal of love—it’s a declaration of self-respect.