RAISED AS A DAUGHTER - Episode 1

Adewale loved Morenike long before he had anything. Before the house in the city.

Before the cars. Before people began calling him Sir. 

He loved her when he was still struggling, when his mother complained that love does not cook soup or raise children.

“You need a woman that will build you,” his mother used to say.

Morenike built him with prayers, patience, and quiet strength.

They married without drama, without competition, and without debt. No loud celebration, no long guest list. Just two people who believed that love was enough.

For the first year of their marriage, everything felt perfect. They prayed together every morning. They ate together every night. They laughed like children over small things.

Whenever Adewale came home late from work, Morenike would wait up, no matter how tired she was. “You don’t sleep until I’m home?” he once asked.

She smiled. “This house sleeps when the owner enters.” That was Morenike — gentle, supportive, content.

But by the second year, questions began to arrive before greetings.

“So… when are we congratulating you?”

“Is Morenike okay?”

“Have you people checked the hospital?”

At first, they laughed it off.

By the third year, laughter became silence.

Every month, Morenike waited.

Every month, disappointment came quietly, without announcement.

She never cried in front of Adewale.

Never complained. Never accused him.

Instead, she prayed longer.

Adewale noticed the change before she spoke about it. She woke earlier than usual. She lingered longer in the bathroom. She smiled less easily.

One night, he found her sitting on the edge of the bed, staring into space.

“Morenike,” he called softly.

She turned quickly and smiled. “You’re home.”

He sat beside her. “Talk to me.”

She hesitated. Then whispered, “Do you regret marrying me?”

The question cut him deeply.

“Never,” he replied immediately. “Not for one day.”

“But I haven’t given you a child.”

He held her face firmly. “You are my wife, not a factory.”

She broke down that night — quietly, like someone afraid to disturb the walls.

From that day on, Adewale’s mother stopped hiding her displeasure.

“You are not getting younger,” she warned him one afternoon.

“A man without a child has no voice.”

“Take another wife. Nobody will blame you.”

Adewale remained respectful, but firm.

“My wife is enough.”

His mother scoffed. “Enough for love, maybe. Not for legacy.”

Those words stayed with him.

Five years passed. Five years of hospital visits. Five years of fasting and prayers.

Five years of watching friends welcome children while they smiled and congratulated them.

Morenike learned to clap through pain.

Adewale learned to pretend strength.

Yet, despite everything, their home remained peaceful. Until one morning.

Morenike woke up unusually early, packed a small bag, and dressed quietly.

“Where are you going?” Adewale asked, half asleep.

“To the village,” she replied softly.

He sat up. “The village? Why didn’t you tell me?” She paused, then said, “I just need to see something.”

“See who?”

She avoided his eyes. “My aunt.”.

Adewale studied her face. Something was different — not fear, not sadness, but resolve.

“Will you be long?” he asked.

“No,” she replied. “Just a few days.”

When she left, Adewale felt a strange heaviness he could not explain.

Three days later, Morenike returned.

She did not come alone. Standing beside her was a small girl — thin, shy, eyes too old for her age.

The child clutched Morenike’s wrapper tightly, as if afraid the world might take her away. 

Adewale froze.

“Who is this?” he asked slowly.

Morenike knelt and placed a hand on the girl’s shoulder. “Her name is Zainab.”

The girl lowered her eyes.

“She is… she is from the village,” Morenike continued, her voice trembling. “She doesn’t have anyone to take proper care of her.”

Adewale frowned. “And?”

Morenike took a deep breath. “I brought her home.”

Silence filled the room.

“For what purpose?” he asked carefully.

Morenike’s eyes filled with tears. “Let us raise her.”

Adewale stood up abruptly. “Raise her? As what?”

“As our child,” she whispered.

He looked at the girl again — her dusty slippers, her worn dress, her fragile frame.

“Morenike, you didn’t discuss this with me.”

“I was afraid you would say no.”

He sighed deeply, running a hand through his hair.

“This is not a goat you bring home without discussion.”

She stood up, desperate. “I know. I know. But hear me out.”

She held his hands. “We have prayed. We have waited. Let us give love to someone while we wait for God.”

Adewale searched her face.

“Are you trying to replace what God has not given us?”

“No,” she said quickly. “I’m trying not to drown in pain.”

The child shifted nervously.

Adewale knelt in front of Zainab. “Do you know who we are?”

She nodded slowly. “Aunty said you are good people.”

He smiled gently. “What do you want to be when you grow up?”

Her eyes lit up slightly. “A nurse.”

Something stirred in his chest.

He stood and faced Morenike.

“If we do this,” he said slowly, “we do it fully. No halfway love. No reminding her she is not ours.”

Morenike nodded eagerly. “I swear.”

Adewale exhaled. “Then she is our daughter.”

Morenike broke into tears — not of pain, but relief.

That night, for the first time in years, the house felt alive again.

But in the shadows of love, something unseen watched silently. Something patient. Something waiting.