My Ancestors Are Against Me Becoming a Full-Time Oga’s Wife.
Can you imagine?
Being a full-time stay at home wife or, in our modern lingo, an “Oga’s wife” has never exactly featured in the blueprint of my life. On random days, in playful banter with my friends, I jokingly pitch the idea, usually when I’m about to pay for something heavy or really stressed out and suddenly remember that I am, in fact, just a baby girl.
But jokes aside, on most days, especially days like today, I am convinced that the women before me have prayed fiercely against any spirit of dependence hovering over their daughters. As if somewhere in the archives of my lineage, there was a meeting where they collectively decided: “Our girls will stand on their own two feet.”
I have been slightly unwell for a few days now. Thankfully, it’s not one of those crazy episodes where I can’t manage to move my body; just enough to force me into what I like to call “doing life from a place of rest.” Last night, I slept close to 4 a.m. and woke again at 6. I tried to return to sleep, and I did for about an hour, but then my mind became consciously awake. I could sense my environment, yet my body refused to rise.
In that half-awake state, I started interrogating myself: What am I meant to do today?
My mind scrolled through unanswered messages. A few pending tasks. It’s Tuesday; production day at 1704 Bakeshop. Normally, that would be non-negotiable. But I reasoned with myself: You’re recovering. Nobody is around to help. It can wait.
And truly, it was valid. Rest is not laziness.
But just as I tried to drift back into sleep, my mind resisted. Then I heard it, clear as daylight:
“You’re still sleeping? Don’t you think you’re wasting your life and time away if you remain in bed?”
Ahh, I kid you not. That was my cue to get up. And a resounding “No” to being a full -time Oga’s wife. (Iykyk)
Here’s why I think my ancestors are involved.
The generations of women in my family are builders. They are women of motion. Women allergic to idleness. Women who understand that capacity is a responsibility.
On my maternal side alone, the pattern is loud. I met my great-grandmother before she passed. Even with people and resources available to cater to her, she insisted on contributing something; wisdom, effort, presence. My grandmother still stocks her shop and joins in the kitchen, even with grandchildren available to run errands. She hates being idle.
My mother? She does not understand the language of “doing nothing.” Her colleagues always mention how hardworking and supportive she is. Even at home, she is working, organizing, planning, praying, building, impacting lives, structuring her time with intention. Maybe not every effort is monetized, but it is always meaningful. Always purposeful. Always leaving something better than she met it.
Patterns are transferable. And this pattern? I have unconsciously inherited it.
Not the pattern of burnout. Not the pattern of refusing rest. But the pattern of refusing to shrink. The pattern of saving yourself when you have the capacity before waiting to be saved. The pattern of being solution-oriented. Of being impactful. Of being a contributor, a builder, a force in your own right.
These women take breaks, rest when necessary. But even in rest, there is dignity. Even in pause, there is awareness that their lives carry weight.
So when I say my ancestors are against me becoming a full-time Oga’s wife, I do not mean marriage is small. I do not mean homemaking lacks honour. What I mean is this: I cannot survive a life where my only identity is proximity to a man, no matter how wealthy he is. No matter how comfortable the bank account becomes.
I cannot survive being asked to simply “exist.”
doing nothing.
I want to be known for who I am; for what I build, what I birth, what I sustain. I want my name to mean something independent of anyone’s surname. I want my daughters, if I have them, to inherit not just comfort but capacity.
Perhaps that voice that stirred me awake was never condemnation at all. Perhaps it was legacy finding its way to me, generations of women leaning close to whisper, “Rise. There is more inside you.”
Maybe that is why, whenever my chronic illness tries to press its weight against my spirit, there is always that steady, reassuring echo: “No. This is not the end. There is still more in you.”
And maybe that is one of the truest inheritance; not money, not property but a stubborn refusal to let potential lie dormant.
So you see why my ancestors are against me becoming a full-time Oga’s wife.
It’s not pride. It’s legacy.
The women before me were builders. They rested, yes, but they never shrank. They contributed. They created. They carried capacity like a calling.
I can marry “Oga”, absolutely. But imagine me somewhere just “existing” doing nothing because Oga is rich? My lineage would stage an intervention.
🎶Life Sentence by J. Cole is currently my favorite song on repeat. Enjoy!🥂