When Wura and I moved into our new apartment after the wedding, I promised myself one thing: this home will be peaceful. No unexpected visitors, no unnecessary stress, no loud drama. But that peace dissolved only a week later—when my younger brother, Dayo, appeared at our doorstep without warning.
The moment I heard his excited voice boom from the living room, I knew trouble had arrived.
“Brother Tunde! So this is the new place? It’s beautiful!”
Wura looked at me, asking with her eyes whether I had invited him. I shook my head. Inside, frustration simmered like water about to boil over.
Dayo had always been the kind of person who avoided responsibility with a talent that almost deserved applause. Growing up, he hardly helped with chores. He never washed his plate unless threatened, refused to sweep, refused to cook, refused even to fold his clothes. He believed comfort was his birthright, as though effort was a punishment only meant for others.
So, seeing him drag a suitcase confidently into my home, like he was checking into a luxury hotel, irritated me deeply.
I pulled him aside.
“Dayo, why are you here? You didn’t tell me you were coming.”
He shrugged, unbothered. “Mum said I should come and stay with you for a while. She said I should spend time with you now that you’re married.”
I felt my throat tighten. My mother again.
I wanted him gone—immediately. This was the start of my married life. Wura and I were still adjusting, still blending our rhythms and routines. I didn’t need a third person interrupting that balance.
Before I could speak, Wura gently touched my arm. “Let him stay today,” she whispered. “We’ll talk about it later.”
I swallowed my irritation and nodded.
From the very first night, Dayo settled in comfortably. Too comfortably. He slept endlessly, ate enormous portions, scattered the living room with his belongings, and played video games for hours. He offered zero assistance. When Wura cooked, he casually asked for the largest portion. When I cleaned the compound, he walked past without greeting or offering help.
By the third day, I had reached my limit. I called my parents.
“Mum, why did you allow Dayo to come to my house without telling me?” I asked as calmly as I could.
Her response cut deep.
“Why is your own always different? Most brothers would be glad to have their siblings around after marriage. It makes the house lively. But you act as if you want to isolate yourself.”
That sentence—your own is always different—carried years of emotional weight. It was the phrase she used whenever I refused to take on burdens that weren’t mine.
Before I could explain myself, she ended the call abruptly.
I felt dismissed yet again.
But because Wura had asked him to stay a little longer, I restrained myself.
Things escalated when Dayo began wearing tiny shorts around the house—shorts so small and tight they could barely be called clothing. He paired them with no shirt at all, claiming he wanted to “feel free.” That might have been acceptable in his old room at home, but certainly not in my house with my wife present.
One afternoon, I returned from work to find him in the kitchen with Wura, bare-chested, cutting vegetables as if he owned the place.
“Dayo,” I said sharply, “come here.”
He turned, confused. “What’s wrong?”
I pulled him aside firmly.
“Do not dress like this in my house again. Wear something decent and respectful.”
Instead of apologizing, he smirked, amused. “Are you feeling threatened? Do you think your wife will be… distracted?”
My vision went hot. I clenched my jaw.
“Dayo,” I said slowly, “if you ever speak like that again, you will leave my house the same day.”
He realized I was serious. He apologized and went into the guest room.
Later, Wura admitted that she had also felt uncomfortable but didn’t want to create tension between me and my family. That confession only made my irritation deepen. My brother had walked into our home and made my wife feel unsafe and uneasy.
After a week, Dayo finally packed his bag. Relief washed over me like cool air after a long hot day.
But before he left, he revealed the real reason for his visit.
“Bro, please don’t be upset,” he began. “I came because I want to start a small business. I need five hundred thousand naira to begin. Mum said I should talk to you. She said you would help me.”
I stared at him silently.
He continued, “I don’t want to keep struggling. I want something to call my own. You’re my older brother. You should support me. Please help me.”
I smiled a small, contained smile. “Send your account number.”
He left believing he had succeeded, but my mind was already burning.
I called my mother.
“Mum, why should Dayo’s business capital become my responsibility? I just got married.”
She scoffed loudly. “Didn’t we raise you well? Why won’t you support your brother? Are you not the older one? If you don’t have the money, your wife can help. What is five hundred thousand? It’s not a big amount.”
My patience finally snapped.
“Mum, stop involving my wife. I said I will not give him the money. This is my marriage. My peace. And my decision. I cannot begin my married life by carrying burdens I did not create.”
Silence stretched between us.
Then she said, “You are embarrassing me.”
I inhaled deeply. “If protecting my peace embarrasses you, then let it be.”
And I ended the call.
My hands shook afterward, but I felt something I had never felt in years: the confidence of standing up for myself.
To be continued...
The Unwanted Guest
Episode 1
Follow Stories by Peace to read the next episode.
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The moment I heard his excited voice boom from the living room, I knew trouble had arrived.
“Brother Tunde! So this is the new place? It’s beautiful!”
Wura looked at me, asking with her eyes whether I had invited him. I shook my head. Inside, frustration simmered like water about to boil over.
Dayo had always been the kind of person who avoided responsibility with a talent that almost deserved applause. Growing up, he hardly helped with chores. He never washed his plate unless threatened, refused to sweep, refused to cook, refused even to fold his clothes. He believed comfort was his birthright, as though effort was a punishment only meant for others.
So, seeing him drag a suitcase confidently into my home, like he was checking into a luxury hotel, irritated me deeply.
I pulled him aside.
“Dayo, why are you here? You didn’t tell me you were coming.”
He shrugged, unbothered. “Mum said I should come and stay with you for a while. She said I should spend time with you now that you’re married.”
I felt my throat tighten. My mother again.
I wanted him gone—immediately. This was the start of my married life. Wura and I were still adjusting, still blending our rhythms and routines. I didn’t need a third person interrupting that balance.
Before I could speak, Wura gently touched my arm. “Let him stay today,” she whispered. “We’ll talk about it later.”
I swallowed my irritation and nodded.
From the very first night, Dayo settled in comfortably. Too comfortably. He slept endlessly, ate enormous portions, scattered the living room with his belongings, and played video games for hours. He offered zero assistance. When Wura cooked, he casually asked for the largest portion. When I cleaned the compound, he walked past without greeting or offering help.
By the third day, I had reached my limit. I called my parents.
“Mum, why did you allow Dayo to come to my house without telling me?” I asked as calmly as I could.
Her response cut deep.
“Why is your own always different? Most brothers would be glad to have their siblings around after marriage. It makes the house lively. But you act as if you want to isolate yourself.”
That sentence—your own is always different—carried years of emotional weight. It was the phrase she used whenever I refused to take on burdens that weren’t mine.
Before I could explain myself, she ended the call abruptly.
I felt dismissed yet again.
But because Wura had asked him to stay a little longer, I restrained myself.
Things escalated when Dayo began wearing tiny shorts around the house—shorts so small and tight they could barely be called clothing. He paired them with no shirt at all, claiming he wanted to “feel free.” That might have been acceptable in his old room at home, but certainly not in my house with my wife present.
One afternoon, I returned from work to find him in the kitchen with Wura, bare-chested, cutting vegetables as if he owned the place.
“Dayo,” I said sharply, “come here.”
He turned, confused. “What’s wrong?”
I pulled him aside firmly.
“Do not dress like this in my house again. Wear something decent and respectful.”
Instead of apologizing, he smirked, amused. “Are you feeling threatened? Do you think your wife will be… distracted?”
My vision went hot. I clenched my jaw.
“Dayo,” I said slowly, “if you ever speak like that again, you will leave my house the same day.”
He realized I was serious. He apologized and went into the guest room.
Later, Wura admitted that she had also felt uncomfortable but didn’t want to create tension between me and my family. That confession only made my irritation deepen. My brother had walked into our home and made my wife feel unsafe and uneasy.
After a week, Dayo finally packed his bag. Relief washed over me like cool air after a long hot day.
But before he left, he revealed the real reason for his visit.
“Bro, please don’t be upset,” he began. “I came because I want to start a small business. I need five hundred thousand naira to begin. Mum said I should talk to you. She said you would help me.”
I stared at him silently.
He continued, “I don’t want to keep struggling. I want something to call my own. You’re my older brother. You should support me. Please help me.”
I smiled a small, contained smile. “Send your account number.”
He left believing he had succeeded, but my mind was already burning.
I called my mother.
“Mum, why should Dayo’s business capital become my responsibility? I just got married.”
She scoffed loudly. “Didn’t we raise you well? Why won’t you support your brother? Are you not the older one? If you don’t have the money, your wife can help. What is five hundred thousand? It’s not a big amount.”
My patience finally snapped.
“Mum, stop involving my wife. I said I will not give him the money. This is my marriage. My peace. And my decision. I cannot begin my married life by carrying burdens I did not create.”
Silence stretched between us.
Then she said, “You are embarrassing me.”
I inhaled deeply. “If protecting my peace embarrasses you, then let it be.”
And I ended the call.
My hands shook afterward, but I felt something I had never felt in years: the confidence of standing up for myself.
To be continued...
The Unwanted Guest
Episode 1
Follow Stories by Peace to read the next episode.
Like, Comment and Share ❤️
