AGAINST MY MOTHER'S WILL HOW I FOUND TRUE LOVE BEYOND FIVE REJECTIONS
My mother’s patience was already hanging by a thread by the time the fifth lady came into the picture. She had exhausted her reservoir of hope, her battery of persistence, and her factory of confidence in matchmaking. But she refused to give up. In her mind, marrying me off was a divine assignment—one she took more seriously than her own prayer life.
CHAPTER FIVE — THE LADY WHO LOVED HALF-NAKEDNESS
One Wednesday evening, she barged into my room with the confidence of a general leading an army.
“Prepare yourself,” she announced without greeting. “You will meet someone this evening. This one,” she lifted her hands dramatically toward heaven, “is the FINAL one. If you reject her, then you must be planning to remain single forever!”
I didn’t bother arguing. I simply sat there and blinked slowly, waiting for the storm to pass. But she wasn’t done.
“She is decent,” she added. “Quiet. Well-trained. Her mother is a church elder. Her father is highly respected. No excuses this time!”
I nodded because resistance would have turned the house into a battleground. Deep down, I already knew that “no excuses” usually meant “prepare for the worst.”
By 6:30 PM, we left the house and headed to a small garden restaurant my mother had selected for the meeting. I walked beside her quietly, rehearsing how I would politely decline—if the lady turned out to be another mismatch.
But nothing could have prepared me for the sight that greeted my eyes.
We stepped into the restaurant, and my mother smiled proudly, pointing toward a lady sitting at one of the outdoor tables.
“There she is,” she whispered. “See how fine and calm she is.”
I turned my head…
And froze.
The lady was wearing a top so short it could have passed for a handkerchief. Her stomach was fully exposed. Her jeans were ripped in so many places that they looked like the remnants of a cloth rescued from a dog fight. Her makeup was heavy, but not the elegant type—this one screamed for attention.
Her wig was bright blond, her nails neon green, and her lips glossy enough to reflect the evening lights like a polished mirror.
My mother… did not see ANY of those things.
To her, the girl was “beautiful.” To me, she was an illustration of everything I disliked visually.
We approached the table. The girl stood up and gave my mother a churchlike hug, then turned to me with a sultry smile.
“Hey,” she said, dragging the word as if she were greeting her social media followers.
I swallowed the shock.
“Good evening,” I replied politely.
We sat. The waiter brought menus. And then the girl started fanning herself dramatically with the menu, shifting in her seat, adjusting her small top every few seconds.
My mother smiled warmly at her.
“So, my dear, how was your day?” she asked.
“It was okay,” she replied, chewing gum loudly with each word.
I blinked.
Chewing gum.
Loudly.
The memory of Lady One flashed through my mind like a warning sign.
But I kept composure.
My mother continued her interrogation disguised as conversation.
“You look so beautiful today.”
The girl giggled. “Aww, thank you, ma. I like dressing simple.”
I almost choked on my saliva.
Simple?
If that was her definition of simple, I feared what “extravagant” might look like.
But I kept quiet.
Then it got worse.
The waiter returned to take our order.
“I’ll have grilled fish and fries,” I said.
“Water for me,” my mother added.
The lady winked at the waiter.
“Do you have tequila shots?”
The waiter blinked.
“Yes… we do.”
“Good,” she said. “Bring four.”
My mother turned sharply.
“Te-ki-what?” she asked, confused.
The girl giggled.
“Ah, Mummy, don’t worry. It’s a soft drink!”
It was a lie so bold that even Satan would have applauded.
I quietly cleared my throat.
“Mama… tequila is not soft drink.”
My mother blinked twice, then slowly turned back to the girl like a disappointed principal.
But the girl continued, unfazed.
“I like to relax when I’m meeting someone new. Alcohol calms me.”
My mother’s eyebrows jumped so high they almost touched her hairline.
I looked down at the table, praying silently for the ground to open and swallow me.
The shots arrived. The girl took them—all four—one after the other like a professional bartender doing a demonstration. Then she belched softly and apologized with another giggle.
I felt my mother’s spirit leaving her body.
After a moment of awkward silence, I decided to start a conversation.
“So… what do you do for a living?” I asked.
She twirled her hair flirtatiously.
“I’m a fashion influencer.”
“Oh, nice,” I said, pretending to understand.
She leaned forward, revealing more skin than was necessary for a first meeting.
“I showcase outfits on social media. You know—crop tops, mini skirts, bikinis… things like that. My followers love when I show confidence. Dressing half-naked is my brand.”
My jaw tightened.
“And you enjoy it?” I asked.
She laughed. “Of course! Why hide what you have? Life is short. Flaunt it. If you don’t, who will?”
My mother slowly turned to stare at me with a face that said, This one is your wife? Over my dead body.
But she kept quiet.
The girl continued talking about her videos, her skimpy clothes, her desire to do a swimsuit photoshoot soon, and how she didn’t believe in “dressing like old women” for the sake of modesty.
At a point, she raised her arms to adjust her tiny top again, and I noticed several tattoos on her ribs and under her bust.
My mother gasped silently.
Then, the girl dropped the final blow.
“If we get married,” she said, “don’t expect me to change my dressing. I don’t like restrictions. My husband must support my lifestyle. If I want to wear bikini to the beach or club, I will. I don’t want a man who will be policing me.”
My mother slapped her chest lightly.
“Blood of Jesus.”
I sighed heavily.
We tried to continue the outing, but the gap between our values was too wide for even conversation to bridge. She didn’t have bad character—she was cheerful, bold, and confident. But we were two different worlds. Everything she loved was everything I disliked.
After the meal, I walked her toward the taxi park. She attempted to hold my arm flirtatiously, but I shifted gently and pretended not to notice.
When she finally left, I walked home with my mother in silence.
The moment we entered the house, she shut the door, removed her slippers, and faced me dramatically.
“That girl… that girl is an AGENT OF WORLDLY FASHION!” she declared.
I didn’t laugh, but it took everything in me to hold it in.
“Mama,” I said softly, “you can now see why I’m rejecting these ladies. They are not bad people, but they are not the kind of women I can live with.”
My mother collapsed onto the sofa, exhausted and humbled.
“This matchmaking mission has finished me,” she murmured.
For the first time, she didn’t argue. She didn’t insist. She didn’t force. She simply sat there in silence, realizing something she didn’t want to admit:
She had been choosing for me… instead of letting me choose for myself.
And that was the moment destiny opened the door.
Because not long after that final failed setup…
I met the woman who would become my wife.
A woman my mother initially rejected.
A woman I chose with my own heart.
A woman who would later prove to my mother that genuine character is more beautiful than anything artificial, revealing, or loud.
But that…
is the beginning of the final chapter...
PLEASE FOLLOW Mr. Mask Pen and Storey
My mother’s patience was already hanging by a thread by the time the fifth lady came into the picture. She had exhausted her reservoir of hope, her battery of persistence, and her factory of confidence in matchmaking. But she refused to give up. In her mind, marrying me off was a divine assignment—one she took more seriously than her own prayer life.
CHAPTER FIVE — THE LADY WHO LOVED HALF-NAKEDNESS
One Wednesday evening, she barged into my room with the confidence of a general leading an army.
“Prepare yourself,” she announced without greeting. “You will meet someone this evening. This one,” she lifted her hands dramatically toward heaven, “is the FINAL one. If you reject her, then you must be planning to remain single forever!”
I didn’t bother arguing. I simply sat there and blinked slowly, waiting for the storm to pass. But she wasn’t done.
“She is decent,” she added. “Quiet. Well-trained. Her mother is a church elder. Her father is highly respected. No excuses this time!”
I nodded because resistance would have turned the house into a battleground. Deep down, I already knew that “no excuses” usually meant “prepare for the worst.”
By 6:30 PM, we left the house and headed to a small garden restaurant my mother had selected for the meeting. I walked beside her quietly, rehearsing how I would politely decline—if the lady turned out to be another mismatch.
But nothing could have prepared me for the sight that greeted my eyes.
We stepped into the restaurant, and my mother smiled proudly, pointing toward a lady sitting at one of the outdoor tables.
“There she is,” she whispered. “See how fine and calm she is.”
I turned my head…
And froze.
The lady was wearing a top so short it could have passed for a handkerchief. Her stomach was fully exposed. Her jeans were ripped in so many places that they looked like the remnants of a cloth rescued from a dog fight. Her makeup was heavy, but not the elegant type—this one screamed for attention.
Her wig was bright blond, her nails neon green, and her lips glossy enough to reflect the evening lights like a polished mirror.
My mother… did not see ANY of those things.
To her, the girl was “beautiful.” To me, she was an illustration of everything I disliked visually.
We approached the table. The girl stood up and gave my mother a churchlike hug, then turned to me with a sultry smile.
“Hey,” she said, dragging the word as if she were greeting her social media followers.
I swallowed the shock.
“Good evening,” I replied politely.
We sat. The waiter brought menus. And then the girl started fanning herself dramatically with the menu, shifting in her seat, adjusting her small top every few seconds.
My mother smiled warmly at her.
“So, my dear, how was your day?” she asked.
“It was okay,” she replied, chewing gum loudly with each word.
I blinked.
Chewing gum.
Loudly.
The memory of Lady One flashed through my mind like a warning sign.
But I kept composure.
My mother continued her interrogation disguised as conversation.
“You look so beautiful today.”
The girl giggled. “Aww, thank you, ma. I like dressing simple.”
I almost choked on my saliva.
Simple?
If that was her definition of simple, I feared what “extravagant” might look like.
But I kept quiet.
Then it got worse.
The waiter returned to take our order.
“I’ll have grilled fish and fries,” I said.
“Water for me,” my mother added.
The lady winked at the waiter.
“Do you have tequila shots?”
The waiter blinked.
“Yes… we do.”
“Good,” she said. “Bring four.”
My mother turned sharply.
“Te-ki-what?” she asked, confused.
The girl giggled.
“Ah, Mummy, don’t worry. It’s a soft drink!”
It was a lie so bold that even Satan would have applauded.
I quietly cleared my throat.
“Mama… tequila is not soft drink.”
My mother blinked twice, then slowly turned back to the girl like a disappointed principal.
But the girl continued, unfazed.
“I like to relax when I’m meeting someone new. Alcohol calms me.”
My mother’s eyebrows jumped so high they almost touched her hairline.
I looked down at the table, praying silently for the ground to open and swallow me.
The shots arrived. The girl took them—all four—one after the other like a professional bartender doing a demonstration. Then she belched softly and apologized with another giggle.
I felt my mother’s spirit leaving her body.
After a moment of awkward silence, I decided to start a conversation.
“So… what do you do for a living?” I asked.
She twirled her hair flirtatiously.
“I’m a fashion influencer.”
“Oh, nice,” I said, pretending to understand.
She leaned forward, revealing more skin than was necessary for a first meeting.
“I showcase outfits on social media. You know—crop tops, mini skirts, bikinis… things like that. My followers love when I show confidence. Dressing half-naked is my brand.”
My jaw tightened.
“And you enjoy it?” I asked.
She laughed. “Of course! Why hide what you have? Life is short. Flaunt it. If you don’t, who will?”
My mother slowly turned to stare at me with a face that said, This one is your wife? Over my dead body.
But she kept quiet.
The girl continued talking about her videos, her skimpy clothes, her desire to do a swimsuit photoshoot soon, and how she didn’t believe in “dressing like old women” for the sake of modesty.
At a point, she raised her arms to adjust her tiny top again, and I noticed several tattoos on her ribs and under her bust.
My mother gasped silently.
Then, the girl dropped the final blow.
“If we get married,” she said, “don’t expect me to change my dressing. I don’t like restrictions. My husband must support my lifestyle. If I want to wear bikini to the beach or club, I will. I don’t want a man who will be policing me.”
My mother slapped her chest lightly.
“Blood of Jesus.”
I sighed heavily.
We tried to continue the outing, but the gap between our values was too wide for even conversation to bridge. She didn’t have bad character—she was cheerful, bold, and confident. But we were two different worlds. Everything she loved was everything I disliked.
After the meal, I walked her toward the taxi park. She attempted to hold my arm flirtatiously, but I shifted gently and pretended not to notice.
When she finally left, I walked home with my mother in silence.
The moment we entered the house, she shut the door, removed her slippers, and faced me dramatically.
“That girl… that girl is an AGENT OF WORLDLY FASHION!” she declared.
I didn’t laugh, but it took everything in me to hold it in.
“Mama,” I said softly, “you can now see why I’m rejecting these ladies. They are not bad people, but they are not the kind of women I can live with.”
My mother collapsed onto the sofa, exhausted and humbled.
“This matchmaking mission has finished me,” she murmured.
For the first time, she didn’t argue. She didn’t insist. She didn’t force. She simply sat there in silence, realizing something she didn’t want to admit:
She had been choosing for me… instead of letting me choose for myself.
And that was the moment destiny opened the door.
Because not long after that final failed setup…
I met the woman who would become my wife.
A woman my mother initially rejected.
A woman I chose with my own heart.
A woman who would later prove to my mother that genuine character is more beautiful than anything artificial, revealing, or loud.
But that…
is the beginning of the final chapter...
PLEASE FOLLOW Mr. Mask Pen and Storey
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