AGAINST MY MOTHER'S WILL HOW I FOUND TRUE LOVE BEYOND FIVE REJECTIONS
If someone had warned me that marrying a wife chosen by my mother would feel like trekking through a desert barefoot, I would have believed them after meeting Blessing. But nothing—absolutely nothing—prepared me for the third lady.
Her name was Rita.
CHAPTER THREE
THE THIRD LADY — THE ONE WHO LOVED MATERIAL THINGS
From the day my mother mentioned her name, I felt the tension in the air. My mother’s voice carried a kind of forced excitement that did not match her eyes.
“Goodluck,” she said one evening as we ate dinner, “prepare yourself. We are visiting another family on Sunday.”
I lifted my eyes slowly. “Mama… another one?”
She dropped her spoon and pointed at me. “Don’t start. Don’t even begin. If you like, reject her too and continue living alone until mosquitoes inherit this house.”
I chuckled quietly, but inside me, I was tired. Truly tired.
Sundays were supposed to be peaceful. Church, rest, perhaps a small nap. But this particular Sunday was dedicated to marital warfare.
Mama woke me up as if we were rushing to catch a flight.
“Stand up! Bath! Dress well! The girl we are seeing today is so beautiful that even blind men will turn to look at her!”
I had learned to ignore most of her hype, so I simply obeyed.
We arrived at the girl’s home around noon. The moment I saw the compound, I sensed trouble. Not because the house was bad—on the contrary, it was extremely polished. Everywhere glittered as if someone had scrubbed the floor with diamond water.
“Hmm,” Mama whispered proudly, “cleanliness is next to godliness.”
I nodded silently.
Then the door opened.
And Rita walked out.
My mother almost shouted “Hallelujah!” on the spot.
Rita was tall, light-skinned, and dressed like she stepped out from a fashion magazine. Her wig shone like newly polished plastic. Her heels clicked proudly. Her handbag sparkled. Even her perfume arrived before she did.
She smiled at me — a slow, dramatic smile — and extended her hand with long artificial nails that curved like eagle claws.
“Good afternoon,” she said coolly.
I shook her hand carefully, afraid her fingers might break if I applied normal pressure.
We sat inside the living room. Rich curtains. Glass center table. Everything screamed luxury.
Rita crossed her legs gracefully and smiled at me. But I noticed she kept scanning my shoes, my shirt, my wristwatch — as if evaluating my financial worth.
My mother started the conversation. “My son here is hardworking, responsible, and ready to settle down.”
I nearly choked on my saliva. Ready to settle down? Me?
But I kept quiet.
Rita smiled. “That’s nice. So… what do you do, Goodluck?”
“I work in tech support,” I replied. “Stable job, moderate salary.”
“Hmm.” She nodded, but her eyes did not look satisfied.
She looked at my mother. “Does he have his own car?”
My mother laughed nervously. “He is planning—”
Rita cut in. “Because I don’t like men who depend on public transport. I can’t be entering Keke or Okada anyhow.”
I looked at her calmly. “For now, I use Bolt rides.”
She frowned deeply. “Bolt? Ah. That’s stressful.”
I blinked. My mother blinked. Even the ceiling fan paused.
My mother quickly tried to rescue the moment. “Ah, don’t worry. Once he settles, he will get a car.”
Rita smiled sweetly. “He should. Because I can’t be following a man who can’t spoil me. I like nice things o. Original things. I don’t wear cheap clothes. In fact—” she flipped her hair proudly “—I don’t repeat outfits.”
I coughed slightly to confirm if I heard well. “You don’t repeat what?”
“Outfits,” she said confidently. “I wear my clothes once and give them out. That’s how a lady should live.”
My brain began to calculate the cost of marrying her:
One outfit per day = 30 outfits per month
30 outfits per month = my entire salary gone
My entire salary gone = poverty
Poverty = hunger
Hunger = death
Conclusion: Rita would finish me.
Still, I tried to give her a chance.
“What are your goals?” I asked.
She smiled, proud of her answer. “To marry someone who will take care of me.”
“That’s all?”
She raised one eyebrow. “What else do I need? A woman’s life becomes soft when her husband is rich.”
I nodded slowly. “So… you don’t want to work?”
She giggled loud enough to shake the windows. “Work? Why? When my husband is there? I can open a boutique for fashion — but you will sponsor it.”
I swallowed.
A future flashed before my eyes: me sweating in the sun trying to pay rent while she uploaded pictures of designer bags on Instagram with captions like:
“Soft life or nothing.”
I forced a smile. “Interesting.”
The conversation continued, and every sentence she spoke confirmed what my spirit already knew: she was far too materialistic. Marriage with her would be a financial prison.
When we left the house, my mother did not speak immediately. She was unusually quiet.
Finally, halfway home, she cleared her throat. “Hmm.”
I waited.
She sighed loudly. “So, what do you think?”
I stopped walking. “Mama… that girl likes material things too much.”
Mama hissed. “At least she did not chew gum like the first one.”
I chuckled. “But she will chew my bank account.”
My mother covered her mouth to hide her laughter. “Goodluck! You too, your mouth is bad!”
I laughed as well, relieved that Mama could finally see this one wasn’t right.
“But Mama, be honest,” I said gently, “can I cope with someone like that?”
My mother slowed her steps. Her voice softened. “Hmm. She is too expensive. Even her eyelashes look costly.”
We both laughed.
It felt good to see we agreed on something. For the first time in this journey, my mother openly admitted one of her chosen ladies was not suitable.
“You will not marry that one,” she said firmly.
I nodded with relief. “Thank you, Mama.”
But her next sentence shocked me.
“I have another girl,” she announced.
I groaned. “Mama!”
“Goodluck, you must marry before December. I didn’t give birth to you to watch you grow old alone.”
I sighed deeply. I wanted to tell her that marriage is not picked like tomatoes in a market. But I also understood her fear.
In her mind, unmarried adulthood was a sign of failure.
In my mind, rushing into marriage was a sign of disaster.
Two opposing worlds. One goal.
—
The next girl my mother brought was the fourth candidate—the one who would make me question whether I was going for marriage selection or a beauty pageant audition.
She was beautiful, yes.
But everything on her was artificial.
And her chapter was even worse.
CHAPTER 4 LOADING
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If someone had warned me that marrying a wife chosen by my mother would feel like trekking through a desert barefoot, I would have believed them after meeting Blessing. But nothing—absolutely nothing—prepared me for the third lady.
Her name was Rita.
CHAPTER THREE
THE THIRD LADY — THE ONE WHO LOVED MATERIAL THINGS
From the day my mother mentioned her name, I felt the tension in the air. My mother’s voice carried a kind of forced excitement that did not match her eyes.
“Goodluck,” she said one evening as we ate dinner, “prepare yourself. We are visiting another family on Sunday.”
I lifted my eyes slowly. “Mama… another one?”
She dropped her spoon and pointed at me. “Don’t start. Don’t even begin. If you like, reject her too and continue living alone until mosquitoes inherit this house.”
I chuckled quietly, but inside me, I was tired. Truly tired.
Sundays were supposed to be peaceful. Church, rest, perhaps a small nap. But this particular Sunday was dedicated to marital warfare.
Mama woke me up as if we were rushing to catch a flight.
“Stand up! Bath! Dress well! The girl we are seeing today is so beautiful that even blind men will turn to look at her!”
I had learned to ignore most of her hype, so I simply obeyed.
We arrived at the girl’s home around noon. The moment I saw the compound, I sensed trouble. Not because the house was bad—on the contrary, it was extremely polished. Everywhere glittered as if someone had scrubbed the floor with diamond water.
“Hmm,” Mama whispered proudly, “cleanliness is next to godliness.”
I nodded silently.
Then the door opened.
And Rita walked out.
My mother almost shouted “Hallelujah!” on the spot.
Rita was tall, light-skinned, and dressed like she stepped out from a fashion magazine. Her wig shone like newly polished plastic. Her heels clicked proudly. Her handbag sparkled. Even her perfume arrived before she did.
She smiled at me — a slow, dramatic smile — and extended her hand with long artificial nails that curved like eagle claws.
“Good afternoon,” she said coolly.
I shook her hand carefully, afraid her fingers might break if I applied normal pressure.
We sat inside the living room. Rich curtains. Glass center table. Everything screamed luxury.
Rita crossed her legs gracefully and smiled at me. But I noticed she kept scanning my shoes, my shirt, my wristwatch — as if evaluating my financial worth.
My mother started the conversation. “My son here is hardworking, responsible, and ready to settle down.”
I nearly choked on my saliva. Ready to settle down? Me?
But I kept quiet.
Rita smiled. “That’s nice. So… what do you do, Goodluck?”
“I work in tech support,” I replied. “Stable job, moderate salary.”
“Hmm.” She nodded, but her eyes did not look satisfied.
She looked at my mother. “Does he have his own car?”
My mother laughed nervously. “He is planning—”
Rita cut in. “Because I don’t like men who depend on public transport. I can’t be entering Keke or Okada anyhow.”
I looked at her calmly. “For now, I use Bolt rides.”
She frowned deeply. “Bolt? Ah. That’s stressful.”
I blinked. My mother blinked. Even the ceiling fan paused.
My mother quickly tried to rescue the moment. “Ah, don’t worry. Once he settles, he will get a car.”
Rita smiled sweetly. “He should. Because I can’t be following a man who can’t spoil me. I like nice things o. Original things. I don’t wear cheap clothes. In fact—” she flipped her hair proudly “—I don’t repeat outfits.”
I coughed slightly to confirm if I heard well. “You don’t repeat what?”
“Outfits,” she said confidently. “I wear my clothes once and give them out. That’s how a lady should live.”
My brain began to calculate the cost of marrying her:
One outfit per day = 30 outfits per month
30 outfits per month = my entire salary gone
My entire salary gone = poverty
Poverty = hunger
Hunger = death
Conclusion: Rita would finish me.
Still, I tried to give her a chance.
“What are your goals?” I asked.
She smiled, proud of her answer. “To marry someone who will take care of me.”
“That’s all?”
She raised one eyebrow. “What else do I need? A woman’s life becomes soft when her husband is rich.”
I nodded slowly. “So… you don’t want to work?”
She giggled loud enough to shake the windows. “Work? Why? When my husband is there? I can open a boutique for fashion — but you will sponsor it.”
I swallowed.
A future flashed before my eyes: me sweating in the sun trying to pay rent while she uploaded pictures of designer bags on Instagram with captions like:
“Soft life or nothing.”
I forced a smile. “Interesting.”
The conversation continued, and every sentence she spoke confirmed what my spirit already knew: she was far too materialistic. Marriage with her would be a financial prison.
When we left the house, my mother did not speak immediately. She was unusually quiet.
Finally, halfway home, she cleared her throat. “Hmm.”
I waited.
She sighed loudly. “So, what do you think?”
I stopped walking. “Mama… that girl likes material things too much.”
Mama hissed. “At least she did not chew gum like the first one.”
I chuckled. “But she will chew my bank account.”
My mother covered her mouth to hide her laughter. “Goodluck! You too, your mouth is bad!”
I laughed as well, relieved that Mama could finally see this one wasn’t right.
“But Mama, be honest,” I said gently, “can I cope with someone like that?”
My mother slowed her steps. Her voice softened. “Hmm. She is too expensive. Even her eyelashes look costly.”
We both laughed.
It felt good to see we agreed on something. For the first time in this journey, my mother openly admitted one of her chosen ladies was not suitable.
“You will not marry that one,” she said firmly.
I nodded with relief. “Thank you, Mama.”
But her next sentence shocked me.
“I have another girl,” she announced.
I groaned. “Mama!”
“Goodluck, you must marry before December. I didn’t give birth to you to watch you grow old alone.”
I sighed deeply. I wanted to tell her that marriage is not picked like tomatoes in a market. But I also understood her fear.
In her mind, unmarried adulthood was a sign of failure.
In my mind, rushing into marriage was a sign of disaster.
Two opposing worlds. One goal.
—
The next girl my mother brought was the fourth candidate—the one who would make me question whether I was going for marriage selection or a beauty pageant audition.
She was beautiful, yes.
But everything on her was artificial.
And her chapter was even worse.
CHAPTER 4 LOADING
FOLLOW Mr. Mask Pen and Storey FOR INTERESTING STORIES
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