Ebimobowei and Adibor: The Bed We Made: A true life story from Egbema
Prologue
Ebimobowei and Adibor’s love story started like the glistening waves of the Ajakurama River—serene, promising, and full of dreams. From their small community tucked within the mangrove creeks of the Niger Delta, they nurtured a budding love that defied tradition, criticism, and even distance.
When Ebimobowei, a welder and technician, decided to relocate to Asaba in search of greener pastures, Adibor—a vibrant and ambitious woman—followed him. They settled into a modest one-bedroom apartment near Nnebisi Road, full of hope and the belief that love alone could weather any storm.
But Asaba, as they would soon learn, tests love with fire.
The Mother-in-Law Visit
Months into their stay, Ebimobowei’s mother, Mama Ebimo, came from Ajakurama to visit her son. She was elderly, slow in gait, and full of tales from the old days. The visit was short, just a week, but it opened a rift in their home.
“Mama will stay with us for a few days. Please help prepare our bedroom so she can sleep there. I’ll manage in the parlor,” Ebimobowei said one humid evening.
Adibor’s eyes flashed. “You want me to leave my own bed for your mother? Why not rent her a hotel room or take her to one of your sisters?”
“It’s just a few days, Adi. She’s my mother—she’s old.”
But Adibor didn’t budge. Instead, she packed Mama’s things into the parlor. The old woman, too proud to argue, said nothing. She slept on a thin mattress in the sitting room for four nights before she quietly returned to Ajakurama, heartbroken.
Ebimobowei didn’t argue then. He swallowed the bitterness, hoping his wife would understand with time. But he never forgot.
The Second Visit
Six months later, Adibor’s own mother came visiting from Gbaramatu. She arrived with wrappers, dried fish, and a loud voice. Adibor was excited, and as soon as she arrived, she went into the bedroom to prepare it.
But Ebimobowei stood at the door. “No,” he said calmly. “The same way my mother slept in the parlor is the same way yours will.”
Adibor was stunned. “But this is my own mother!”
“And the other one was mine.”
A cold silence fell between them like a heavy cloud. That night, Adibor’s mother slept in the parlor, grumbling through the night about disrespect, marriage, and strange men.
The Cracks Widen
The household grew tense. Adibor often spoke in riddles on the phone with her friends, and Ebimobowei became quieter. He spent more time at work and sometimes slept over at his workshop. There were whispers in the compound—neighbors noticed that Adibor never greeted visitors warmly, and she never accepted Ebimobowei’s three other children who came occasionally to spend weekends.
“They’re not my responsibility,” she once muttered when one of the kids fell ill and needed medicine.
Despite their years together, Adibor remained childless. It was a fact that hurt her more than she admitted, but instead of drawing closer to her husband, she drew lines around herself.
The Final Decision
One evening, Ebimobowei returned home with a letter. It wasn’t long. It was handwritten. It read:
“Adi, I loved you with all I had. But love is not enough. A marriage that cannot honor family is like a house built without a foundation. I cannot stay in a home where respect flows only one way. I am seeking a separation. I pray you find peace and happiness, but not in my house anymore.”
Adibor read it aloud to herself three times. Her pride told her to tear it, burn it, and move on. But her heart knew she had failed.
Moral Lesson
Respect in marriage must go both ways—not just for the spouse but also for their roots. Love without mutual respect for family is like building on sand. Hospitality, humility, and empathy are cornerstones of lasting homes. A woman (or man) who dishonors their in-laws may find themselves dishonored when they least expect it.
Optional Epilogue
Years later, Adibor sat alone in a flat in Ughelli, raising a niece. She never remarried. As for Ebimobowei, he reconciled with his children’s mother and raised his kids in peace.
And each time the breeze blew at night, Adibor remembered Mama Ebimo’s quiet eyes—and the bed she was never allowed to sleep in.
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