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Every week, 91���� spotlights the unfiltered stories of women navigating life, love, identity and everything in between. 

What She Said will give women the mic to speak freely, honestly and openly, without shame about sex, politics, family, survival, and everything else life throws our way. 

Ejiro* is a 38-year-old woman from Warri, and her life now is unrecognisable from the girl who used to trek to school because there was no money for transport. She’s survived poverty, heartbreak, and the kind of betrayals that make a woman stop believing in romantic love. Now, she’s raising a child with no husband, no boyfriend, and no apologies.

What’s your earliest memory of wanting a family?

I’ve always been “that aunty” to everybody’s child. Growing up, if a neighbour’s baby was crying, they’d call me to carry the child. My mum used to say I had “warm hands”; babies would just sleep once I touched them.

But wanting a child and wanting a husband were never the same thing for me. My parents’ marriage wasn’t rosy. My dad was always chasing women, and my mum just… took it. Watching her swallow pain like garri without sugar did something to me. I told myself: If that’s marriage, I’m not interested.

So you never wanted to marry?

Ah, I wanted love o. When I was younger, I thought love meant marriage, so I chased it. But men showed me pepper.

The first serious boyfriend I had, I was 24, fresh out of NYSC, and still hustling for a job. He was a mechanic, tall, fine, and funny. I loved him so much that when he said he wanted to marry me, I started dreaming of a small white church wedding. Then one day, his mother told me to my face, “You are not wife material for my son. Your head is too strong.” He didn’t defend me, just stood there like a mumu. That day, something in my chest shifted.

The second man… hmm. I met him when I was 27, already working in an oil servicing company in Port Harcourt. He was smooth, had money, and treated me well, until I got pregnant. I told him I was keeping it, and he vanished. No call, no text. I miscarried at three months, alone in my apartment. I still remember the smell of blood, Dettol and the sound of rain on my zinc roof that night. The physical and emotional pain broke me.

By the time I was 30, I had dated a banker who used me as his personal ATM, and a widower who cried on my shoulder for months, then went back to his late wife’s sister. All these men, and yet the same story: I give, they take, they leave.

Was there a moment you knew you were done?

Yes. I was 31 or 32 when the last straw broke the camel’s back. I was dating this guy, a small business owner, and he asked me for ₦1.5 million “for business.” I gave him without question. Two months later, I saw him on Instagram in Dubai, feeding another woman suya at some fancy rooftop restaurant.

I remember sitting on my bed that night with the PH heat sticking to my skin, thinking, “If I’m going to pour my love, energy, and money into someone, let it be my own child. No man again.”

How did you go from that decision to actually having a baby?

At first, it sounded crazy, even to me. But the idea wouldn’t leave my head. I started researching and asking around about IVF, sperm donors, and adoption. I read Nairaland threads, watched YouTube videos, and even joined a Facebook group for single mums by choice.

I knew it would be expensive, so I started planning. I cut down on lifestyle spending, no more buying every aso ebi, no more wigs every month, no more impulsive weekend trips. I moved from a big flat in GRA to a smaller but nicer two-bedroom closer to work. Every extra kobo went into my “baby fund.”

The sperm donor search became its own ritual. Most nights, after work, I’d sit on my couch with my laptop, a cup of tea going cold beside me, scrolling through profile after profile. Each one had a headless photo, a medical history chart, and sometimes, a handwritten essay. I ticked off my boxes: good health record, no hereditary illnesses, decent education, and physical features that wouldn’t make my child look like an outlier in family photos.

I avoided the ones with vague medical backgrounds or where the lifestyle questions felt like half-truths. I lingered on profiles where the handwriting felt warm, where their answers to “Why donate?” didn’t sound like they were just in it for the money.

One night, I read a donor’s essay about loving long walks and old highlife records because it reminded him of his mum. It made me smile. I don’t know if it was fate or just hormones, but I bookmarked him and slept better that night than I had in weeks.

What She Said: She Gave Me the Child I Couldn’t Carry

Did your family support you?

Ha! My mother almost fainted when I told her my plan. She said, “You want to disgrace us? Which man will marry you if you do this?” I told her, “Mama, which man? Is it the ones marrying and still sleeping with their exes?” She didn’t speak to me for two months.

My siblings were divided. My younger sister supported me, but my elder brother said I was behaving like a man. But honestly, I didn’t need their permission.

What was pregnancy like without a partner?

Pregnancy will humble you. The morning sickness, the back pain, the swelling feet and no one to rub your back or hold your hair when you’re throwing up. No one to carry the weight with you. There were nights I lay in bed staring at the ceiling fan, crying because I felt so alone. But then my baby kicked for the first time at about 20 weeks, and it felt like he was saying, “We’re in this together, mummy.” That moment carried me through.

Tell me about the birth.

I gave birth in a private clinic in Port Harcourt. My mother came around eventually, so she was in the room. The pain was mad. I gripped the metal side of the bed so hard I thought it would break. But when they placed my son on my chest, everything went quiet in my head. I just kept saying, “Na me and you forever.”

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What’s life like now?

Peaceful. That’s the main word. I wake up every day knowing my joy isn’t tied to a man’s mood. I spend my money on my child and myself without guilt. My boy is two now; smart, stubborn, and full of energy. My mother is obsessed with him, and my siblings have all come around.

Do you ever think about marriage now?

If love comes, I won’t slam the door. But I’m not looking. Right now, my focus is on raising my son to be the kind of man this world never see before.

What advice would you give to another woman thinking of this path?

Plan your money. Plan your mind. And forget what people will say. They’ll talk whether you fail or succeed. At least this way, you’re living for yourself.

Some women wait for a man to choose them. I chose myself. And it’s the best thing I’ve ever done.

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