ESTHER
Esther was frustrated.
She had been trying to film a Day in My Life vlog for the past three days, and her son was not cooperating. He’d been fussier than usual all week, so clingy that she hadn’t been able to do her self-care routine, not even the basics. Her face felt like an afterthought.
She wanted to scream.
The worst part was that her so-called husband was not being helpful. Kunle was always half-present; snatching up his phone whenever it pinged, barely making eye contact, certainly not offering to hold the baby or stir a pot in the kitchen. Being useless, despite working remotely three times a week.
How was she supposed to launch a successful family and motherhood brand if she was struggling to find the time?
If her family was struggling?
She’d decided to shoot the vlog in fragments: a morning routine here, maybe an afternoon check-in while Dara napped (if he ever napped again).
How did the YouTube influencers make this look so seamless?
She’d assumed things would be easier once she was no longer pregnant, because pregnancy had been hell. She’d been one of those women whose life pregnancy came for. There was no beauty for ashes, just ashes. Her skin had darkened quickly, and her nose had ballooned; stretch marks had appeared despite her diligent belly skincare routine. Her siblings had nicknamed her Nosa because they swore it was the only thing visible on video calls.
So, no, there hadn’t been many bump pics. But the few she did post? They racked up likes, comments, and DMs. That tiny burst of attention had made her feel visible again. It gave her the push to return to YouTube with a plan: family, lifestyle, and motherhood content.
Of course, Kunle did not buy the idea. He was barely tolerating her feeble online success as is.
“I don’t want my child on the internet,” he had said flatly.
And she understood his point (of course she did), and she’d even agreed to keep their son’s face out of it; it’d been a compromise she was willing to make because she was trying to be a supportive wife.
Until Dara was born, and Kunle simultaneously got a promotion at work, things began to go downhill from there. He was not as present as she’d thought he would be. He lost interest and patience in his son so fast that it scared her. It was like Kunle had an internal timer for how long he could be emotionally available. Once it ran out, so did he.
In those early postpartum days, Esther had cried for six days straight. Her tears fell like warm rain at random times; while brushing her teeth, changing a diaper, standing in the shower under water that never felt hot enough.
She cried so much that Dara picked up on her sadness and became a temperamental baby. Kunle had tried to comfort her at first (dutiful husband, he was), but when the tears didn’t stop, he’d gotten frustrated.
“What do you want?” he asked again and again.
Nothing. Everything. Nothing, she screamed in her mind.
She’d never ached for her mother as much as she did when Dara was born.
Her sister tried to fill in the gap with WhatsApp calls and voice notes, instructions for colic, baby massages, what to do if Dara didn’t poop for days. But distance was a useless thing when your bones ached from exhaustion and you just needed someone, anyone, to take the baby so you could sleep for more than 90 minutes.
Kunle was useless, God forgive her.
But she wasn’t going to think about that now. She needed to focus on this vlog she wanted to shoot.
“Babe?” she called from the study.
“Yeah?”
“Can you watch Dara for a bit, please?”
“Where is he?”
Are you kidding me? “In his playpen.”
“Oh. I have to get on a call in a bit.”
Esther didn’t respond.
She turned back to the mirror, running a hand over her face. She could see the bags forming underneath her eyes; bags that told the true story to her followers.
What did people prefer? Raw honesty or filtered perfection?
She opened her makeup bag and began dabbing concealer on the dark circles under her eyes. She dabbed. Blended. A dash of lipstick and a smile at her reflection.
Fake it.
“Hi guys,” she began softly, switching on her vlogger voice. She hit record on her phone, then adjusted the angle slightly. “I’m going to be showing you my self-care routine as a new mum.”
Despite her doubts, content-creator mode came easily. A calm settled over her as she spoke, as if pretending was a balm. She wasn’t lying exactly; she was manifesting.
And that didn’t count as deception. Right?
“So, it’s not been easy establishing a self-care routine since I had my son,” she continued. “But over the past few months, I feel like we’ve settled into a nice little flow. That gives me a bit of breathing space to take care of myself.”
She held a bottle of her oat milk cleanser to the camera: “I use this to clean my face at night.”
(In fact, she hadn’t cleaned her face in two weeks.)
“A happy mum makes a happy baby, right?” she continued with a laugh. It didn’t ring true, even to her.
Right on cue, she heard a screech from the living room. A sharp, high-pitched wail that hit the back of her neck like a slap.
She blinked, waiting to see what kind of cry this was. Attention? Hunger (no, because she fed him before setting up), Pain?
And was Kunle going to handle it?
The cries continued, and Esther sighed. She shut off the camera.
When she stepped into the living room, Dara’s pacifier had fallen out of his mouth, and that had triggered the wailing. She scooped him up with a sigh, rocking him against her chest, trying not to look at Kunle, who was seated at the dining table, typing away, his earbuds in.
Anger bubbled in her chest, hot and immediate, but she wasn’t sure if it was justified.
Kunle was working.
He paid the bills.
She knew this. But what if both things weren’t mutually exclusive?
Still, a part of her couldn’t help but whisper: So what? Was that all fatherhood was supposed to be? Direct deposit?
Why did Kunle’s job present him with the perfect excuse to not be available for his son (their son!)?
Some men were busy at work, yet still made time for their families. Take Tara, for example. Tara got time away from her twins. She had time to herself.
Did her husband have two heads?
She stared at the back of Kunle’s head for a beat too long.
She used to like that head.
Back in Unilag, when they stayed up eating suya and Indomie, laughing until she snorted, dreaming about the future as if it would be easy.
Dara calmed a little, his fingers tugging the neckline of her shirt. She shifted him to her hip and headed to the study, where her camera tripod was still set up.
She thought about turning it off. Thought about deleting the footage, shutting it all down. What kind of lifestyle vlog was this, anyway?
But instead, she picked up her phone and hit record again.
This time, she didn’t bother smiling. She held her son so his face was buried against her chest.
“Sometimes,” she began, looking directly at the lens, “I feel like I’m faking everything. But then I think what keeps me sane on days like this is the pretense. I feel like if I can show up on camera and pretend that my life is going smoothly, then I’ll be okay. I love my son. I even love my husband on most days. But this isn’t what I thought motherhood would feel like. Not this lonely. Not this… heavy. I wish my mum were alive to see me doing this. I wish I could hear her say she’s proud of me, because that might make it worth it.”
She paused.
“I’m tired. And not just physically. I’m tired to my soul. Mamas who’ve been doing this for years, how did you do it?”
“I’m tired,” she said again, quietly. Then turned the camera off.
She didn’t know if she would post it. Probably not (definitely not.)
But she saved the clip anyway.