The House that Never Heard Him

3 min read

Just now

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Ukwuta sits in his Peugeot 406 with the engine off, keys still dangling in the ignition like a question no one plans to answer.
Thirty minutes go by. Then another. Time thickens.

He’s parked in the driveway of the house his income maintains, brick by brick, bill by bill. Through the windshield, the windows glow warmly, curated warmth, the kind that sells mortgages and Christmas commercials. Inside, Victory moves around the kitchen, efficient, and almost purposeful. In the living room, his daughter is lost in cartoons, cocooned in a childhood that assumes tomorrow will always be paid for.

It looks like success.
But It feels like suffocation.

Ukwuta isn’t enjoying the view. He’s spiraling.
His chest is tight, breath shallow and frantic. He clamps both hands around the steering wheel like it’s the only solid thing left in a world quietly giving way. These thirty minutes aren’t rest, they’re containment. This is where he seals the cracks. Where fear gets swallowed whole and renamed “manly strength.”

Today, work reminded him how temporary relevance is.
He's been issued his second query by his boss. A third query as per the company's policy will definitely come with a sack letter.
Whispers of the company not breaking even the previous year circulates like gossip in a funeral.
Three months, maybe less, before the numbers decide his worth.

Panic presses down on him, heavy and intimate. He wants to step inside, drop the armor, put down the shield, and say what men aren’t supposed to say:

I’m afraid.
I don’t know if I can keep this afloat.
Please tell me I’m more than what I provide.

But he doesn’t.

Because memory is a strict teacher.

A couple of years back, he lost someone really close to him. The grief didn’t ask permission, it took him apart. He cried in front of Victory, openly, uncontrollably. For a moment, she held him. Then something subtle shifted. Her eyes changed, not cruel, just… unsettled.

The pillar had bent.
The rock had cracked.

And she didn’t know how to stand beside a man who leaned.

The months that followed were thin. Full of quiet. Touch became scarce. Desire went on indefinite strike. Ukwuta learned the hard rule without it ever being spoken aloud:

You may feel pain.
Just don’t let it interfere with performance.

So now, alone in the dark driveway, he forces the panic down like a bad confession. He looks at himself in the rearview mirror. Adjusts his shirt. Straightens his shoulders. Checks his reflection. Practices the smile, the dependable and reliable one. The I’ve got this figured out smile. The kind that reassures everyone else while hollowing you out.

He walks inside.

“You’re back from work late,” Victory says, scrolling through her phone. “Did you transfer Unwana's school fees? The school sent another reminder this afternoon.”

No greeting.
No curiosity.
Just continuity.

“Yeah, babe. It’s done,” Ukwuta replies, kissing her cheek.
She accepts it the way you accept an airline Excess luggage receipt. Necessary. But oftentimes meaningless.

And in that second, it hits him: he’s not a partner, he’s a system. A structure. Something you don’t praise, you just expect to hold.

Later, in bed, the house quiet, Ukwuta reaches out. His hand traces her arm, cautious, almost apologetic. He isn’t asking for sex. He’s asking for reassurance. For warmth that isn’t earned. For proof that he still exists beyond invoices and obligations.

Victory exhales sharply. Without any iota of emotions attached.
“I’m exhausted. Your child drained me today. Let’s just sleep.”

No anger.
No cruelty.
Just pure dismissal.

He pulls his hand back immediately, shame flooding his thoughts. How dare he want? The Beggar Dynamic kicks in. You already take up space. Why ask for more? He turns to the wall, staring into the dark.

Lying there, in the house he finances, beside the woman he loves and spent millions to marry, Ukwuta arrives at a conclusion that feels less like a thought and more like a verdict:

If he disappeared tomorrow, they would grieve him.

Briefly. Respectfully.

But if he stopped providing tomorrow?

That grief would be replaced by panic.

Then resentment.
Then replacement.

He understands it now, his love is conditional. Renewable. Tied to his manly output. His daughter and the pet dog are loved for existing. He is loved for functioning.

He closes his eyes. The panic returns, louder. But he keeps quiet.

Because men like Ukwuta don't have the right to collapse.
They have to endure.

And the only place he’s allowed to fall apart
is silently, inside his own head.