My name is Babatunde, and for fifty-two years I lived in a beautiful Yoruba home with my wife, Iya Agba. We built a life filled with laughter, children, grandchildren, and the rich traditions of our people in Ibadan. We were respected in our compound — the perfect example of a strong, enduring marriage. But there was always one door I could never open: the attic.
From the day we moved into our new house after our wedding in 1972, Iya Agba made it clear — the attic was off-limits. “It is my private place,” she would say gently but firmly. “Do not disturb what is there.” Over the decades, I respected her wish. I told myself it was just a woman’s storage for old clothes, family heirlooms, or perhaps things she didn’t want me to see. I never forced the issue. After all, every strong Yoruba woman deserves her secrets.
But last month, after Iya Agba fell seriously ill and was hospitalised, the weight of curiosity finally overcame me. With trembling hands, I took the old key she had always guarded jealously and climbed the narrow stairs to the attic.
What I found there broke me.
The room was not filled with old boxes or forgotten clothes. It was a carefully preserved shrine-like space. In the centre stood a small wooden cot, covered with white cloth. Beside it were children’s clothes, toys, and photographs — all belonging to a baby boy. Our first child. The one she told me had died shortly after birth in 1973.
The truth was far more painful.
Iya Agba had not lost the child. She had hidden him. Our son was born with a condition our family and the larger community at the time would have seen as a curse — he was albino. In those days, many traditional beliefs associated albinism with bad omens. Her own mother and some elders had pressured her to “do what is necessary” to protect the family name. Instead of abandoning or harming the child, my wife secretly kept him alive in the attic for years, caring for him alone while pretending to the world that he had died.
She raised him in silence, singing him Yoruba lullabies, teaching him prayers, and loving him fiercely in the shadows. When he eventually passed away at age seven from health complications, she could not bring herself to let him go completely. So she turned the attic into a private memorial — a place where she could still visit, speak to, and mourn her son in peace for over five decades.
I sat on the dusty floor, surrounded by tiny clothes and faded photos, and wept like a child. All those years I thought I knew my wife completely. I never knew she carried this heavy burden alone — protecting our child from a world that would have rejected him, while protecting me from the shame and pressure of our culture.
Iya Agba is still in the hospital. When I visited her yesterday, I held her hand and whispered, “I know about the attic.” For the first time in fifty-two years, she broke down completely and cried in my arms.
Now I understand why she kept that door locked. It was not a secret from me — it was a sanctuary for a mother’s undying love.
In our Yoruba tradition, we say “A kì í fi ọmọ ẹni fẹ́nu ṣe ọ̀rọ̀” — one does not use one’s child as a topic of discussion. My wife lived that proverb to the extreme. She protected our son with her silence, her pain, and her unwavering love.
I am now left with only one question in my heart: How many other women in our generation carried similar secrets behind locked doors, sacrificing their peace so their children could have a chance at life?
This is not just my story. It is the untold story of many strong Yoruba mothers who loved in silence.
What would you have done if you discovered such a secret after fifty years of marriage? Share your thoughts in the comment section.
