It was one of those lazy Sunday evenings in our Ikeja flat, the kind where NEPA had been merciful and the generator stayed quiet. My husband, Tunde and I were on the veranda, fanning ourselves with old newspapers while our two teenagers argued over the remote inside. Then my niece Ada, 24 and freshly out of NYSC, stormed through the gate looking like Lagos traffic had personally offended her.
“Aunty Yemi, these suitors are something else!” she collapsed into the plastic chair beside me. “This guy from church keeps calling, bringing small gifts, saying all the right things. But something feels… off. How did you know Uncle Tunde was different? Everybody was pressuring you to settle down too, abi?”
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Tunde chuckled from his seat, the same quiet laugh that still makes my shoulders relax twenty years later. I looked at him, then at Ada, and thought, This is the perfect moment. “Let me tell you our real story,” I said, handing her a glass of cold drink. “Because when Tunde first showed up in 2006, I was 26, working in marketing at a small agency in Ogba, living in my parents’ house in Agege, and tired of the ‘when are you getting married?’ questions at every family owambe. Suitors came and went. But Tunde? He came with signs I couldn’t trash, even when my head tried to talk me out of it.”
We met at my cousin’s traditional wedding in Ikeja. I was one of the aso-ebi girls, running around making sure the jollof didn’t finish before the in-laws arrived. Tunde was the quiet engineer friend of the groom, helping carry coolers because “the boys are busy taking photos.” No flashy entrance. Just steady hands and a calm “How can I help?”
Consistent communication and keeping promises.
The very next day he called exactly when he said he would—“even with Lagos traffic and NEPA doing their usual nonsense,” he joked. No ghosting. No “I was busy” excuses that stretched into weeks. Words matched actions. I’d had a previous suitor who promised to pick me up for a date and showed up three hours late without a single text. Tunde never did that. Practical lesson? Watch what happens when life gets messy. Does he still show up?
Respect for your boundaries, time, and ‘no’.
I was swamped with a big client pitch that month. When he asked me out for lunch at a quiet bukateria near my office, I said, “Next week maybe—I’m buried.” He replied, “No pressure. Handle your hustle first. I’ll be here.” No sulking. No guilt trip. In our culture, some guys think persistence means pushing past “no.” Tunde understood my time was valuable. That respect made me feel safe, not chased.
Ada leaned forward, eyes wide. “Aunty, some of these guys get angry when you say you’re busy!”
I nodded. “Exactly. That’s why you don’t trash the ones who don’t.”
Genuine interest in your family, background, and daily life.
By the third week, Tunde wasn’t just asking about my day—he wanted to know how my mother’s arthritis was, why my father loved politics so much, and what my little brother was studying in school. He remembered details. One evening he showed up with a small pack of the ointment my mum liked. Not to impress my parents (though it did), but because he’d listened.
Strong, positive ties with his own family.
When he finally invited me to his parents’ house in Maryland for Sunday lunch, I saw the respect he gave his mother and the easy banter with his siblings. No hidden beef. No “my family is complicated” stories that never got resolved. That told me he understood family isn’t just a word—it’s daily work.
Financial responsibility.
We were both young hustlers. Tunde drove an old Corolla that had seen better days, but he was saving for a plot of land and never hid the numbers when we talked future. No fake lifestyle. No dodging questions about money. One weekend Lagos fuel scarcity hit hard; he still made our date by trekking part of the way rather than cancel. He planned ahead. That steadiness mattered more than any designer shirt.
Calm and mature in handling disagreements or stress.
Our first real disagreement was over something small—where to eat during a heavy rain. Traffic was madness, horns blaring. Instead of snapping, Tunde pulled over, laughed, and said, “Okay, Plan B: we buy roasted plantain from that woman under the bridge and eat in the car like teenagers.” No shouting. No blame. That calm became our anchor through bigger storms later.
Alignment or respect for shared values like faith and family roles.
We both attended Redeemed Christian Church of God, but it wasn’t just Sundays. Tunde joined us for family devotion when he visited. He never made me feel my faith was “too much.” He respected the role family plays in our culture—the elders, the prayers, the “come and see” visits.
Supports your career without control.
When I got a promotion that meant longer hours and weekend brainstorms, some guys had complained. Tunde celebrated with me, helped me rehearse presentations, and even cooked indomie on late nights. He saw my dreams as ours, not competition.
Kindness and respect to others.
I watched how he treated the office security man, the market women selling pure water, and my younger cousins who wanted to play rough. Genuine, no show. Kindness isn’t loud, but it’s steady.
Sign ten: willingness to meet your friends and family at the right time.
He didn’t rush or hide. When the time felt right, he came for the formal “come and see” with my uncles, sat through the long talks, answered every question with respect. No dodging.
Accountability.
One time he forgot an important promise about attending my office end-of-year party. He didn’t make excuses—he apologised properly, explained what happened, and made it right with flowers and a proper date the next weekend. He owned it.
Clear but patient intentions about future, marriage, kids.
Six months in, he was honest: “I see marriage with you, Yemi. I want kids who will know both our families. But I want us to build slowly, the right way.” No pressure, just clarity.
Sense of humour and enjoying simple moments.
We laughed a lot—over burnt rice, power outages, even when the car broke down on Third Mainland Bridge. Joy in the ordinary.
Patience and resilience in real-life challenges.
The economy was tough back then too. Tunde lost a contract once. Instead of despair, he adjusted, prayed with me, and kept moving. That resilience carried us through later job losses and hospital bills when the children were small.
Emotional safety—you feel heard, safe, and yourself.
Around Tunde I never had to perform. I could cry about work stress, dream out loud, or stay quiet. He made space for the real me.
Ada was quiet now, staring at her drink. Tunde reached over and squeezed my hand—the same hand that still feels like home after all these years.
We got married in 2008 after proper traditional and white wedding. The early years weren’t all jollof and music. There were nights the rent was tight, in-law expectations felt heavy, and two toddlers tested our patience. But those fifteen signs we didn’t trash? They became the foundation.
Fast-forward to today. Last month Tunde’s engineering firm had a major setback—contract delayed by government wahala, income dipped. Old me might have panicked. But we sat down like we always do, talked money openly (sign five), listened without blame (sign fifteen), and made a family budget together. No shouting. No hiding. We even laughed about the old Corolla days. The kids saw us model what healthy looks like.
