One of the most romantic moments I ever witnessed was in a kitchen. My childhood best friend's kitchen, to be exact. Her 12th birthday party was winding down, and icing-smeared cups and plates were piled high in the sink. Perched on a barstool, licking my own fork clean, I watched my best friend's father gently tap her mother's shoulder to take over dishwashing duty. That's when I began drafting what would become a lifelong mental checklist. Not only would my future husband willingly do the dishes, but he'd fold laundry, iron his own shirts, and split cooking and driving duties too. This budding list seemed simple enough, but it stood in stark contrast to the dynamics of my own Nigerian family's domestic partnership.
If you're wondering how dishwashing translates to romance, consider this. Throughout my childhood, my parents marked most holidays, milestones, and major life events with a dinner party, inviting other local Nigerian immigrants into our Maryland home. And at each party, my mother was always the one who spent hours clearing and washing dozens of dishes and packing the guests' to-go containers, while my father and the other husbands lounged in the study a few feet away, murmuring about national and global politics over glasses of chilled beer. Once I dared to ask her if she minded doing the chores while my father relaxed. "Why would I mind?" my mother asked, genuinely confused and annoyed. "This is my part. This is what I do." Although she didn't specify, I understood what my mother meant—that this is what she does because this is what an African wife does.
 One of the most romantic moments I ever witnessed was in a kitchen. My childhood best friend's kitchen, to be exact. Her 12th birthday party was winding down, and icing-smeared cups and plates were piled high in the sink. Perched on a barstool, licking my own fork clean, I watched my best friend's father gently tap her mother's shoulder to take over dishwashing duty. That's when I began drafting what would become a lifelong mental checklist. Not only would my future husband willingly do the dishes, but he'd fold laundry, iron his own shirts, and split cooking and driving duties too. This budding list seemed simple enough, but it stood in stark contrast to the dynamics of my own Nigerian family's domestic partnership.
If you're wondering how dishwashing translates to romance, consider this. Throughout my childhood, my parents marked most holidays, milestones, and major life events with a dinner party, inviting other local Nigerian immigrants into our Maryland home. And at each party, my mother was always the one who spent hours clearing and washing dozens of dishes and packing the guests' to-go containers, while my father and the other husbands lounged in the study a few feet away, murmuring about national and global politics over glasses of chilled beer. Once I dared to ask her if she minded doing the chores while my father relaxed. "Why would I mind?" my mother asked, genuinely confused and annoyed. "This is my part. This is what I do." Although she didn't specify, I understood what my mother meant—that this is what she does because this is what an African wife does. |
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