Talk-to Roy

Shout out to Edwina Weah

My wife looked at me that morning with the seriousness of a prophet receiving a revelation. "Please don't do it," she said. I laughed and responded, "My dear, you don't understand. This thing is simple. I've already calculated everything." She shook her head. "I'm just telling you what I feel. Leave it alone."

But as a man blessed with confidence that sometimes exceeds wisdom, I refused to listen. I marched out of the house with the swagger of a victorious general. In my mind, I was already celebrating success. I could almost hear people congratulating me.

I waved my hand dramatically and said, "Trust me!" Those were famous last words.

A few hours later, everything collapsed.
Not gradually. Not gently. Completely!

The plan failed. The money disappeared. The opportunity vanished. I sat there staring into space. The same space where my confidence had been sitting a few hours earlier.

On my way home, I rehearsed several possible explanations:
Maybe I could say the network failed.
Maybe I could blame the economy.
Maybe I could accuse witches.
Maybe I could simply become mute.

When I got home, my wife was sitting quietly.
She looked at me. I looked at the floor. She looked at me again. I suddenly found the television very interesting.

"How did it go?" she asked.
I swallowed.
"Fine."
"Really?"
"Very fine."
She nodded slowly.

For the next three days, I became the most secretive man in Nigeria. I guarded that failure like a national security document. Whenever she came close, I changed the topic. Whenever she asked questions, I became a philosopher.
Whenever she looked at me, I found urgent work somewhere else.

The shame was too much. Not because I had failed. But because she had warned me. And she was right.

Finally, after carrying the burden long enough, I confessed.
"My dear... remember that thing you told me not to do?"
She smiled immediately.
I knew that smile.
It was the smile of someone who already knew everything.
"What happened?" she asked.
I sighed.
"It failed."

She laughed so hard. Then she held my hand and said something I'll never forget:
"I wasn't waiting to pressure you. I was waiting for you to trust me enough to tell me."

At that moment, I realized that my greatest problem was not the failure itself. It was my pride.

I was more afraid of admitting I was wrong than learning from my mistake. And strangely, the moment I confessed, the burden disappeared.

Sometimes the people who love us don't need us to be perfect. They simply need us to be honest.

The cost of saying "You were right" is usually much cheaper than the cost of proving you were right.

ROY MATTHEW
(Relationship/Marriage Counselor)
08065783427