Her husband leaves at 7am and gets home at 9pm. He doesn’t close late. He closes at 4pm and spends the rest of the night in “the chamber” with friends: gisting, joking, escaping the noise and stress of home.
She couldn’t say anything. He was hooked on it, and she didn’t know how to bring it up.
One night at 10pm he knocked, and she blurted out, “Come in, guest.”
He snapped. “How am I a guest in my own house?”
She didn’t flinch. “Because only a guest spends less than 10 hours at home, even on weekends. You’re here like a stranger.”
He was stunned. On his bed that night, two words kept ringing: guest and stranger. Was she blackmailing him? No. Was she lying? Also no.
That’s what analysis does. It holds up a mirror and shows you yourself, the raw, unfiltered, in a way you’ve avoided seeing. It stings. It feels like an attack on the version of you that believes you’re doing fine.
But that discomfort is why words cut deeper than a sword. Criticism without that truth leaves you blind. And a blind man can’t become better.
Bagudu Mohammed
bagudumohammed15197@gmail.com
