When the Blame is Misplaced

In 2010, I gained admission into Olabisi Onabanjo University to study Business Administration.

I had lived all my life as an introvert under the watchful eyes of my parents, so the admission marked my first real taste of independence. I could finally go places without having to seek permission from parents who had never quite allowed me to socialize.

I was ready to fully explore the life I had been deprived of, no thanks to their “highhandedness.”

Even as a fresher, I became fond of attending every social event. There was hardly a Friday I didn’t go out clubbing. Before long, I was introduced to alcohol by friends and eventually started smoking weed.

I was naturally intelligent — my background in some of the best private schools before university had laid a solid academic foundation. As a result, I didn’t have to do much to pass. I ended every semester with relatively good results, so as far as my parents were concerned, I was doing well in school.

I was a social freak and quite popular on campus until my 300 level, when I set eyes on the most beautiful girl I had ever seen. She had come around with some of her church friends to distribute tracts and invite me to their church.

Although I drank and smoked, womanizing was never my thing. But seeing this damsel gave me butterflies, there was something uniquely different about her. There was nothing I wouldn’t do to win her over, and attending a church service seemed like a small price to pay.

Eventually, I honored her invitation and quite enjoyed my first service at her church. It was a youth church, and I was inspired to see so many young people like me passionate about their faith and actively serving.

After the service, she approached me to thank me for coming, asked if I enjoyed the service, and whether I’d love to fellowship with them again.

Surely, I wouldn’t mind going to church every day of my life if it meant seeing and talking to her again, so I obliged.

Adeola wasn’t just beautiful on the outside; she was also virtuous, and that made her even more attractive. She kept following up, inviting me regularly to church services and encouraging me to take my walk with God seriously.

I soon found myself being drawn into her world. I rededicated my life to God and became such a committed church boy that I could no longer tell if it was my love for Adeola or a genuine love for God driving this transformation.

She knew about my past but never judged me. Rather, I saw the joy in her eyes knowing she had been the vessel God used for my transformation. We became the best of friends.

Our friendship continued after school. Although it was obvious I loved her, she didn’t accept my proposal until she was sure I had fully turned a new leaf, with no trace of being drawn back to my former life. Eventually, she agreed to be my girlfriend, and three years after graduation, we got married.

Asking Adeola to marry me still feels like the second-best decision of my life, the first being rededicating my life to God. She’s loving, caring, understanding, and brings so much joy and peace into my life.

However, this marks the sixth year of our marriage without a child. Initially, it was a joint decision to wait two years before having children, just so we could bond better and enjoy our relationship.

By the third year, due to subtle suggestions from family members, we began making deliberate efforts to conceive, but none was successful.

In our fourth year, we decided to explore medical options, just to be sure we were both fine. It was during this process that I received the most devastating news of my life.

I was diagnosed with low sperm count, a condition that makes it medically challenging for me to father a child.

Further examinations revealed that excessive alcohol intake and smoking are major contributing factors to male infertility — my past had come back to haunt me.

While I feel deserving of the consequences of my past, I can’t say the same for Adeola.

She has lived her life cautiously, cultured and properly raised in the faith.

Being a virtuous woman of faith, Adeola has remained strong, believing the medical report is not a dead end for us. She constantly reminds me that nothing is impossible for God and assures me that we will receive our miracle.

Still, I often find myself struggling with the subtle stigma in society that labels her as a barren woman when, in truth, I am the cause of our infertility challenges.

Even in church, I’ve watched as members and leaders, out of genuine concern, organize special prayers and programs for “barren women,” which she attends graciously. But there are no such programs for men, yet I know ours isn’t the only home where the man is the one struggling with infertility.

Even in an evolving society that strives to be more sensitive, I can’t help but acknowledge the injustice women face concerning infertility. They are almost always the first to be blamed by society, the church, and extended family, without anyone stopping to consider that the man might be the issue.

Perhaps the reason the prayers of the church have gone unanswered in many homes is because they’re focusing on the wrong person — the woman.

And those friends and relatives who offer terrible counsel, suggesting that I be unfaithful to my wife just to get another woman pregnant, need to understand that, in many cases, they’re speaking to the wrong person entirely.

Yes, I owe no one an explanation about my medical condition, but I sometimes feel like a coward when I hear the whispers, see the pitying looks, and watch as my wife carries a shame that doesn’t belong to her.

Some days, I carry the weight quietly, not because I’m strong, but because I don’t know how to share a truth that still breaks me.

I watch Adeola endure the stares, the unsolicited prayers, and the silent accusations, knowing fully well she’s innocent of the burden she bears.

And that hurts more than my diagnosis ever could.

It’s a strange kind of pain, to be the reason for her shame, yet be unable to shield her from it.

But if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that love, real love, shows up even when answers don’t.

So we wait, not just for a child, but for a world that will stop blaming women for battles they didn’t start.

And until that day comes, we’ll keep lifting our eyes to God.