Everyone in the compound knew that Kelechi and Okey argued often. Their fights were loud, and dramatic with slamming of doors and raised voices. Neighbours paused their cooking to listen. Children snickered. Even the mango tree in the compound trembled whenever their quarrels erupted.
“Marriage is not for the weak,” Mama Ifunanya always said, shaking her head.
“They are becoming comical with their almost everyday quarrel.” Papa Chukwudi would add. “ You would think one of them would leave.”
But, after every storm, Kelechi and Okey stayed together.
They had been married for four years. In the early days, love was sweet; late-night laughter, hand holding, gentle touches. But as responsibilities grew, so did tension. Money issues, long work hours, and unspoken expectations.
Instead of talking, they fought. Instead of listening, they shouted.
Okey believed the only way he would be heard was by raising his voice.
Kelechi believed matching his volume meant she was standing her ground.
Shouting became their language.
One evening, their argument started over something small; unwashed dishes.
“You were home all day!” Okey snapped.
“And you were gone all day!” Kelechi fired back.
“So?”
“So you could at least appreciate what I do!”
As their voices rose, plates rattled in the kitchen. The compound fell silent and listened as usual.
Kelechi’s younger sister, Chioma, who had come to stay with them for a few weeks had become a quiet observer and rarely interfered. But as the argument reached its peak, she stood up from her chair.
“Please,” she said firmly, “can I say something?”
Okey and Kelechi froze.
Okey scoffed. “This is between husband and wife.”
Chioma didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t argue. She simply met his eyes. “I know,” she said. “But sometimes spectators see more than the participants.”
Kelechi folded her arms, still breathing hard. “What do you want to say?”
Chioma took a deep breath.
“Do you both think you can fix your issue by shouting?” She looked at them. When they remained silent, she continued. “I don't think so. When you shout and argue, you hurt each other more. Shouting strikes the fire of your frustration. When you have control over your anger, it fixes things.”
“Control?” Okey laughed bitterly. “So we should just pretend?”
“No,” Chioma replied. “You should pause and control your anger.”
Silence followed. Not the angry kind. The uncomfortable kind.
Chioma continued. “Control is not silence. Control is choosing not to hurt others when you are angry. Control is speaking with purpose, not pressure.”
Kelechi looked away. Okey rubbed his jaw.
That night, for the first time in years, their argument ended in silence.
The next few days were strange.
Whenever tension rose, Okey felt the urge to raise his voice. But Chioma’s words echoed in his mind: Control is choosing not to hurt others when you are angry. Instead of shouting, he would walk away.
Kelechi noticed it too. When irritation bubbled up, she paused before speaking. Sometimes she still snapped—but softer. Less fire. More thoughtful.
One evening, while cooking Kelechi burned the rice. The smell brought her husband to the kitchen.
Okey opened his mouth… then closed it. “It’s okay,” he said quietly. “We’ll manage.”
Kelechi stared at him. “No lecture. No shouting?”
“No,” Okey answered.
Her chest tightened. Not with anger this time—but with relief.
Weeks passed. The compound noticed the change.
“No more cinema,” Mama Ifunanya whispered.
“Did they move out?” Papa Chukwudi joked.
Kelechi and Okey have discovered that control is not weakness but strength.
One night, they finally talked about their anger issues. No raised voices. Just honesty.
And honesty, unlike noise, builds.
“I feel overwhelmed,” Kelechi admitted. “Sometimes I shout because I feel invisible.”
Okey nodded slowly. “I feel pressured. I shout because I feel like I’m losing control.”
They understand that noise is easy. Control is hard. But control lasts
Not long after their honest talk, life tested them.
Okey lost his job. The house felt heavy. Bills piled up. Worry filled every corner. The old Okey would have exploded. The old Kelechi would have defended.
But now, they chose control.
Instead of yelling, they planned.
Instead of blaming, they supported.
Instead of fighting, they leaned on each other.
Some nights were still tense. Control didn’t remove pain—it guided it.
Months later Okey got another job and laughter returned to the house. Not loud, dramatic laughter, but warm, steady laughter.
The mango tree still stood. The compound was still busy. Life still brought challenges.
But now, when disagreements came, they settled them with calm, not shouts.
