Real Stories: My parents forced me to break up with the love of my life because he’s Yoruba

I met Jide in my second year at university. He was my best friend, my safe space. We planned a future together, down to the names of our children. For once in my life, I thought love would conquer all.

But where I’m from, love isn’t always about love. Tribe, family politics and unspoken boundaries come to play. I learned that the hard way.

The first time my mother found out about Jide, she didn’t scold me. She simply sighed and said, “Can’t you find someone from our tribe?” That was her way of warning me. Weeks later, my father summoned me into his study. He didn’t mince words: “Marriage is about family, not feelings. You cannot marry a Yoruba man.” His voice was cold, final, like he was pronouncing a sentence.

I thought they were bluffing. I thought they’d see how happy he made me, how he respected me more than anyone else ever had. But instead, the pressure escalated. My uncles called from the village, my aunties whispered that I was “disgracing the family,” and my mother cried in front of me, asking if I wanted to “kill her” by marrying outside our tribe.

“Why was she so dramatic?” I thought.

I fought. God knows I fought. Jide and I made plans to elope, to start fresh where no one could touch us. But then, my parents threatened that if I continued with him, I’d be disowned. I’d lose my father’s financial support, my education, and my place in the family. The choice wasn’t fair, but it was clear.

So I broke the heart of the only man I’ve ever truly loved. I remember his face the day I told him it was over. He didn’t say a word, but his silence was so loud. 

He simply left. That night, I cried myself to sleep.

Now I’m engaged to another man, one my parents proudly approved. He’s kind, but he doesn’t set my soul on fire. I smile in family pictures, I nod through wedding preparations, but inside I am empty. Every night I wonder if I’ll ever forgive my parents, or myself, for killing the one love that was truly mine.

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