“Spouse”: My Journey Through Love, Labels, and Expat Life

When Hendrie and I started dating, well-meaning individuals warned me to “make sure he was going to marry me.” Their reasoning? No decent Igbo man would marry me after frolicking with an Oyinbo.

Decency measured by dating history? Comical.

At the time, locals dating or marrying expats was still taboo. That kind of relationship, they believed, was for the “hookers,” not “decent girls” from “good families.”

I met Hendrie on Bonny Island. We worked in the same company, lived in the same residential area, and often found ourselves in the gym most evenings. We had so much in common, and our connection was undeniable. Letting a love like that go? That would’ve been madness.

Back then, I was laser-focused, working, saving, and determined to move to Canada for my master’s. I also planned to stay on for the passport. As a travel enthusiast, I knew passport privilege mattered.

As our love blossomed, people took notice. My dear friend Marianne began teaching me Dutch. She said she knew it was real. I’ll always be grateful, she helped me step into the Dutch community with more ease. That didn’t stop the traditionalists though, some Dutch spouses were downright hostile to interracial marriages.

Eventually, I moved to Canada. We tried to see each other as often as possible. But long-distance and infertility took their toll. I quit my job and joined him in Dubai where he had moved. And just like that, I became a proper expat wife.

It was the first time in my adult life that I didn’t have a job. We hadn’t discussed how things would flow financially. I was stressed. People asking me “What do you do all day?” made it worse.

The expat wives with kids seemed more relaxed. Raising children abroad was seen as valid “work.” But my childless self had to justify my existence, especially at parties. Someone would ask “So what do you do?” and others would quietly join the interrogation.

I hated the word spouse. “Oh, you’re just a spouse?” You’d hear it at corporate events, when a working woman wanted to make sure you knew she wasn’t like you.

Some spouses introduced themselves with their entire CV: “Former HR,” “Former school teacher,” “Former sales executive.” The unspoken message? I haven’t always been in this limbo, I do this for my family.

And you? What’s your excuse?

Sometimes you’d go to coffee mornings to mingle, but no one would talk to you. One person once asked if my husband had been married before, after realizing he was white. The audacity.

Why was I tolerating this?

Dubai was big. We didn’t live in a camp, so I could meet other people. A Japanese lady once invited me for tea. I thought it would be a casual chat. It wasn’t. She asked if I was trying to have a baby, if I’d take the Dutch passport, and told me she married for love and wouldn’t switch to her husband’s UK passport.

Often, I found myself chosen as the one people bragged to, assuming I had the least experience or travel background. They wanted me to sit there saying “wow” like a siren while they shared. It wasn’t always welcome when I knew a better recipe, had visited a country they hadn’t, or mentioned I’d been to a certain concert or restaurant. Even the fact that I spoke English fluently or had a master’s degree could draw surprised expressions.

I noticed something even sadder, Black and Asian women, in their quest to fit in or be seen as worthy, sometimes joined in the subtle discrimination against other minorities. It was painful and strange to witness.

Eventually, we moved to Egypt. I had learned to handle awkward silences and invasive questions.

I arrived in Cairo with my sourdough starter. When I began baking German breads, people didn’t trust it. A Nigerian girl baking German bread? Some even insisted on inspecting my kitchen for cleanliness before ordering. I let two people do it before I snapped out of that foolishness.

Still, I kept baking. My customers were happy, and business grew. Then COVID hit. Borders closed. We repatriated.

After the birth of my triplets, I spent a year in the Netherlands. Then we returned to Bonny Island, full circle.

Being an expat woman in Nigeria was… weird. Locals constantly reminded me I wasn’t white, as if whiteness were the sole marker of being an expat.

The expat community was small and tightly knit. Bonny had lost its glamour. Groceries were a nightmare.

A few times, I felt like I didn’t truly belong anywhere anymore. Not white enough to be expat, not Nigerian enough to be Nigerian.

Eventually, I dropped the labels. Nigeria is where I was born and raised, nothing can change that. But I was also living in Nigeria as a Dutch expat, with visas, green cards, and all. I could’ve joined my family with my Nigerian passport, but COVID taught me a thing or two about evacuations and travel logistics, especially with five kids.

Sometimes, I was the buffer. Expats complained about Nigerians. Nigerians vented about expats. I knew both sides. And my long history on Bonny Island gave me unique insights many lacked.

One time, an expat mom invited my daughters for a play date. She asked if they could have Ribena. I said yes. She handed them juice boxes, but added they were leftovers from a party. Her kids weren’t allowed to drink it. Instead, she warmed milk and melted chocolate chips for them.

I was confused. Offended. But determined not to appear “too sensitive” or become that angry Black woman.

I spoke to a friend. Her response? “You were definitely insulted.”

Another time, a woman brought me “snacks from home.” I was abroad and she left them in my home with my nanny. When I got back a few days later, every item was expired, by over a month. She had clearly cleaned out her pantry and passed it off as a gift.

Would she do that to a white woman?

This is a short reflection. There’ll be more expat-life posts, about packing, moving, finding housing, schooling, establishing yourself, dealing with anxiety, and starting over.

Now I’m in Doha, so maybe my Qatar reflection will come in four years or more.

I’m almost 40 now. Tongue-biting season is over.

I will be my most authentic self. No fake accent. No pretending to enjoy dull jokes. No tolerating disrespect. No nonsense.

I know now: I don’t need wicked people to like me.

And I remain forever grateful to the angels I’ve met on this journey, the ones who truly loved and cared.

Let’s do this again soon.