My Husband Brought Home Another ‘Husband’ To Take His Place

I don’t know whether to laugh or cry when I think about how everything started. Sometimes I lie on my bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering if this is how marriages lose their spark, not through cheating, not through fights, not through disrespect, but through a tiny pink machine sitting quietly in my bedside drawer like an obedient choir member.

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After our first child, something changed in my husband. It wasn’t visible at first. It was subtle. The kind of change that sneaks in through the crack under the door. My husband stopped touching me the way he used to. Those early morning cuddles disappeared. The playful taps on my backside vanished. Even at night, he slept like a log suddenly afraid of being touched.

I thought maybe I was overthinking. Maybe childbirth had changed me. Maybe my body wasn’t as “appealing” as before. Maybe the stress of parenting was wearing him down. But after months of begging, hinting, seducing, bribing, threatening, crying and receiving nothing but excuses, I realized we had crossed into dangerous territory.

One night, I told him point blank: “Ebo, have you forgotten who we are? When we were dating, you used to do it as if you were competing in an Olympic sport. But now I have to practically book an appointment to even hug my own husband.”

He sighed the sigh of a man carrying Ghana on his head and said, “Araba, we’re no longer dating and we are no longer who we used to be when dating. Why are you expecting young people’s energy at this time when we have old people problems?”

My husband is 40. Not 78.

We argued so much we decided to create a timetable for intimacy thinking that would resolve our problems. He took a pen a nd a sheet and asked, “Which days do you want it? Be realistic.” I answered, “Monday, Wednesday, Thursday, Saturday, I want three rounds there because we will be home and relaxed. On Sunday, we can cuddle and when I’m in the mood, I will give you head.” He looked at me as if realizing he married a dragon. He said, “I asked you to be realistic. This isn’t realistic. Two times a week is fine.”

He wanted it twice a week. I wanted it as many as the soul would demand. We couldn’t agree on the timetable so we couldn’t resolve our problems. The neglect continued. The tension grew. The arguments intensified. Sometimes we could go a whole week without speaking simply because he refused to “perform his duties.”

I started suspecting he was giving the energy to someone else. And he started suspecting that if he didn’t act fast, I would cheat. I wasn’t going to cheat. I wasn’t designed to get it from anywhere just because I wanted it. I’m very faithful to the core. The reason I always demand what’s due me.

So one day he said: “What if I buy you a ‘sezz’ toy?”

I almost fainted. “How can you replace yourself with plastic?” I protested. “Me, I want you, a living human being, not a rechargeable thing.” We fought about that too. Everything became a fight. I even went to buy herbal medicine—ginger, honey, powdered roots—everything that promised “revival.” Ebo refused to take those medicines. He said nothing was physically wrong with him.

I thought he was lying. He thought I was desperate. We both feared we were losing something essential. And then one evening, Ebo came home holding a small paper bag with the confidence of a man returning from war with a trophy. He placed it on the bed. “I bought it,” he said.

Bought what, please?

Before I could complain, he added gently, “Let’s learn how to use it together. I’ll help you.” And something in my spirit softened. So I accepted the “intruder” into my home. That very night, we tried it together. My God. Oh. My. God. The sensations! I wasn’t prepared. Even Ebo wasn’t prepared. He held the toy like a man holding a remote control, fully invested, fully present, fully committed. And when it worked, oh, it worked too well. We both looked at each other, stunned, as if we’ve discovered something new.

The next night, we used it again. And again. And again. Suddenly, the fights stopped. The tension melted. Even my skin started glowing. You can ask anybody. And that’s how trouble began.

One afternoon when Ebo was not home, I decided to try the toy by myself “just to see.” That was the beginning of the end. The more I used it, the more I realized something terrifying. The toy never got tired. It never had excuses. It never said “I’m stressed.” It never rolled over to sleep. It delivered. Every time and on time. It has become my second husband without asking to be.

Now, whenever I try to initiate intimacy and Ebo says, “I’m tired,” I simply smile, open my drawer, and bring out my faithful companion. When he tries to join me, I raise my palm gently, “Please, you’re distracting me.”

Do you know what it means for a wife to tell her husband he’s distracting her from pleasure? Even I shocked myself. Ebo now looks like a man fighting for a position he created himself. He’s trying to be more active. He’s trying to reclaim his throne but the sad truth is that he has never been able to give me what that tiny device gives. Never. And therein lies the danger.

Slowly, without knowing, I started choosing the toy over him. I started preferring the certainty of plastic to the unpredictability of flesh. Ebo became the one chasing. I became the one making excuses. We switched roles and the marriage quietly shifted under our noses.

Recently, when Ebo touches me, I feel nothing. No spark. No heat. No interest. Sometimes, when he kisses me, my mind drifts to the drawer and that scares me. It scares me because I love my husband. Truly. I love the father of my child. I love the man who once made me feel like I was his whole world. But the emotional connection we once had is slipping, and I fear one day the only thing tying us together will be just the child.

Is There A Perfect One Out There For Everyone?

The toy has solved one problem but created a bigger one. Now I lie awake wondering: “How do I choose my husband again? How do I turn off this new attachment before it ruins my marriage completely?” I still laugh sometimes at the irony. Ebo brought the toy to save us and now, I’m fighting to save Ebo from the toy.