How I Became a Domestic Diva (and Fried My Fear with Akara)

A few years ago, I set a personal goal: to become a domestic diva.

Yes, me. The queen of delegation. The woman who could negotiate policy but broke into a sweat at the thought of shopping for tomatoes.

Market Phobia and My Deal-Breaker

Long before marriage, I had help. Domestic staff handled chores—especially my most dreaded task: open market shopping.

As marriage approached, I sat my fiancé down and warned him.

“I hate going to the market. The haggling, the shouting, the jostling—it drains my spirit.”

To my surprise, he agreed.

He saw through the toxic expectation that a “good wife” must wade through muddy markets in rented boots, clutching a bargain like a trophy.
Score! I had bagged a Christian, swimming-enthusiast, handsome husband who wasn’t threatened by my market aversion.

6 Kids, 13 Years of Domestic Bliss

Twelve years and six children later, my aversion hadn’t changed—but my ability to juggle housekeepers had improved.

Then, I found her: the ultimate housekeeper.
She stayed with us for 13 whole years. Life was good.

Until she traveled. Or fell sick. Or had to take a break. Then my system crashed.
Even making lunch gave me headaches.

It wasn’t that I couldn’t do the work. I just hated feeling helpless.

The Turning Point: Dependency

I’ve always loathed dependency—financial or emotional.
The fact that a pile of dishes or a market trip could ruin my day? That had to change.

So I made a decision. I said it aloud one day:

“I intend to become a domestic diva.”

My friend blinked.

“Why would you want to do that?”

She didn’t get it.
It wasn’t about the chores. It was about fear. About facing it down. About reclaiming agency.

Fate Intervened

Then life took an unexpected turn.

We embarked on a two-year family “gap year.”
Our routine was disrupted. My Nanny-housekeeper, our anchor, retired.

A few months later, she passed away in a tragic accident.

We were devastated. But because she had left a few months before, we had already begun adjusting.

So I rolled up my sleeves and leaned in.

Bush Markets, Banana Leaves, and Breakthroughs

I braved market trips.
I dragged a few of my teenage daughters along.
We haggled. We got shoved. We survived.

I even tackled the bush markets—where everything is dirt cheap, and the shouting is minimal.
Monthly visits, a friend in tow. Progress.

Still, there was one mountain left to climb: Moi-Moi.

Yes, I love Moi-Moi. Especially the leaf-wrapped kind.
But the effort? Too much.

Until one weekend, I decided to prove something to myself.

Mission Moi-Moi: Accomplished

I returned from my morning workout.
Instead of lounging, I got to work.
Beans soaked. Leaves washed. Moi-moi steamed to perfection.

When the kids returned, there it was—homemade moi-moi in banana leaves.

No fanfare. No help.
Just intention, grit, and action.

The Final Test: Akara

Then came the akara moment. The ultimate test.

That morning, after Tai Chi and before going out, I spontaneously decided to make breakfast for my family.

I soaked, peeled, blended, seasoned, and half-fried the bean cakes before anyone else entered the kitchen.

Later, as I passed the mirror, I caught my reflection.

“You did it. You beat that fear. You, my dear, are a domestic diva.”

Touchdown.

What I’ve learned is that this wasn’t about chores.
It was about choice. Mastery. Facing what scares you. Reclaiming ground you once surrendered to fear or convenience.

To Every Woman Who’s Ever Said “I Can’t…” You can.

You don’t have to become the market-trudging martyr you feared.
But you can become the kind of woman who isn’t afraid of anything—including akara oil burns and bargaining for ugu.

You’re not just a homemaker. You’re a home builder. A diva in your own right. And you get to define what that means.

 

If you liked this piece, you will enjoy the book Helpmeet

Read more Domestic Diva

^{Ovie Farraday is a wife and mother of five (including 2 teenagers and a pre-teen) living in a sub-Saharan West African suburb.  She is married to an Architect and entrepreneur. Ovie Farraday is a pen-name.}