From Career Queen to Domestic Diva: Rewriting the Chore Story

March 2015. The washing machine broke down. So, there I was—sleeves rolled up, hands deep in soapy water. I hadn’t washed clothes by hand in years, except maybe the occasional lingerie. My “old school” laundry moment felt like stepping into a time capsule. I remembered the Washman who used to pick up and drop off my clothes each week. I remembered dry-cleaning nearly everything else. And then my mother’s voice came to me.

“A woman needs to know how to do housework. Even if you can afford help, what happens the day they don’t show up?”

At the time, I thought: You wait until they resume. What else? But here I was, years later, confronting the very thing I had been avoiding all my adult life.

A Life Lived Everywhere But the Kitchen

I’ve done it all—career girl, global traveller, aid worker, government liaison, missionary, student in a foreign land. I’ve moved through boardrooms and briefing rooms with ease. But I had never fully immersed myself in one role: homemaker. Before marriage, I lived the dream. A Washman for laundry. A house help for everything else. I didn’t cook. I didn’t mop. I didn’t market. Even after marriage, I remained somewhat insulated—until pregnancy made it clear that help was a necessity, not a luxury. We hired a Nanny-Housekeeper, and she became part of the furniture for 13 years. And I? I stayed focused on my career.

Leaving It All—Then Coming Back

When I retired early to focus on family, I imagined leisure: gym mornings, poolside lunches, weekly massages. It was blissful—for about six months. Then boredom hit hard. So I chased another dream—a doctorate abroad. But visa challenges brought me back home. To fill the void, I launched a website and began writing. Two years later, the thought returned:

Why do you keep running from your home?

I argued with myself. I did take care of my home—by managing people who did the actual work. Did I have to scrub floors or haggle in the market to prove anything?

The Fear Behind the Mop

It wasn’t laziness. I knew how to clean, cook, and shop. What I feared was what it represented: a loss of identity, the beginning of decline into the type of woman I never wanted to become. I once told my fiancé (now husband):

“I will never be the woman who drags through Mile 12 in muddy boots to save ₦200. If that’s your idea of a good wife, tell me now.”

Bless him, he stayed. And so began our life—with help. The one thing I never did? Go to the market. That was a non-negotiable.

Thinking Out Loud: The Diva Awakens

The day I told a friend I wanted to become a domestic diva, I surprised myself. I didn’t have a plan. Just a burning desire to face the one thing that scared me: housework. Not because I couldn’t do it, but because it echoed my mother’s teachings. Her relentless emphasis on chores. Her belief that womanhood was proven with a broom, a pot, and a spotless home. Maybe I avoided it all these years for one reason:

I didn’t want her to be right.

So now, I’m learning. Slowly. Rewriting what domesticity means for me. Not as a fallback. Not as failure. But as power reclaimed. I’m learning to see the home not as a prison, but as a canvas. A space where I can bring intention, beauty, and purpose. I’m not trading ambition for apron strings. I’m expanding the meaning of womanhood on my own terms. I am becoming a domestic diva—and I’m proud of it. 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.}