They have cried oceans no one sees, screamed in silence, and swallowed insults sharper than thorns—yet African mothers stay. Not out of ignorance, not always out of weakness, but because they believe God still walks the aisles of broken homes. Because they believe no sacrifice is too sacred for their children’s tomorrow. Because they have mastered the art of bleeding without staining their family names. Can Gen Z ladies exhibit this life style?
Across villages and metropolises, millions of mothers are caught between covenant and chaos. Some are married to drunkards whose tongues turn toxic with alcohol. Others endure men entangled in the suffocating grip of marijuana and moral decay. Yet these women remain—not because they lack doors to escape, but because they refuse to let the devil evict them from a home God once ordained. They anchor their souls in silent travail, raising altars in bedrooms, pouring oil on pillows, and anointing their children’s foreheads with midnight tears.
“Many are the afflictions of the righteous, but the Lord delivereth him out of them all” (Psalm 34:19). This verse is not theory for them—it is survival. When they say “God will do it,” they are not being superstitious. They are being prophetic. For these women, faith is not poetic—it is practical, fierce, and daily confidence in Christ Jesus.
To the mothers enduring a high husband on hemp or a broken man lost in bottles, yet climb you from 10pm to 6 am, you are not forgotten. Heaven sees your cry behind closed doors. “Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning” (Psalm 30:5). Your night may feel endless, but beloved, dawn is coming. God does not ignore intercessions soaked in love. The Lord who changed Saul into Paul, who restored the demoniac of Gadara, and who healed Nabal’s household because of Abigail’s wisdom, shall remember you.
Do not let shame mute your prayers. The shame is not yours. Your husband’s addiction is not your cross to carry, but your love can become the ladder he climbs out of darkness. Your prayer, your silence, your decision to stay—when God says “stay” —is not madness, it is ministry.
“A wise woman buildeth her house: but the foolish plucketh it down with her hands” (Proverbs 14:1). Your wisdom in this season is not merely intellectual—it is spiritual. You build with silence, with long-suffering, with intercession, with strategic submission, and when necessary, with godly confrontation. You are not helpless. You are heaven’s ambassador to a man who has lost his way.
Dr. Paul Enenche captured this divine paradox when he sang: “Lord, I am your project in progress…,.” Dear mother, you are God’s project—and so is your husband. While you cry out for his transformation, never forget your own healing. The altar you raise for your family must not extinguish the fire of your personal joy. For the sake of your children, do not die while trying to save everyone else.
Beloved woman of God, God did not design you to be a sacrificial lamb forever. Jesus already played that role. Endure, yes, but also be discerning. Love, yes, but also set boundaries. Forgive, yes, but never become a victim of endless abuse under the disguise of covenant. “Be wise as serpents and harmless as doves” (Matthew 10:16). You are a mother, not a martyr of man’s irresponsibility.
To you who endure chronic insult, drunkenness, addiction, infidelity, and psychological torment, let me say this: You are not alone. Many women before you have walked this furnace and emerged refined. Sarah waited on Abraham’s confusion. Abigail navigated Nabal’s folly. Hannah bore Peninnah’s mockery. Yet, they prevailed. You too will rise. The furnace that burns others will refine you. The storm that shook others will anoint you.
Prophet TB Joshua once exhorted, “Bitterness is a poison to your soul, but forgiveness is the perfume of the Spirit.” Do not let your husband’s failure fertilize your own frustration. Raise your voice in the spirit. When the natural fails, warfare begins. Sometimes the altar is louder than a lawyer. Sometimes, you intercede not because he deserves it, but because your children do.
But hear this also: God is not unjust. If you must leave to preserve your life or sanity, leave with your head high and your faith unbroken. There is no virtue in dying in a house where love has been murdered and buried. God can rebuild from ruins. Separation is not always rebellion; sometimes it is redirection. But do it prayerfully, not spitefully. Ask the Holy Spirit—not your emotions—to guide you.
To every mother reading this: Arise, woman of Zion! You are not invisible. You are not weak. You are the priestess of your home, the intercessor of your children’s destiny, the stabilizer of a fragile generation. “Strength and honour are her clothing; and she shall rejoice in time to come” (Proverbs 31:25). Your reward is not just in heaven. God will raise sons who honour you and daughters who imitate your strength.
Do not let society label you. Do not let pain rewrite your personality. Do not let delay redefine your dignity. You are not the sum of your husband’s failures. You are not a shadow behind a man’s darkness. You are light, salt, flame, and fragrance. You are a prophetic warrior dressed in wrappers.
Your worth is eternal. Your cries are archived in heaven. Your hope shall not be cut off.
And I leave you with this prayer:
May the Lord uphold you where your strength is failing.
May He reward you in places where men have mocked you.
May your children rise and call you blessed.
May joy return to your marriage like rainfall to a dry land.
May your husband be delivered, restored, and transformed by fire.
And may you live long enough to laugh again—not just in spirit, but in soul and skin. For prayers and counseling. Kindly send me a DM. God bless you
You, mother, are the true revival we’ve been praying for.
– Inah Boniface Ocholi writes from Ayah – Igalamela/Odolu LGA, Kogi state.
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