At first, I thought it was just her way of feeling clean.

My wife, Amaka, had always been soft like that — soft in her movements, soft in her voice, soft in the way she placed things carefully like they could break from hearing harsh words. We’d been married for five months, and every evening followed the same rhythm: she’d eat, laugh small, press her phone a bit, then go in for her second bath of the day.

Even on days when she hadn’t gone out.

Even on days when we didn’t touch.

Even when I begged.

She would come out smelling like the type of woman that belonged in perfume ads — skin damp, towel wrapped neatly, that same hibiscus-and-vanilla scent floating behind her. She would climb into bed, back always facing me, say, “Goodnight, baby,” and drift off before I could reach for her.

I told myself not to rush her. That maybe she needed time.

The truth is — I was scared of spoiling what we had.

My name is Femi. Thirty-one. I design kitchens for a living. Not rich, but I know how to make a woman feel safe. That’s all I ever wanted — someone to come home to, someone who wouldn’t make me feel like I was too much or not enough. When Amaka came into my life, I thought I had finally arrived.

We met at a furniture showroom. She was looking for a new reading chair, and I was fixing a broken drawer. Her first words to me were: “Why are you sweating like this?”

I told her it was the cost of honest work. She laughed. I knew from that moment that I wanted to be near her laugh for a long time.

She made it easy to love her. She liked old Nollywood movies, yam porridge with too much pepper, and sleeping with socks even when NEPA took light. Her smile had peace inside it. But it was her silence that stayed with me the most — not the angry kind, but the type that made you wonder what she was thinking.

I started noticing the second bath during our second week together. At first, it didn’t bother me. A woman has her habits, abi? Some people snore, some people talk in their sleep. If hers was bathing again before bed, then so be it.

But slowly… it started to feel like she was washing something off.

Something more than sweat. More than stress.

Something she didn’t want lying beside me.

She never said no to me.

But she never really said yes either.

Just soft smiles. Light touches. And silence, wrapped in the smell of hibiscus.

Then one night, I heard something.

Just as she stepped out of the bathroom — hair wet, towel clinging — something dropped.

Not loud. Just enough to make me turn.

It rolled under the bed.

She bent quickly and picked it up, too fast, like someone who didn’t want to explain.

And in that brief moment… I saw it.

A small dark bead. Not part of her jewelry.

Something older. Rougher.

Something that didn’t belong in our bedroom.CHAPTER 2

The bead was black, tiny and dull-looking. The kind of thing you’d find sewn into the waist of old wrappers or tied with red thread and kept under pillows in village homes. It didn’t look like anything Amaka would wear, not with her silk bonnets and perfume and Instagram headwraps. But she picked it up sharply like she had something to hide, and just like that, she acted like nothing happened.

She climbed into bed beside me, said her usual, “Goodnight, baby,” and faced the wall like the day didn’t carry any weight.

I didn’t say a word.

My back was stiff against the mattress, but my mind had already left the room.

That very night, I decided I would stop pretending. I had smiled through too much. Shrugged off too many things. This time, I needed to see for myself what was really happening inside that bathroom.

So the next evening, I waited.

I acted normal. We took rice and stew for dinner. Thereafter, we watched a programme on TV. I asked about her about her day at work, and as usual she gave the normal response, “work was fine, just a bit stressful.”. The air between us was neat but thin, like a wrapper spread on a line with no breeze.

Then around 10:30pm, she stood up.

“I want to shower small,” she said, like it was the most ordinary thing.

I nodded. “Okay.”

She picked her towel, her sponge, her phone.

That phone was always in her hand — even when going to the bathroom.

The door closed gently behind her. I counted twenty seconds. Then I stood.

I moved slowly. No slippers. I tiptoed like someone who didn’t want his own truth to hear him coming. The corridor light was off, but the faint light from under the bathroom door spilled onto the tiles. That was when I heard it.

A sound.

Soft at first, like humming without a voice. Then it deepened. Stretched out like breath. Then it came again.

This time, it was clearer.

She wasn’t praying.

It wasn’t singing.

It wasn’t anything I had ever heard my wife do.

I moved closer. Not too close. Just enough to see that the light on her phone — the screen light — was flashing across the tiles through the narrow space under the door. Then I heard something else.

Wet sounds. Rhythmic. Almost… mechanical.

And then I heard her voice. Not a full speech. Just breathing. And tiny, muffled sounds that didn’t sound like sorrow or fear or worship.

And my heart? It stopped moving normally.

I leaned against the wall. Not because I was tired, but because my legs suddenly didn’t trust the ground again. My eyes burned, not from tears, but from the way your face tightens when something is happening right in front of you and your body cannot do anything to stop it.

Then the sound changed. A low, fast gasp.

And just as quickly as it came, silence.

Stillness.

The shower came on. Not loudly, just the usual splash of warm water. I stepped back before she could open the door and see me. I walked back to the bed like a thief in my own house. Laid down. Covered myself. Eyes open. Mind spinning.

A few minutes later, she came out. Skin damp. That towel again. That smell again. Hibiscus and vanilla.

She entered the room in peace. As if her body hadn’t just been doing something that didn’t include me. As if she didn’t know I was breathing in confusion.

She climbed into bed beside me. Whispered “Goodnight, baby,” and turned her back.

And me? I stared at the ceiling.

I wanted to speak. To ask. To even shift small and make her know I wasn’t sleeping. But something held me.

Shame? Fear? Ego?

I wasn’t sure.

I didn’t sleep for a long time, but I didn’t cry either. I just lay there, feeling like a stranger in my own marriage.

And while I was still thinking about what I had just heard, something else entered the room quietly.

It was Mirabel;

Mirabel was my niece that has been living with us for a while now.

She had this habit of not always knocking. But that night, I was too overwhelmed to shout at her.

Maybe she had come here to ease herself, because we shared the same bathroom, I didn’t know. But she paused by the door and after a while I heard her walk into the bathroom..

Somehow, my mind wasn’t at rest. I needed to know what my wife was keeping from me.

I was still consumed amidst my thoughts when, suddenly, an idea crept in.Chapter 3

The idea came like a whisper in my head — small and uninvited, but steady.

‘Talk to Chuka.’

Not because I believed he had the perfect advice. Far from it. Chuka was the kind of friend who could call you by 2am to gist about football and still somehow tie it to marriage problems. But there was something about his way of thinking that always cut through noise. No sugarcoating. No long grammar. Just straight talk.

So the next morning, after Amaka had left for work and Mirabel had gone off to school, I sat alone at the dining table, staring at my half-eaten bread and lukewarm tea, then I picked up my car keys and drove straight to his place.

Chuka lived in that kind of bachelor apartment where nothing ever changed. Same brown cushion, same fan with a missing blade, same faint smell of pepper soup and old sweat. He opened the door with one eye closed, with a toothpick in his mouth. He was glad on a pair of b0xers that had seen too many wash days.

“Guy, this one wey you show this early. Wetin happen?” he asked, scratching his stomach.

I didn’t talk. I just walked in and sat down. He knew the look on my face.

“Na Amaka?”

I nodded.

“Wetin she do this time?”

Still, I didn’t answer immediately. I just stared at the floor like it would help me find the right words. Then I told him. Everything. From the second bath, to the bead, to the sound I heard through the door, to the p0rn vide0 on her phone, to Mirabel entering the room that same night like spirit.

When I was done talking, Chuka whistled and stood up slowly, like someone who just found out he had carried a load heavier than he bargained for.

“Omo. This matter pass my mouth,” he said, walking to the fridge and bringing out two cans of malt. He handed me one. “Drink first. You need am.”

I took it, but I didn’t open it.

He sat across from me, serious now.

“Femi, see, I go talk truth. This thing wey you see no be small thing. E dey mess with your head, I understand. But you see woman… ha! Women dey carry secret wey pass underground tunnel oh. Na when you marry dem finish you go begin dey ask if na the same person wey you toast for Shoprite dey your house.”

I gave a weak laugh.

He leaned forward. “But guy, make I ask you one thing — before marriage, una dey do things? I mean, una dey… you dey touch am well?”

I looked at him, then looked away.

He nodded. “E don clear. Na there the problem start from. Guy, I go talk truth — if you no collect steady before marriage, na when you marry you go begin learn the real person. Sometimes e no go be like wetin you dey expect. And if care no dey, you go dey chop frustration inside lace wrapper.”

I sighed. “But it’s not just that, Chuka. It’s the way she carries herself. She doesn’t flinch, she doesn’t quarrel, she doesn’t explain. It’s like I’m sleeping next to a closed door.”

Chuka scratched his jaw. “You sure say na only bath she dey go do?”

“I heard her, Chuka. I know what I heard. Wet sounds. Her own voice. She was watching something. I saw the light from her phone.”

He raised his brows and shook his head slowly. “Na wa o. You sure say this one no pass ordinary hand?”

I frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Bead dey fall from wrapper, she dey bath like say na r¡tual. She dey clean body as if something dey wey she wan wash off. And then she dey use phone inside. You no feel say e get as e be? I no say make you go village do deliverance oh, but this your matter… e no clear.”

I wanted to wave it off, but the thought had already landed in my chest.

He leaned back, then spoke again, slower this time. “Femi, see, s£x no be proof say person love you. Marriage no be guarantee say person open up finish. Sometimes na after wedding ring dem go show you the real picture — and you go need strong mind to carry am.”

I stared at my untouched malt.

He continued, “This thing fit be private addiction. E fit be trauma. E fit be something spiritual. Or maybe she no even know say you don dey notice. But watin you go do now na the main thing.”

“What should I do?” I asked him quietly.

Chuka didn’t answer immediately. He picked the toothpick again, chewed it a bit, then looked me dæd in the eyes.

“You go confront her. But not as you’re accusing her o. Just watch her. Observe. Give her rope small. Women dey tell story with body before mouth. But if after all that, she still dey play you like mumu — then you go need bigger help. Not friend. Not shouting. But serious help.”

I nodded slowly. “Mirabel too. That girl is watching.”

“Eh-hehn!” Chuka pointed. “No forget that one o. Small girl, big eye. If she don dey notice, then Amaka no dey hide well.”

I looked at the clock. I had to leave soon.

Chuka followed me to the car. Before I entered, he said something I didn’t expect.

“Femi, you fit still love person and still feel alone with them. No let that thing drive you mãd. Just keep your head clear. Whatever you do, don’t beg for what should come naturally. Especially not inside marriage.”

I drove off slowly. His words sat on my shoulder the whole ride home.

By the time I reached the house, it was almost 6pm. Amaka’s car was already in the compound.

I entered quietly. The living room was silent. Her slippers were at the edge of the rug.

Then I heard laughter.

Not one.

Two voices.

From the kitchen.

One was Amaka.

The other… was male.

But not just any kind of male.

This voice had a softness to it. Almost… silky.

And I froze there in the hallway, hearing her say, “No, no, just taste this one. You’ll like it,” and the voice replied, “You want to po¡son me?”

That voice did not belong to any neighbour.

And it definitely didn’t sound like someone who was just visiting.

Fine girl, what have I done to you??? Why are you being stingy with your reaction sef??CHAPTER 4

It wasn’t until I heard that voice in the kitchen that I remembered Mirabel was supposed to be home.

The hallway stayed quiet but my ears were stretched. I didn’t even move from where I stood, beside the shoe rack. I just listened. Amaka laughed again, that soft laugh she usually reserves for phone calls with friends. The male voice chuckled too. Not loudly, just enough for me to know it was playful.

The thing that disturbed me most wasn’t the fact that there was another man in my kitchen. It was the way their voices sounded relaxed, familiar, unbothered. As though this wasn’t the first time. As though this house, this space that used to be mine, had adjusted to another energy.

I turned and walked out quietly, not towards the kitchen, not to confront, but straight to the back door. I needed air. Not the kind you take in deeply, but the kind that reminds you you’re still real. That you’re still breathing. I sat at the edge of the generator slab, my hands gripping the cold cement.

And while I sat there trying to balance my thoughts, the backroom door creaked open. It was Mirabel.

She didn’t say anything. Just looked at me briefly like someone who wasn’t sure if she should speak or not. Then she turned and went back inside.

That was the first night I noticed it.

Mirabel had been living with us for about a year now. She’s seventeen, and yes, she’s the quiet type. The kind of girl you would almost forget is in the house. She did her chores, went to school, helped in the kitchen, and stayed out of adult conversations. She barely talked to me except to greet and sometimes ask if I needed help serving food.

But from that day on, I started watching her. And in a strange way, it felt like she too was watching us.

Two nights later, around 9:45pm, I was lying on the bed scrolling through my phone when Amaka picked her towel and her phone and left the room like usual. This time, I didn’t follow her. I just listened.

Five minutes passed.

Then ten; I was checking the time.

I stood up and walked out slowly, acting like I was going to switch off the sitting room light. Just then, Mirabel came out of her room. She had her hands crossed, holding her night wrapper like she wasn’t expecting to see anyone.

Our eyes met.

She blinked, looked down quickly, and walked past me.

But what I saw made me pause.

She wasn’t wearing her slippers.

She wasn’t heading for the toilet.

She was going straight towards the bathroom.

The same bathroom Amaka was in.

And then I remembered something—that bathroom didn’t have a key. We’d been planning to fix it but never got around to it.

I stood there, unsure.

Mirabel reached the door and, as if rehearsed, opened it just a crack. The light spilled out. I heard Amaka’s voice. It was low, and it was as if she rushed to speak. Too bad I didn’t hear what she said.

Then Mirabel pulled back quickly.

Her hand touched the knob again, like she wanted to open wider, but this time she stopped. She turned, saw me standing there, and her body stiffened.

She adjusted her wrapper.

“Good evening, Uncle,” she said, barely meeting my eye.

I nodded slowly. “You okay?”

She nodded fast. “Yes sir. I wanted to… I thought the bathroom was free.”

I didn’t say anything.

She turned and went back to her room.

I stayed there a moment longer, unsure of what just happened. Then I walked back to the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed. This time I didn’t lie down. I waited.

When Amaka finally came out twenty minutes later, she looked fresh again, her skin glowing like she had dipped herself in hibiscus and peace. She didn’t say much. Just rubbed cream on her legs, tied her scarf, and slipped under the duvet like someone who had conquered something.

I watched her.

But my thoughts weren’t on her alone anymore.

They were on Mirabel.

Because the next morning, I walked past the bathroom and saw something I couldn’t ignore.

Two wet footprints.

Not one.

Two.

One small. One large.

As if two people had bathed.

Or stood under the shower.

And now, I wasn’t just dealing with secrets.

I was beginning to suspect a link I couldn’t explain.

Mirabel started acting more alert too. She would enter rooms and look around like she was searching for something, or maybe listening for sounds. She didn’t ask questions. But her silence felt louder.

Three days later, she left a piece of paper on my bedside drawer. It was folded. There was no name on it. Just three words:

“Check her phone.”
CHAPTER 5

I sat on the bed staring at the folded piece of paper Mirabel left on my drawer like it had hands and could talk.

“Check her phone.”

Three small words but they carried the weight of a full-blown war.

I didn’t touch it again. I just left the paper where it was and stood up slowly, trying to calm the heat rising inside me. I knew the moment was coming. That edge, that tight stretch of patience I’d been managing since the second bath, since the m0ans, since the bead, since Mirabel opened that bathroom door — it had reached its end.

Amaka was brushing her hair by the mirror, using that wide-toothed comb she always complained was old but still refused to throw away. She was humming something soft, maybe a gospel song, maybe not. She didn’t even notice the way I was looking at her.

I walked to the side of the bed and opened my drawer like I was looking for a pen. My heart was moving too fast but my mouth was quiet.

She turned slightly, “Is there a problem?”

I didn’t answer at first.

Then I said it.

“Why do you always bathe twice?”

She blinked.

The comb stopped halfway through her hair.

She looked at me fully now, her hand still in mid-air, like she wasn’t sure if I was joking or just måd.

“What?”

I stepped closer. “Every night, Amaka. You leave this room with towel and phone. You stay inside that bathroom longer than it takes to cook rice. And when you come out, you don’t say anything. You just lie down like it’s nothing.”

She scoffed, looked away briefly, then back at me, her voice tighter now. “So you’re monitoring my bathing routine?”

“I’m not monitoring anything. I’m just asking. What exactly are you doing in there?”

Her eyes narrowed down. “Femi, are you listening to yourself? You’re counting how many times I bathe now? Is that where this marriage is?”

“Don’t twist this thing, Amaka. I heard you. I’ve seen the light from your phone. I’ve seen your towel drop. I saw wet footprints. And don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about.”

She turned fully now, dropped the comb on the table. “You saw footprints, so what? This is my house too. I can bathe ten times if I want.”

“And hide your phone while doing it?”

Her eyes widened for a second, then her voice dropped low and sharp. “You touched my phone?”

I stepped back. “I didn’t. But I should. Maybe I should’ve done that long ago instead of sitting here pretending not to see what’s in front of me.”

She walked past me, opened the wardrobe, pulled out a wrapper and tied it tightly around her waist like she was trying to wrap herself from more than just cold. Then she turned, folding her arms.

“So this is it now? You’re watching me like a thief. You think this is love? You think dragging me like this, making me feel like a prisoner in my own house, you think that’s what marriage is about?”

I didn’t say anything.

I just picked my pillow.

She laughed once — the laughter was dry but painful.

“Oh, now you want to go and sleep in the guest room. That’s your answer. When things get uncomfortable, you pack your load and run like you always do. But let me tell you, Femi — you’re not ready for the truth. You want answers, but you’re scared of what they’ll sound like.”

I didn’t respond. My hand was on the door already.

She sat back on the bed and picked her scarf like someone who was done fighting.

I left the room.

That night, I slept in the guest room. Or rather, I lay there with my eyes open and the ceiling staring back at me like it was waiting to hear more.

I didn’t hear Amaka come out of the room. But I knew she was awake.

The bed creaked around 1:30am.

I heard a low sniff, soft, like someone was trying to swallow tears. But no sobs.

Just the intermittent sound of breaths, followed by stillness.

And somewhere down the hallway, Mirabel’s door shifted. But I didn’t hear her step out. She didn’t speak either.

But I knew she heard everything.

The next morning, I woke up to the sound of the blender in the kitchen. Not just the usual blender noise; this was different in its severity as if someone was trying to drown something. Maybe guilt and shame. Who knows?

But as I sat up and checked my phone, I saw a new message.

It wasn’t saved. Just a number.

Three words again.

But this time, it wasn’t from Mirabel.

And it said:

“She’s not alone.”

CHAPTER 6

The message was still staring at me when the blender stopped.

“She’s not alone.”

I just sat there for a moment, not blinking, not scrolling, just holding the phone like I was scared it would buzz again and shake something loose inside me. I didn’t know who sent it, and I wasn’t even sure I wanted to know. My stomach was already twisting. The kind of twist that starts from your lower back and spreads to your chest like hot oil.

Just then, there was a soft knock on the door. It was subtle and gentle.

“Uncle Femi?”

The voice that came thereafter was so quiet I almost thought I imagined it.

It was Mirabel.

She didn’t knock again. She just waited.

I stood up, pushed the door open slightly and saw her standing there in her oversized t-shirt and leggings, one hand across her chest, the other pressing the phone in her hand like she was hiding it from the world.

Her eyes didn’t meet mine at first. She just stared past me into the guest room like she was checking if it was safe.

“I can come back later,” she said, already stepping back.

“No. It’s fine. Come in.”

Then she entered slowly. Not like someone entering a room, more like someone approaching a wound. She perched at the edge of the chair near the window and held her hands between her thighs. Then finally, she looked up.

“I’m sorry, Uncle Femi. I should have spoken before now.”

I didn’t rush her. I didn’t say anything. I just sat down on the edge of the bed and waited. The air between us was heavy.

She swallowed hard, and her lips pressed together like she was arranging her words before they could come out anyhow.

“I’ve seen her. Not once. Not twice.” She paused. “It started small. At first, I thought it was normal. Everybody enjoys privacy sometimes. But then, the nights got longer. I could hear… sounds.”

“What kind of sounds?”

She blinked, and I could see the heat rise in her cheeks. Her voice dropped lower.

“Pleasure sounds. M**aning. Almost every night. Sometimes she carries her phone into the bathroom. I only noticed because of the light and the reflection from my window.”

I didn’t move. My hands were clasped. My mind was not even in the room anymore. It was dragging itself back through every night I had ignored the tension. Every evening she laughed too loud. Every bath that didn’t make sense.

Mirabel continued.

“Two weeks ago, I was going to the kitchen. I passed the hallway and heard something again. It wasn’t loud, but it was clear. I stayed, just to be sure. I don’t know what she was watching, but… I could hear… the kind of things you hear in… adūlt films. I didn’t want to believe it at first.”

I rubbed my jaw. Slowly. Like if I rubbed hard enough, the ache would go away. I couldn’t look at her again, not now. I just turned towards the wall and rested my eyes there for a bit.

“So this is what it is now,” I said quietly. “After everything.”

She stood up from the chair and walked to where I was. Then she sat on the other end of the bed, not too close, but not distant either.

“I didn’t tell you before because I wasn’t sure how you’d react. I didn’t want to cause trouble. But last night… I heard both of you. I heard her shouting. And I heard you leave the room.”

I turned to her. “Do you think there’s someone else?”

She paused.

“I don’t know. But whatever she’s doing… she’s not doing it for you.”

The words hit different. There was no insult in them, no mockery, no judgment. Just cold truth, like water from a leaking roof that finally soaked through the mattress.

I stood up and started pacing. Just back and forth like my body was moving in a place of all the questions in my head;

Why?

When did this start?

What did I miss?

Where was I when my wife turned into a stranger under the same roof?

I faced Mirabel again.

“But why? What did I do wrong? What exactly is lacking? I’m her husband. I cook sometimes. I clean. I provide. I try my best to talk, even when she shuts me out. So why?”

Mirabel looked up at me. This time, her voice was firmer.

“Sometimes it’s not about you, Uncle. People carry things that don’t have names. Shame. Guilt. Addiction. Secrets they don’t even understand. But if you ask me… she’s hiding something deeper than what you’ve seen.”

I was about to say something else when her phone buzzed. She glanced at it. Then her eyes locked with mine.

“I think you should see this.”

She turned the screen to me.

It was a screenshot.

From Amaka’s phone.

A message thread.

And at the top, a saved contact:

“HIM ”

Beneath it, the most recent message, timestamped just two days ago.

“Don’t forget to delete the video after watching. I don’t trust her anymore.”

My mouth went dry.

“Who is ‘her’?” I asked.

Mirabel hesitated.

“I think… he was talking about me.”CHAPTER 7

The moment Mirabel said it — “I think he was talking about me” — I didn’t know where to place my feet again. My legs were still standing on the floor, but it didn’t feel like solid ground anymore. Everything in that room suddenly felt like it had shifted, as if the air was different, like my ears were hearing too many things at once.

The name saved with “HIM ” was still on the screen, frozen like it was mocking me quietly. That emoji. That stupid emoji. I wanted to laugh and cry and break something, all at the same time. But I just gave her back the phone without touching it too much, like my own fingerprints would stain the madness I just saw.

I didn’t even ask Mirabel more questions. I didn’t want to. I needed to hear it from my wife, from Amaka. Not second-hand, not through screenshots, not from my niece that seemed to have been carrying secrets bigger than her age. I immediately left the guest room and went straight to the master bedroom.

The door was not locked, but she was inside. Sitting at the edge of the bed with her scarf still tied, her wrapper still on, but her face — her face looked like it hadn’t rested since last night. Her eyes met mine as I came in, and for the first time in a long while, she didn’t look away.

I closed the door gently and then I stood there, watching her, waiting. I didn’t ask questions. I didn’t say anything. I just leaned against the wall, folded my arms, with my head slightly bent like I was waiting for an answer to a question I hadn’t even voiced yet.

And she knew.

Her mouth opened, then closed. Then she inhaled deeply and exhaled like she was releasing something she had carried for too long.

“It started in boarding school.”

“Continue, I’m listening!!” I snapped.

“I was in JSS2. My roommate used to borrow her sister’s phone sometimes when the matron was asleep. Then one night she told me she had something to show me. I thought it was a music or a movie. But it wasn’t. It was p0ɍn”

She paused, her eyes still were on me, but her fingers were twisting into each other on her lap, like they were trying to squeeze shame out.

“At first, it scared me. I didn’t even understand what I was watching. But the next day, I found myself thinking about it. And the next week, when her sister came again, I asked to see it too. I told myself it was nothing. Maybe just this teenage curiosity. But before I knew it… it became a habit.”

Her voice dropped here, slightly above a whisper, as if she doesn’t want the air to carry it too far.

“From watching, I started m@stūrb¡ng. I used to sneak into the bathroom. I would stay long doing it.. It gave me this… release. I didn’t know what it was called then. But I just knew it made me feel like… I was alive.”

She stood up and walked to the window, parted the curtain slightly, even though the sun was already standing fully in the sky.

“I thought I’d stop after school. But I carried it into university. And then now… marriage.”

I didn’t move from where I was standing. Not because I couldn’t, but because I didn’t know how to.

She turned to me. Her eyes were glossy now, but the tears hadn’t come out yet.

“I thought getting married would fix it. That loving someone, being loved, would be enough. But the truth is… I never stopped. Not really.”

I swallowed, quietly. Still no words from me. At that point, all I could do was to listen.

She leaned against the dresser, still looking at me.

“Sometimes I wait for you to sleep. Sometimes I pretend to bathe twice in the night. Sometimes I just need to feel… something. Anything. I hate myself for it. I pray. I cry. I delete. I reinstall. I break down. Then I start again.”

She wiped her eyes now, but not fully. Just a dab.

“I’m not proud. I’m ashamed. Deeply. I know I’m supposed to be better. I know this isn’t the woman you married. I just… I don’t know how to stop.”

Then her voice broke slightly.

“I don’t want to lose you.”

That was the moment my body finally shifted. Something in me broke down.

I sat down slowly on the same chair she had left by the dresser, not looking at her, not thinking about words yet. My mind was pushing and pulling — one part of me was angry, hot, the kind of anger that feels like it’s crawling behind your neck and holding your jaw stiff. Another part of me… I don’t even know what to call it. Confused maybe. Perhaps, tiredness. Not from lack of love, but from not understanding the person you thought you knew.

She came closer. Knelt in front of me.

“I didn’t cheat. I swear. I didn’t slēēp with anyone. I know this doesn’t make it better, but I just need you to know.”

My eyes finally left the floor and looked at her. And the pain I saw there… it wasn’t fake. It wasn’t a performance. It was the kind of sorrow that doesn’t know how to speak in complete sentences.

“I want to fight this,” she said, her voice trembling now. “I want to try therapy. Counseling. Anything. But I don’t want to pretend anymore.”

I placed my hand on my head, rubbed it slowly, then leaned forward with my elbows on my knees. I wasn’t angry anymore. Or maybe I was, but it had softened into something else. I didn’t respond with any motivational line or any quick forgiveness. I just sat there and stared at my feet.

The door creaked.

We both turned.

It was Mirabel.

She looked from me to Amaka.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” she said. “But someone is at the gate.”

“Who?” I asked.

She hesitated.

“He says he’s looking for Amaka.”

I stood up immediately.

She stepped back.

“Did he say his name?” Amaka asked. Her legs had started to quiver.

Mirabel’s mouth moved. Then stopped. Then finally, she said:

“The man at the gate said I should tell her… it’s HIM.CHAPTER 8

When Mirabel said, “The man at the gate said I should tell her… it’s HIM,” — I didn’t even wait for another word. I moved past her without thinking, without slippers, without anything on my mind but that name. That name. That stūp¡d name that had been sitting like salt inside my wound since last night.

I didn’t go outside immediately. I stopped first by the dining area and peeped through the curtain. There was a man standing by the gate, but he wasn’t facing the house. He was facing the street, like he was pretending to admire the sky. Like someone who knew his presence was already a problem and was trying to act like he had sense.

I didn’t even go out to meet him. I just called the security man and told him, “Tell that man to leave.”

He looked confused. “Oga, but he—”

“Tell him to go. If he doesn’t move in five minutes, I’ll drive him away myself.”

I didn’t wait to hear the argument. I just turned and climbed back up.

When I got to the bedroom, Amaka was sitting on the floor, like someone that had been told her house would be demolished and she didn’t even know what to pack first. I didn’t say anything to her. She didn’t say anything to me. I just took my phone, slipped on my sandals, and left the house again.

I had even forgotten I had a car… how funny?

I didn’t even know where I was going.

It was Chuka who called me, like he knew I needed air.

“Guy, where you dey?”

“Wandering.”

“Meet me at Atrium, abeg. You need to cool your head.”

When I got there, he was already seated. One bottle of Origin in front of him, eyes scanning me like a nurse waiting for blood pressure results.

I sat.

He didn’t say anything for a while. He just poured me a drink and nodded slowly.

“I saw your face, I know say wahala don wear heels come your house.”

I didn’t even answer. I just drank.

After a while, he said, “You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to. But no go do wetin you go regret.”

I looked at him, then smiled small. “Too late. Regret dey the house already.”

He was quiet.

And then this woman walked in.

She wasn’t dramatic. She didn’t have all the fake eyelashes and plastic hips most of them carried these days. She was just there. Fine, yes. But normal fine. Her kind of fine was dangerous because it didn’t shout. It whispered. Subtle beauty. Slim waist, plain black dress, no earrings, just one tiny chain across her neck. I noticed because when she passed, she smiled at me.

That was all.

Just a smile.

But Chuka caught it. He always caught these things. His mouth curled.

“She likes you.”

“Abeg.”

“She does.”

I looked again. She was seated two tables away, but her eyes still checked me, like she was trying not to be obvious.

Chuka sipped his drink, leaned back.

“Bro, I know say you dey think say this na opportunity to collect small revenge. But make I tell you the truth — na so temptation dey start. E no dey come with horns. E dey wear perfume.”

I laughed lightly but didn’t answer. I already knew what I was thinking. It wasn’t about the woman. It was about me. About everything inside me that had been boiling since last night.

She eventually got up. Walked to the counter. Came back. Then paused by my table. Just paused.

“Hi,” she said, gently, like she didn’t want to disturb me.

I looked up, smiled. “Hi.”

“Are you waiting for someone?”

Before I could even answer, Chuka jumped in.

“Yes, he’s married. Thank you.”

She smiled and raised her hands playfully. “No offence. Just asking.”

Then she walked back to her seat.

I looked at Chuka, shook my head. “You no dey let person breathe.”

He leaned closer, voice low. “You want to breathe? Go home and breathe with your wife.”

I didn’t say anything again. But something in me was already dragging me to a dark place. I knew it. There was a part of me that wanted to follow that woman’s car. Not because of attraction. But because of escape. Because of a wounded ego. Because I wanted to feel desired again. Because I wanted to stop thinking.

But I didn’t go. I finished my drink and left.

When I got back home, everywhere was quiet. The living room lights were off, but a faint yellow glow from the corridor told me someone was still awake. I stepped in, locked the door gently, and stood there for a while. Just inside the silence. Just me and the house and all the memories climbing the walls.

I didn’t go to the bedroom. Not yet. I went to the kitchen instead. Made tea. Warmed rice. I don’t even know why. I wasn’t hungry. I was just trying to do something that reminded me I was still alive.

Then I heard her voice.

“I waited.”

It came from the corridor. Calm. Soft. Empty.

I turned.

She was standing near the stairs, wrapper tied high, face washed, lips dry. But she was looking at me like she was expecting an answer. Like my arrival was the beginning of a decision she wasn’t sure she was ready for.

I didn’t reply. I just went upstairs.

But as I climbed, my mind wasn’t just thinking as a man anymore. It was thinking as a husband. A tired husband. A hurt husband. But a husband still. I knew now that this wasn’t a battle I could win with pride. That this wasn’t about who was more wounded.

Because if I crossed that line — if I touched another woman now — then all the moral ground I had been standing on would collapse.

I entered the room, dropped my phone, and collapsed on the bed with my clothes still on.

I closed my eyes.

And just as I was drifting off, my phone buzzed again.

A text.

From an unknown number.

“You think she told you everything?”

Are you ready for chapter 9???

To be continued…