To mine.
Espiode 3.
My house sat at the end of a quiet street in Lekki Phase 1. Not our house—the one in Oniru where Femi’s trophies and my tears shared equal shelf space. This one I bought before the wedding. Before I made the mistake of thinking love meant merging everything I owned with a man who contributed nothing but charm.
I parked in the garage, killed the engine, and sat in the silence.
My phone buzzed. Then buzzed again. Then started singing—Femi’s ringtone, which I had never changed because I kept telling myself things would get better.
I switched it off.
Not dramatically. Just thumb to power button, confirm, black screen.
The house was cool. The AC had been running on a timer because I had planned to return in a week with a repaired marriage and a tan. Instead, I walked into a living room that smelled like me—jasmine candles, old books, the faint spice of the pepper soup I had made the night before I left for what I thought was a romantic adventure.
I dropped my bag on the sofa and went to the kitchen.
Poured myself a glass of wine. Red. Full-bodied. The kind Femi said was “too expensive for a woman to drink alone.”
I drank it alone.
And for the first time in five years, I didn’t feel lonely.
The next morning, I woke up to thirty-seven missed calls and forty-two WhatsApp messages.
I didn’t read them.
Instead, I called my lawyer.
Her name was Nnenna. She was divorced twice, childless by choice, and had a reputation for making powerful men cry in mediation. I had hired her six months ago, during a week when Femi had locked me out of our bedroom because I asked where two million naira had gone from our joint account.
“Tolu,” she answered on the second ring. “Tell me you finally did it.”
“I finally did it.”
“Good. What took you so long?”
I told her everything. The island. The mother. The ex. The cooking comment. The wrist grab.
By the time I finished, Nnenna was silent for five full seconds. That never happened.
“You recorded any of this?” she asked.
“I have the cancellation confirmation from the island. And the wrist grab happened in front of the pilot and the dock workers.”
“Witnesses,” she said, and I could hear her smile. “I love witnesses. Send me everything. And Tolu?”
“Yes?”
“Don’t go back to that house. Don’t talk to him. Don’t even breathe in his direction until I tell you.”
I looked around my kitchen—my kettle, my herbs, my grandmother’s wooden spoon hanging on the wall.
“I won’t,” I said. “I’m home.”
Three days passed.
Femi showed up on the fourth day.
I was in my garden, cutting basil for pasta, when the gatebell rang. I checked the security camera on my phone.
There he was. A bouquet of red roses in one hand. A Gucci bag in the other. And a face that said he had practiced his apology in the mirror for an hour.
He didn’t know I had changed the gate code.
I watched him punch in the old one. Wrong. Punch it again. Wrong. Try his birthday. Wrong.
Then he looked up at the camera. Right at it. Because he knew I was watching.
“Tolu,” he called out. “Baby. Just let me explain.”
I pressed the intercom button.
“Femi, did Nnenna not call your lawyer this morning?”
His face twitched. “That’s what I want to talk about. Divorce? Come on. We can work this out.”
“The cooking,” I said. “You wanted me to cook for you, your mother, your father, and your ex-girlfriend on an island I paid for. While you relaxed.”
“Mistake,” he said quickly. “A huge mistake. I was trying to—Simi just needed closure, and my mother insisted—”
“Your mother insisted,” I repeated. “You’re forty-two years old.”
Silence.
“Femi, go home. Not to my home. To whatever is left of yours.”
I let go of the intercom button.
He stood there for another seven minutes. Knocked on the gate twice. Checked his phone. Looked at the roses like they had betrayed him.
Then he dropped the bouquet on the ground, got into his car—a Lexus I had bought him for his fortieth—and drove away.
I went back to cutting basil.
That night, Simi called me.
I almost didn’t answer. But curiosity is a dangerous thing.
“Tolu,” she said, her voice small. Different from the smug woman on the dock. “I didn’t know.”
“Didn’t know what?”
“About the money. About you paying for everything. He told me… he told me you were controlling, that you kept him on a leash, that the only reason he stayed was because of the child—”
I stopped breathing.
“What child?”
A pause on her end. A long one.
“Oh no,” she whispered. “He didn’t tell you.”
“Simi. What child?”
She took a breath. And then she told me everything.
To be continued.
