wheel.
I did not drive straight to the gate.
Something in me wanted the truth raw, without giving anyone even ten seconds to rearrange it.
So I stopped my car beside a hedge two houses away, killed the engine, and sat there for a moment.
Our street was quiet.
Too quiet.
The kind of quiet that makes small sounds feel guilty.
I stepped out and closed the car door gently.
My shoes made soft crunching sounds on the gravel as I walked back toward my compound.
The sun was high, but I felt cold beneath my shirt.
When I reached the gate, I saw it was slightly open.
Musa never left the gate open when I was home.
Never.
He treated that gate like a commandment.
But now it stood pushed inward by a few inches, enough for someone to slip through without noise.
My anger sharpened.
So this is how he behaves when I am not around.
I pushed the gate slowly.
It creaked.
I froze, listening.
No footsteps came.
No voice asked who was there.
No Musa appeared with his usual salute.
The small security post beside the gate was empty.
Musa’s plastic chair was turned sideways.
His old radio was on the ground, silent.
A half-finished bottle of soda sat near the wall, sweating in the heat.
I walked deeper into the compound.
The living room curtains were drawn, which was unusual for that hour.
Sonia liked daylight.
She always said dark rooms made a house look sad.
Then I heard something.
A low sound from the side of the house.
At first, I thought it was furniture moving.
Then I heard Sonia’s voice.
‘Please, Musa, hurry.’
My body locked.
Her voice was strained.
Not soft.
Not laughing.
Strained.
Then she said the words that nearly finished me.
‘Before my husband comes back.’
My breath left me.
I moved toward the bedroom window, step by step, my shoulder brushing against the wall.
The window was half open, but the curtain inside blocked most of the view.
Through the narrow gap, I saw movement.
A red cloth.
Bright red.
It passed across the room like a flash of warning.
My throat dried instantly.
I wanted to kick the door down.
I wanted to drag Musa out by the collar.
I wanted to demand what both of them thought I was.
But another part of me, the part that had stopped me from calling Sonia, told me to wait one more second.
One more second can change the meaning of a life.
I stepped closer and peered through the gap.
Musa stood beside my bed.
His shirt was damp with sweat.
A red cloth hung across one hand.
In the other, he held a small dark bottle.
Sonia was sitting on the edge of the bed with her wrapper tied around her chest and one hand pressed against her stomach.
My first emotion was rage.
My second was confusion.
Because Sonia was crying.
Not the tears of someone caught in pleasure.
Not the performance tears she used when she wanted me to forgive a small mistake.
These were silent, frightened tears rolling down her face while she stared at the floor.
Musa leaned toward her.
I could not hear everything he said, but I caught enough.
‘Madam, you must
