“The Twin’s Revenge

 

Espiode 3.

The night stretched long and thin, like a blade waiting to be used.

I didn’t sleep.

I sat on Ifeoma’s side of the bed—the side closest to the door, the side Chidi never slept on because he said it was “a woman’s place”—and I waited.

At 2:17 a.m., I heard his car.

The engine sputtered. A door slammed. Footsteps dragged across the compound.

He was drunk.

Very drunk.

I listened to him fumble with the front door, curse when the key missed the lock, then shove his way inside.

He didn’t turn on the light.

He stumbled through the dark, bumping into furniture, muttering under his breath.

When he reached the bedroom doorway, he stopped.

“You awake?” he slurred.

I didn’t answer.

He laughed—a wet, ugly sound.

“Playing sleeping beauty, abi?”

He walked to his side of the bed. Dropped his belt on the floor. His shoes. His shirt.

The mattress dipped as he fell onto it.

For a long moment, there was silence.

Then he rolled toward me.

His hand found my arm.

“You know what I was thinking tonight?” he whispered.

I said nothing.

“I was thinking… maybe we should have another baby. A boy this time. Since your sister couldn’t give you a good example of how to raise one.”

His fingers crawled up my shoulder.

“I’m being nice to you, Ifeoma. You should appreciate it.”

I lay perfectly still.

My body was calm. My breathing was slow.

But inside, the blade turned.

—

Morning came like a lie.

Sunlight through the thin curtains. Birds outside. The sound of Somi’s small feet padding to the bathroom.

Chidi snored until 9 a.m.

I made breakfast.

Not because he deserved it. Because I needed him to believe.

I boiled yam. Fried eggs. Made tea the way Ifeoma had described in her letters—too much sugar, a splash of milk, the tea bag left in because he liked it bitter at the end.

When he finally walked into the kitchen, rubbing his head, squinting at the light, I placed the plate in front of him.

He looked at the food.

Then at me.

“You’re quiet this morning.”

“Just tired.”

“Tired of what?”

I shrugged. “Didn’t sleep well.”

He stared at me for a beat too long.

Then he picked up his fork.

“Next time, less oil in the eggs.”

I nodded.

He ate.

And while he ate, I watched.

The way he held his fork—too tight, like he was stabbing something.

The way he chewed—fast, aggressive, like the food had offended him.

The way his eyes followed me whenever I moved.

He was not a complicated man.

He was a predator.

And predators only understand one thing.

—

At 10 a.m., the doorbell rang.

Chidi didn’t move from the sofa where he had settled with his phone.

“Go and see who that is,” he said without looking up.

I wiped my hands and walked to the door.

Through the peephole, I saw a woman.

Middle-aged. Plump. Wearing a bright yellow blouse and a scowl that looked permanent.

His mother.

I opened the door.

“Mama Chidi,” I said softly.

She pushed past me without a greeting.

“Where is my son?” she demanded.

“Inside.”

She marched into the living room like she owned it. Which, I realized, she probably believed she did.

Chidi stood up when he saw her. His posture changed—shoulders back, chest out, suddenly the obedient son.

“Mama, you didn’t tell me you were coming.”

“Since when do I need to tell you before I visit my own house?” She dropped her bag on the sofa. “Is that how you greet your mother?”

He bent slightly. She touched his head in blessing.

Then her eyes turned to me.

“Where is my tea?”

“I’ll prepare it now, Mama.”

“Make sure the water is boiling. Last time, it was warm. You want to poison me with warm water?”

I said nothing. Walked to the kitchen.

From the stove, I heard their voices.

“She looks different,” the mother said.

“Different how?”

“I don’t know. Thinner? Something in her eyes.”

“She’s just tired from visiting that mad sister of hers.”

A pause.

“Don’t let her go there again. That place is bad luck. The mad one belongs in the hospital, not in your home.”

“I know, Mama.”

“Your father always said—”

I stopped listening.

I poured the water. Steeped the tea. Added three spoons of sugar.

And I thought about what Ifeoma had told me in the hospital.

“His mother knows. She’s seen the bruises. She tells me it’s my fault for provoking him.”

“His sister came once and saw me crying. She said I should be grateful he married me at all.”

“No one helps me. No one.”

I carried the tea to the living room.

Mama Chidi took it without thanks.

She sipped.

Then she looked at me over the rim of the cup.

“I hear you went to see that woman yesterday.”

“Yes, Mama.”

“Waste of time. She’s beyond help. You should focus on your own home.”

Chidi nodded from the sofa.

I stood in the middle of the room, hands folded, head slightly bowed.

And I smiled inside.

Because they had no idea.

Neither of them.

They saw a woman who had been broken.

They didn’t know they were looking at a woman who had been forged.

—

At noon, Mama Chidi left.

But before she went, she pulled me aside in the hallway.

“I’m watching you,” she said quietly. “My son tells me you’ve been acting strange. Don’t try anything foolish.”

“I don’t know what you mean, Mama.”

She stared at me for a long, hard moment.

Then she walked out.

The door closed.

And I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding.

—

That afternoon, while Chidi napped, I went through Ifeoma’s things.

Under the mattress: a small envelope.

Inside: money. Not much. A few crumpled notes saved over months, maybe years.

Tucked inside her Bible: a photograph of her and Somi at a birthday party. They were both smiling. A real smile, not the one she wore in front of Chidi.

At the bottom of her wardrobe, hidden beneath old wrappers: a passport.

I opened it.

Ifeoma’s face stared back at me.

The same face I saw in the mirror.

I checked the expiration date.

Still valid.

I put the passport in my pocket.

Then I sat on the floor of the wardrobe, in the dark, and I made my plan.

—

At 5 p.m., Chidi woke up.

He was in a bad mood.

He couldn’t find his remote. His head hurt. The food I made for lunch was “too spicy.”

“You did this on purpose,” he said, standing over me while I swept the living room.

“Did what?”

“Made my food spicy so I would be angry. You like when I’m angry, don’t you?”

I kept sweeping.

He grabbed the broom from my hands.

“I’m talking to you!”

I looked up.

For one second—just one second—I let him see something.

Not fear.

Not submission.

Something else.

Something his brain couldn’t process.

His hand froze on the broom.

“What?” he said. “What is that look?”

I dropped my eyes.

“Nothing. I’m sorry.”

He stared at me for a long time.

Then he threw the broom to the floor.

“Clean this place properly. When I come back, I don’t want to see one grain of dust.”

He grabbed his keys and left.

Slam.

Silence.

—

I waited until I heard his car disappear.

Then I went to Somi’s room.

She was sitting on her mattress, drawing with a broken crayon.

“Baby,” I said, kneeling in front of her. “I need you to listen to me very carefully.”

She looked up.

“Are we going somewhere?”

I touched her face.

“Yes. But it’s a secret. You can’t tell anyone. Not your daddy. Not your grandmother. Not your friends.”

Her eyes widened.

“Like a game?”

“Yes,” I said softly. “Like a game. And if we win, we never have to come back here again.”

She thought about this.

Then she nodded.

“Okay, Mummy.”

I pulled her close.

And I made a promise to myself, to Ifeoma, to this small brave girl.

Before the week ended, Chidi would wake up and find empty beds.

Cold tea.

A missing passport.

And for the first time in his miserable life, he would feel what his wife felt every single day.

Powerless.

—