“Surrogate?” I laughed—a short, hollow sound. “Emeka, I’m a nurse. I know what surrogacy paperwork looks like. I also know what an affair looks like. And this?” I pointed at the way her hand still lingered near his arm. “This is not a clinical arrangement.”
Amara finally stepped back, wiping her eyes. “He told me you were cold. That you didn’t want children anymore. That you pushed him away.” Her voice cracked. “He said you were just staying for the money.”
I looked at Emeka. Really looked at him. The man I married six years ago in Owerri, the one who held my face at the altar and promised no secrets.
“None of that is true,” I said quietly. “But you already know that, don’t you?”
He opened his mouth, then closed it.
I picked up my suitcase handle. “I’m going to board my flight to Lagos. When I land, I expect a full confession—not for me, but for my lawyer. You can keep your clinic records, Emeka. I’ll keep my dignity.”
Amara let out a shaky breath. “I didn’t know. I swear I didn’t know.”
I turned to her one last time. “Then here’s some free advice: the next time a married man tells you his wife agreed to something, ask to hear it from her lips. Not his.”
She nodded, tears spilling over.
I walked away without looking back. Behind me, I heard Emeka say my name—once, twice—but I kept walking. The boarding announcement for Lagos came over the speakers, and for the first time in two years, I felt like I could breathe.The flight to Lagos was two hours and fifteen minutes. Plenty of time to think. Plenty of time to replay every lie Emeka had ever told me.
I stared out the window as the clouds swallowed the sky. Beside me, an older woman was already dozing, her head wrapped in a bright green gele. She had smiled at me when I sat down, but I couldn’t smile back. My face felt like a mask.
By the time we landed at Murtala Muhammed Airport, the sun had begun to set. Orange light spilled across the tarmac as passengers stretched and gathered their things. I switched on my phone.
Twenty-three messages from Emeka. Seven missed calls.
I deleted them all without reading.
My sister, Ifeoma, was waiting outside arrivals. She stood by her beat-up Corolla, arms crossed, her face a mixture of worry and barely contained fury. The moment she saw me, she pulled me into a hug that nearly crushed my ribs.
“I already heard,” she whispered. “Amara’s cousin is my neighbor’s hairdresser. Small world, eh?”
I laughed bitterly. “Of course. Nothing stays hidden in this country.”
Leave a Comment