Ifeoma grabbed my suitcase and threw it into the boot. “Get in. Mama is waiting. She said she’ll kill Emeka with her own hands, but I told her to let the lawyers do it first.”
I climbed into the passenger seat and let out a long breath. “There’s more, Ify. The clinic records. He wasn’t just cheating. He was trying to have a baby with her. Behind my back.”
Ifeoma started the engine, her knuckles white on the steering wheel. “Chioma, listen to me. You are going to walk into Mama’s house, eat her egusi soup, and then tomorrow, we are going to that hospital and getting every single record with Emeka’s name on it. And then we are going to ruin him.”
I leaned my head against the window as Lagos traffic swallowed us. Horns blared. Hawkers pressed pure water sachets against the glass. Life went on, loud and unbothered.
“My phone hasn’t stopped buzzing,” I said.
“Good. Let him suffer.”
We drove in silence for a while. Then Ifeoma spoke again, softer this time. “What are you going to do about the house? The joint account?”
“I don’t know yet.” I closed my eyes. “But I’m not going back to him. That much I know.”
When we finally pulled into Mama’s compound in Surulere, the smell of fried plantain hit me before I even opened the door. Mama stood on the veranda, hands on her hips, her face like thunder.
“Come inside,” she said. No hug. No tears. Just steel. “We have work to do.”
I followed her into the parlor, and for the first time all day, I let myself cry.The next morning, I woke up to the sound of Mama pounding yam in the backyard. The rhythmic thud grounded me. I had cried myself to sleep on the old floral sofa, and now my eyes were swollen, but my mind was clear.
Ifeoma had already made calls. By 9 a.m., we were seated in a lawyer’s office in Ikeja—a sharp woman named Barrister Nkechi who didn’t blink when I told her everything.
“Adultery, attempted surrogacy without consent, and financial fraud,” Nkechi said, ticking off on her fingers. “He emptied your joint savings six months ago. Did you know?”
I shook my head slowly. I hadn’t known. Of course I hadn’t.
“He’s been funding her rent in Lekki,” Nkechi continued. “And the clinic fees. We’ll freeze what’s left and file for divorce by the end of the week.”
I signed the papers without trembling.
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