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Image by Mateusz Delegacz
By Feyisayo Anjorin
What happens when a husband lies to his wife? 

About three weeks ago, suspect came home smelling of a particular brand of women’s fragrance known to me. He told me about this old friend he just ran into at the mall a few minutes ago who had hugged him tightly. That was believable.


A week later, after dinner, suspect left his mobile phone on the dining table and hurried to the sitting room to take his seat on the sofa in front of the TV because a premiership game was about to start. Suspect’s mobile phone rings and he practically jumped back to get the phone and take the call. I heard a female voice when he took the call and said, “Hello”, just before he hurried back to the sitting room, but he said it was Mr Tomori, his boss.


That was believable to some extent. Mr Tomori could ask a female secretary to call the suspect, and then the woman at the other end would transfer the call to the boss. It is always good to be open-minded, and to be ready to explore possibilities.


Then a few days later, suspect was seen with a young woman at the estate swimming pool on a Saturday afternoon – I’ve been there a couple of times and I knew that the peak periods for Saturday swimming were mornings and evenings – and they were the only ones swimming there that afternoon, giggling like old friends; I saw it! My friend recorded a clean and clear video, even though I couldn’t help but wonder how Lara, my unmarried whistle-blower friend, recorded that bit without being seen by the suspect who knows her very well.


That afternoon he had left the house dressed as if he would be at the lawn tennis court. He had his tennis racket with him. When he came back, I asked if he was at the pool. He had this look on his face; I could tell he was considering a lie.


“Yes, I changed my mind.” He said.

“Why did you change your mind?”

“Swimming is a more effective exercise, you know?” he shrugged.

“And you were with someone in the pool.”

“Imabong, what is the meaning of all this? Of course, someone else was in the pool. It’s a public pool for God sakes!”  


I didn’t tell him about the video clip on my phone. He would tell me how unfair and paranoid I have become, and why the hell was I so suspicious? He would tell me to stay away from Lara who is still single at 40 and is definitely looking for a way to bring happily married women down to her level.


So last night I decided to give this case the seriousness it deserved when the window of opportunity opened. As we were having dinner, suspect told me he wanted to visit a colleague at the hospital.

“What happened to this colleague?”

“I didn’t tell you?” he began, glancing at his watch. “He was on the zebra crossing, set to cross the road. The traffic lights were not working but a traffic officer was there, and he has stopped the traffic for pedestrians o. Then this okada just came out of nowhere and hit him.”

“Oh. Is he OK?”

“Dear, an okada hit him. He is not OK, that is why he’s admitted at the hospital.”


I offered to go with suspect to greet this colleague.

Suspect pursed his lips and looked into my eyes.  “Sweetheart, this man values his privacy so much. Please let me go alone.”


Suspect drove out of the compound and I waited for him to get ahead a bit. Then I approached an okadaman who seemed idle under the streetlight near the fence of our house.

“Follow that white car.” I said.

Suspect’s car was soon at the parking lot of a guesthouse. This was around a quarter past eight. I waited in a corner at the outdoor bar; I ordered a bottle of beer and some suya. I no go kill myself nah.


Meanwhile I had given some rascals around four clean one thousand naira notes to help me deflate and slash the tyres of suspect’s car.

I waited for about an hour after which my husband came out – with a girl who looked every inch like the hustler she was. She had her hair cropped low and wore a bright-red lipstick. The brown Lycra trouser she wore was like the shade of her skin – and made her seem naked –, her nipples were erect under the flimsy blouse she had on.


It was painful; I didn’t know what to expect if I made a scene, so I decided to dial his number and encouraged myself to be calm.

“Where are you?” I asked when he took the call.

“Baby, I told you where I was going.”

“So you are at the hospital right now?”


“Imabong, I hate this.”

“I hate this too, Sola, and I wont wait till you infect me with whatever that slut beside you is carrying in her slot before I divorce you. How long have you been running into this one?”

He was now beside the car, under the lights at the parking lot.

“Shit! Did you slash my tyres?”

“Why would I do that? Come on, sweetheart, I’m at home and you are at the hospital. Remember?”

Image by Thomas Griggs

Feyisayo Anjorin is a screenwriter, songwriter, and author whose writings have appeared in Litro, Spillwords, African Writer, Bella Naija, Brittle Paper, Kalahari Review, Nantygreens and Agbowo. He writes from Akure, Nigeria.

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