The SMS was three words long: I am pregnant.
You blinked twice, hoping your eyes would un-see what it had seen. But no, the words stood desolate on your phone screen.
You sat back and closed your eyes.
You had closed early & was rushing to the Mainland when you saw her about to enter a red Camry. A closer look at the car told you it was a Uber.
You double-parked and requested to take her wherever she was going
While she pondered your offer, you quickly got down, palmed ten crisp one thousand naira notes to the driver and opened her door.
Another month later, the SMS dropped, like unwanted fart at a high profile gathering.
I am pregnant.
“This is trouble mehn,” you muttered as your brain shifted into drive. “This cannot be, no. I just can't...”
“Hey baby,” her voice filtered through the earpiece.
“I got your message,” you responded, not bothering with any form of affection.
“I am talking to you, don't play deaf and dumb on me now,” you chastised, anger welling up somewhere inside you.
The line went dead. She had cut the call.
You called back. Again and again. She would not pick.
Every day, you sent a text. Each day, she kept mum on you.
Ikeja brought back your mojo. The transformation of Opebi, where your office is located, from an idyllic cosmopolis at daytime to a sprawling red light zone at night intrigued you.
You had woken up with a fever and general debility. Work was not an option. You called in sick and called a Taxify to take you to the hospital. You struggled out of bed when the cab called to say he was around.
At the hospital, you went through..
That was when she walked in, with a man in tow.
You stood up so she could see you. When she did, she barely broke stride.
Instead, she walked on to the ante-natal session her arm linking the man's.
She ignored you like a discarded underwear.
After all, that was your baby she was carrying. So you waited. Even when it was your turn to see the doctor, you passed it up and allowed those after you go see him.
You were not going to miss her on her way back.
“Hi, how are you?” she asked stretching her hand for a handshake
“ I, I am fine,” you stammered
“Meet my husband of 4 years, Steve, he is just back from his PhD studies in the UK"
Steve offered a semblance of a smile and enclosed your hand in a firm grip of a handshake.
Husband of four years? PhD studies in UK? What is going on?
“I'll see you later,” you heard her say as the headache and fever returned in a blast.
When she came back, you tried to sleep with her again but she refused all your attempts. Then she sent the text.
There and then you got it.
You were used, the foolish victim of a lonely wife.