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The Midnight Encounter…
It was a calm and uneventful Thursday night. The only noise in the house was the chirping of crickets and the gentle whir of the ceiling fan in our bedroom. My husband, Ebuka, had just come back from Port Harcourt, where he claimed to have gone for business. I greeted him with a warm serving of egusi and pounded yam. We shared a meal, exchanged a few laughs, and then he drifted off to sleep beside me, just like he always did—like a man with no secrets.
At 11:45 p.m., I was skimming through a devotional book under the bedside lamp when I heard a knock at the gate.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Initially, I thought it was my imagination. Who would be knocking at this late hour?
I sat up and listened closely.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
“Ebuka,” I whispered, gently nudging him. “Did you hear that?”
He groaned and turned away from me. “Ignore it. It’s probably just some local boys. They’ll leave.”
But something inside me didn’t want to disregard it. The knock wasn’t frantic; it was steady, sure, as if the person behind it had every reason to be there.
Curiosity pulled me out of bed. I wrapped a cloth over my nightgown and slipped on my sandals. Cautiously, I ventured outside and peeked through the curtain over the small window in the living room.
There stood a woman at the gate.
She appeared calm and composed, oddly familiar, like someone I’d seen in a wedding magazine and could never forget. Dressed in a simple blue gown, she carried a small overnight bag.
I unlocked the front door and approached the gate. “Hi there! Who are you looking for?” I asked, trying to keep my tone steady.
She smiled gently and then said something that sent a chill down my spine.
“I’m here to see my husband.”
I blinked. “Your husband?”
“Yes,” she replied, her voice remaining tranquil. “Ebuka. He’s my husband. This is his house, right?”
My throat went dry.
At first, I thought she was joking, or perhaps mistaking him for someone else. But Ebuka’s name wasn’t common, and she had come directly to our gate.
Still in shock, I asked, “Who… who are you?”
She reached into her bag and pulled out a wedding photo. There was my Ebuka, standing next to her in a cream suit, grinning widely. She wore a white gown, her hand lightly resting on his chest.
“I’m Amara,” she said. “Ebuka and I got married six years ago in Owerri. I just found out he moved here. I came to see him… and you, I guess.”
My legs weakened. I leaned against the gate for support. “He told me he had been married once but that his wife left and went abroad.”
She shook her head slowly. “I never left him. I only went to Canada for three years. I returned last week. Someone informed me he had started a new life in Lagos. I didn’t believe it until now.”
I heard the front door creak open from inside the house. Ebuka stood there in his boxers, rubbing sleep from his eyes until he caught sight of us. He froze, as if caught between two realities, unsure of which one was true.
“Amara…?” he called.
I turned to him. “Ebuka, who is this woman?”
He opened his mouth but no words came out.
The silence between us shattered something deep within me.
That night, I discovered that the man I called my husband had a life I knew nothing about.
And the most painful part? He showed no remorse.
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