Chapter 1: The Front Seat Wahala

Odogwu Nnamdi came to pick me up.

The hot afternoon sun in Lagos had started its slow descent, painting the sky burnt orange as it shone through the dirty glass of our compound gate. I wiped sweat from my brow with the back of my hand, the same way my mother did when deep in thought, then squared my shoulders. Odogwu Nnamdi wey no dey ever loosen up, now let his new secretary sit for front. My people, na from clap dance dey start.

That was the moment I knew—our marriage don enter wahala.

1

That day, Odogwu Nnamdi drove to pick me up.

I stepped out in my well-ironed ankara dress, gold thread catching the sun, feeling extra sharp because I’d powdered my face, arched my brows, and sprayed my best perfume—this was our special outing. As I opened the passenger door, I paused for a second.

A young, fine woman was sitting there, smiling at me sweetly.

Her face was round and smooth, cheekbones high enough to make even an auntie jealous, and her hair was styled in that neat, corporate way young Abuja ladies liked. The faint scent of coconut oil floated from her, and the click of her acrylic nails tapping her phone added a restless energy to the car. She carried a small brown leather bag, and I noticed her phone case—green and gold, decorated with a northern motif you see on cap embroidery.

"Good evening, Madam Nnamdi."

She greeted me politely, but she didn’t even try to get out or leave the seat for me.

Her smile hung on her lips, polite but determined, like she had rehearsed the greeting ten times in front of her mirror that morning. I could feel the underlying tension: the kind of smile that says 'I know my place, but make I test the water small.'

I squinted, my eyes shifting to Odogwu Nnamdi.

He was busy with his phone call, acting like he didn’t notice the tension inside the car.

His left hand drummed lightly on the steering wheel—a habit from his university days in Nsukka. The faint sound of highlife music buzzed from the radio, barely audible behind his low, measured voice on the phone. Typical Odogwu Nnamdi: pretend like wahala no dey, meanwhile everybody dey feel am.

We were supposed to attend an auction together that evening.

The event had been the gist among our friends for weeks. Lagos society women don’t play with such things—everybody wants to shine, to show their husband’s power. I had been looking forward to this outing, even dressed up specially for him. I never expected to find someone else occupying his front seat.

"Hello, Madam Nnamdi. My name is Aisha Musa. I’m Chief Nnamdi’s new assistant."

She smiled warmly, dimples showing—she looked very sweet.

She had the kind of gentle, innocent look that would make even a strict auntie soft. Her voice lilted with a soft northern accent, making her sound even more humble. I could see why men in the office would want to help her.

"I heard you two were going to a private auction tonight, so I begged Chief Nnamdi to let me follow and see the world a bit. Don’t worry, I promise I won’t disturb you."

Her hands clutched her bag tightly, but her eyes sparkled with excitement. She looked at me with the kind of hope that made it hard to vex—if not for the circumstance. I could smell trouble in the air, the way you smell rain before the clouds gather.

My heart just sank immediately.

I know this cold, perfect man too well. He always keeps his distance, hardly lets anyone get close.

They say the eyes never lie, and the way his gaze slid over me—distant, as if he didn’t want to explain—I felt small cracks begin to appear inside me. We got together because of business—after plenty thinking, we chose each other.

People used to joke that I’d end up like a living widow.

My friends used to whisper, 'Na wa o, Amaka, better make sure him no turn you to dry fish.' Their laughter always carried a hidden warning, one I used to brush off with a flick of my hand.

But after we became a couple, Odogwu Nnamdi would hold me gently, and in our intimate moments, his eyes would even go a little red.

Sometimes, late at night, when Lagos noise faded and it was just us in our big house, he would pull me close and his heart would beat so heavy I could feel it through my back.

He once said, "You are my wife. Husband and wife are one—of course you’re different from everyone else."

He’d say it with that deep, steady voice of his, as if pronouncing a blessing. I used to believe it could never change.

But today, something had changed.