Let me confess. If your heart is not strong, go and buy a bottle of cold water before you continue.
Let me confess.
If your heart is not strong, go and buy a bottle of cold water before you continue.
My name is Kelvin, but my friends call me the Specialist. I had the life every man dreams of.
I had a solid job at a big firm, a car that doesn’t cough, and a wife who looked like she fell straight from heaven.
Ifeoma is a powerhouse. She runs three shops and can calculate money faster than a computer. I call her the CEO of the House.
But you know what they say about a man who has everything? He will still find a way to look for trouble.
That trouble came in the form of a girl named Sharon. Sharon was all shades of “vibes.”
She had long lashes that looked like they could sweep the streets of Port Harcourt. She laughed at all my dry jokes.
Within two weeks, we were already sending sweet messages. I told myself it was just small play. I thought I was a sharp man. I was wrong.
Sharon was not playing. She started posting our chats on her status with the caption: My Forever King.
I warned her. I told her I am a married man with a heavy-duty wife.
She just laughed and said, “Don’t worry, we are just catching cruise.”
I thought I was the one playing the game until one Friday when my destiny decided to take a break.
Ifeoma told me she was traveling to the East to see her mother for the weekend.
She kissed me, packed her big bag, and drove off in her SUV.
I didn’t even wait for her car to leave the street before I called Sharon.
”Baby, the coast is clear. Come and spend the night.”
Sharon arrived like she was coming for a beauty pageant. Full makeup at 10pm and enough perfume to kill a whole colony of ants.
We cooked, watched movies, and did exactly what foolish men do when their wives are away.
Around 2am, I heard a sound that made my blood go cold.
The front door opened.
Then I heard the sound of heels. Heavy heels. Marching like a soldier coming from war.
I froze. My heart was beating like a drum.
Before I could hide Sharon under the bed, the door flew open.
It was Ifeoma.
No wig. No makeup. Just a wrapper tied around her waist and a look in her eye that said “Today is your funeral.”
She did not scream. She did not cry. She just looked at us like she was looking at two cockroaches.
“So, this is the guest house you opened in our bedroom?” she asked. Her voice was too calm.
I tried to speak. “Baby, I can explain. It’s a misunderstanding.”
Before the word “misunderstanding” could leave my mouth, Ifeoma moved.
She didn’t go for me first. She went for Sharon.
She grabbed Sharon’s 50-inch wig and swung her like a wet towel. Sharon screamed “Jesus!” but the room was silent.
Then Ifeoma turned to me. Her eyes were red.
”You! Hold this your small girl before I finish her work!”
I rushed to grab Ifeoma’s hand to stop the beating.
That was the biggest mistake of my life.
My wife turned and gave me a slap that reset my factory settings.
I saw stars. I saw my ancestors waving at me from the village.
While I was still trying to find my balance, Sharon shouted the words that broke the final string of my life:
“Wait! You told me she died in a car accident three years ago!” If you have never seen a woman turn into a lion, just pray you never see Ifeoma when she is angry.
That slap she gave me made my left ear start playing music. I was standing there, shaking like a leaf.
Sharon was on the floor, her wig was gone, and her makeup was smeared across her face like a scary movie.
Ifeoma didn’t stop. She took my favorite belt and started a freestyle session on both of us.
”So I am dead?” Ifeoma screamed at Sharon. “He told you I am a ghost?”
Sharon was crying, “Aunty please! He said his wife died three years ago! He even showed me a picture of a grave!”
I wanted to enter the floor. I had never felt so small in my life.
Ifeoma stopped beating us, went to the kitchen, and came back with a bucket of cold water.
She poured it on both of us. At 3am.
”Out!” she barked. “Both of you, out of my house before I use a knife to sign my name on your bodies!”
Sharon did not even look for her shoes. She ran out of the house with her natural hair standing up like a brush.
I was the one who paid for the house, but in that moment, the house belonged to Ifeoma.
I had to drive Sharon to her place in my boxers and a torn shirt. The security guards at the gate were just staring at me.
I spent the rest of the night inside my car, crying and praying.
The next morning, I returned home to find all my clothes on the balcony.
Every single shirt I owned had the buttons cut off. Every pair of trousers had been turned into shorts.
I went to her shop to beg. I knelt down in front of her customers.
She looked at me and told her staff, “Please tell this stranger that we don’t give change to beggars here.”
It took three months of intervention. My mother came. Her father came. Our pastor came.
The pastor told her she must forgive because the heart is a temple.
Ifeoma agreed to let me back into the house, but on one condition.
I wake up at 5 am to sweep the compound. I wash all the plates. I iron her clothes every morning.
And the worst part? Every time I want to buy something for myself, I have to write an application letter to her.
She has my phone password. She has my bank app password. She even follows me to the barber shop.
Sometimes, she will just look at me and say, “Is the ghost doing well today?”
I just nod and continue washing the dishes.
I have learned my lesson. If you think you are a sharp man, just remember that your wife might be a double-edged sword.
Cheating is expensive, but being a houseboy in your own home is the highest price you can pay.
If you know anyone who thinks he is playing a fast one, tag him here so he can learn from my red ears.
THE END.
