PARTE 2 : I always see my neighbor’s wife putting her hand inside her skirt, hiding and sniffing my boxers anytime I dry my boxers on the general rope.

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She took another step closer, raised my black boxers and slowly wiped it across my face.

“My husband is a good man,” she whispered, her eyes staring deep into mine. “But he is boring… Every night, it’s prayer, prayer, prayer. I need something fresh. I need excitement. And you, Femi… you are going to give it to me.”

“Ah! God forbid!” I blurted out, shaking my head aggressively. “Bro Kola is like an elder brother to me! I can never do such a thing to him! Please leave my room before…”

Before I could finish my sentence, something happened that made my soul almost leave my body.

Hurried footsteps echoed in the compound, someone was walking straight toward my flat.

Then came a loud, aggressive knock on my door.

GBAM! GBAM! GBAM!

“Femi! Femi! Are you awake?!” It was Bro Kola’s voice. He sounded panicked and angry.

Mummy Joy’s eyes went wide in fear, she looked at the door, then looked at me. The fearless woman from two seconds ago was suddenly shaking like a leaf.

“Femi, please open this door right now! Have you seen my wife?!” Bro Kola shouted from outside, aggressively shaking my door handle.

If I opened the door, he would find his wife in my room, in the dark, wearing only a nightgown!

My life was officially over.

To be continued…

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I married a prisoner for money while he was serving a twelve-year sentence — but after his conviction was overturned, he came to my apartment with a black box and said, "Now it’s my turn to be honest." When I agreed to marry Jonah, I didn’t care whether he was innocent. He had been convicted of stealing from his family’s charity. I was twenty-seven, drowning in rent notices and raising my brother. So when Jonah’s mother offered me $2,000 a month to become his wife on paper, I said yes before shame could catch up with me. "Visit twice a month," she said. "Write letters. Make the court see he still has family." Our wedding happened behind scratched glass, with a guard watching the clock. I expected Jonah to be angry. Cold. Maybe cruel. But he was gentle. He remembered my brother’s birthday, asked if I had eaten, and sent notes with sketches in the margins. At first, I only acted like I cared. Then I stopped acting. I started reading his case files at night. Missing signatures. Dates that didn’t match. A witness who left the state after testifying. When everyone else called Jonah a thief, I stood outside courthouses with folders in my arms, begging lawyers to take another look. Jonah never asked why. By then, I loved him. Three years after our prison wedding, the truth came out. His cousin had moved the charity money, forged Jonah’s name, and let him take the blame. The day Jonah walked free, I thought he would run into my arms. Instead, his face tightened, as if freedom itself had bruised him. Then he took my hand and said, "Come home with me." For one week, I believed we had survived the worst of it. Then, on the eighth night, Jonah placed a black box on our kitchen table. "What is that?" "Now it’s my turn to be honest." I tried to smile. "Jonah, don’t scare me." His expression shifted, and my skin went cold. "Yes," he whispered. "I have to. Because when you married me, you agreed to something far BIGGER than a name on paper."