“I prefer to believe the opposite – that there is always an indestructible beauty at the heart of darkness.”
– Mary Balogh, A Secret Affair
Wale, who was my partner in crime at the office, was nowhere to be found.
He’d spent the entire weekend lost in a haze of weed and fleeting affairs.
Apparently, yoruba men had a special talent for cheating, a skill they should
document for future generations to learn from.
The office on December 12th, 2021, was as always a constant battlefield. It
was a warzone not just because of the space, but because of the clients who
seemed hell-bent on making my life difficult and the colleagues who played
a cutthroat game for every last client.
That day was no different. I waited for Kolade’s 11 am call, his usual way of
checking in and whispering sweet nothings. He was everything I craved:
thoughtful, respectful, a man who treated a woman right. When he didn’t
call, a familiar emptiness settled in, mirroring the ache between my thighs.
“Spread your legs,” his voice finally came, an order I obeyed without
question. He saw me, all of me, leaving me vulnerable. Would he take me
now? His breath danced against my skin, sending shivers down my spine.
Then, a symphony of sensations – his lips, his tongue, a wildfire igniting
within me, pushing me to new heights of pleasure. I surrendered, lost in a
world of desire and obedience. His arms wrapped around me, his lips
trailing upwards, igniting every nerve ending.
At 12:37 pm, the harsh office fluorescent lights flickered overhead,
momentarily pulling me from the pleasant daydream I’d woven around
Kolade’s upcoming call. The client I was supposed to meet had cancelled,
leaving a gaping hole in my afternoon schedule. I glanced at the clock again,
willing the minute hand to tick faster. Just as I was about to reach for my
phone and dial Kolade myself, a senior colleague barged in, his voice laced
with urgency. He needed a file, one I distinctly remembered leaving at
home in the rush that morning.
Swallowing my disappointment, I grabbed my bag and left the office
building, the sterile air replaced by the humid embrace of a Lagos
afternoon. My normally bustling commute felt strangely subdued, the
honking horns and shouts of street vendors a dull roar in my ears. As I
pulled onto my street, lined with identical, newly built duplexes, a familiar
silver glint caught my eye. Kolade’s car.
My heart lurched, a torrent of emotions swirling in my gut. Relief battled
with a nagging unease. Maybe he’d decided to work from home for the rest
of the day, a welcome change from our usual routine. Perhaps he’d even
surprised me by picking up groceries or ordering takeout for our lunch
break. A giddy smile threatened to bloom on my face, but it was quickly
extinguished by a cold dread that snaked its way up my spine.
What if something was wrong? What if he was sick, or worse, in some kind
of trouble? My mind raced with possibilities, each one more outlandish
than the last. I pulled into the driveway, my hands trembling slightly as I
fumbled with the keys. The familiar scent of jasmine greeted me as I
opened the door, a scent I usually associated with Kolade’s cologne. But
today, it smelled different, acrid and almost metallic, sending a shiver down
my spine once again.
The house was eerily quiet, the silence broken only by the rhythmic hum of
the air conditioner. I called out for Kolade, my voice barely above a
whisper. No answer. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic
drumbeat urging me forward. I wandered deeper into the house, the
polished porcelain tiles cool beneath my bare feet. Everything looked
exactly as I’d left it: the plush grey couch adorned with colorful throw
pillows, the abstract painting on the wall that I’d never quite loved but
tolerated for his sake, the half-empty bottle of Four Cousins on the dining
table.
Yet, something felt off, a subtle dissonance in the symphony of our shared
life. It was then that I heard it, a faint rustling sound coming from upstairs.
My breath hitched in my throat, and I slowly climbed the carpeted stairs,
each step echoing in the oppressive silence.
I reached the landing, my hand hovering over the doorknob to our
bedroom. I hesitated, my mind conjuring a thousand scenarios, each one
more terrifying than the last. Finally, with a deep breath, I pushed the door
open.
The sight that greeted me was a tableau of stark betrayal. Kolade lay
sprawled on the bed, naked and unmoving. But it wasn’t him that held my
gaze, it was the figure beside him. A young man, no older than his early
twenties, with skin the color of dark chocolate and eyes that mirrored the
emptiness I felt in my own soul. His face, classically handsome with a sharp
jawline and full lips, was contorted in a look of surprise, his dark eyes wide
with shock.
He was beautiful, undeniably so, but in that moment, his beauty was a
grotesque caricature, a mockery of everything I thought I had with Kolade.
My vision blurred with tears, a torrent of emotions threatening to drown
me. Rage, hot and primal, surged through my veins, threatening to
consume me whole. Betrayal, a bitter pill lodged in my throat, choked back
a scream that clawed at my throat.
Finally, the unbearable silence shattered. A strangled cry escaped my lips, a
raw expression of the pain that coursed through me. The sound seemed to
startle the stranger, making him flinch. He scrambled to his feet, his gaze
flickering between me and Kolade, his movements jerky and panicky.
“What is this?” I rasped, my voice barely above a whisper. My body
trembled, as if the earth itself had shifted beneath my feet. The question
hung in the air, a pregnant silence following its utterance.
Kolade, as if sensing the shift, stirred on the bed. He slowly turned, his face
a mask of confusion and dawning realization. His eyes met mine, and for a
fleeting moment, a flicker of something akin to shame flickered across his
face.
“I… I can explain,” he stammered, his voice rough with sleep and the
remnants of surprise. His words, however, lacked conviction, sounding
hollow and empty.
But before I could even process his feeble attempt at an explanation, the
stranger stepped forward, placing a hand on Kolade’s shoulder.
He wasn’t the Adonis I’d envisioned. His chest, exposed to the harsh light,
was a canvas of raised, keloid scars, remnants of a childhood illness. His
face, while possessing a certain rugged handsomeness, was dominated by a
bulbous nose that seemed perpetually congested. His body, once hidden by
the sheets, revealed an unfortunate combination of pot belly and spindly
legs.
Yet, in that moment, his grotesque form seemed to magnify Kolade’s
betrayal. This wasn’t a passionate affair fueled by fleeting attraction, it was
a calculated act of deceit. The ugliness wasn’t just in their naked actions,
but in the hollowness Kolade had revealed at his core.
Esse The Wicked
