“She’s living my life! Deji is mine!”
Those were the first words that escaped my lips when I saw them. It came like a whisper. The woman who now had the heart I once held in my hands.
Deji and I had been together for six years—a solid, storm-tested love. He was the kind of man you pray for: gentle, patient, and always putting me first. I still remember that fateful night at the eatery when everything changed. He had done nothing wrong, not even a little. If anything, he had gone above and beyond, just like he always did.
But for some inexplicable reason, my temper flared in a moment of madness, and I slapped him. One sharp, stinging slap across his face in the middle of a crowded eatery. I still hear the gasps of strangers echoing in my ears.
Deji didn’t retaliate. He didn’t shout. He just looked at me with the kind of pain that words can’t describe—like a man watching his heart shatter before him.
When he got home, he held my hands, poured me some wine and told me to sit and relax while he does the chores. He washed my clothes, cooked my favorite meal, and cleaned the house so well it sparkled. After the dinner, he carried me to the bed room, held me like I was the only thing that mattered, his kisses tender and lingering, his touch burning through my soul. It was the best lovemaking I’ve had in a long time.
By next morning, he was gone. I could smell him all across my room. Even on my body, his sweat glued for a lifetime.
When I woke up, there was a photograph of a beautiful engagement ring sitting on the table, along with a single line scribbled beneath it:
“Yesterday should have been the day…”
Confusion swirled through me like a storm. What did he mean? The weight of his absence began to crush me. I rushed to his house, my heart pounding louder than the car’s engine. But his friends claimed they hadn’t seen him.
I called his phone over and over, only to hear the cold, robotic voice of disconnection. My number was blocked I suspected. Every trace of me was erased from his social media.
He blocked me!
That was when it hit me: I never apologized. Not once did I say sorry for that slap, for my temper, for taking him for granted.
I sat in my car, numb, as the reality of what I’d done sank in. Why did I slap him? Deji, the man who loved me so completely, who would move heaven and earth just to see me smile. Why did my anger betray me in that moment? My mind whispered what I didn’t want to hear: My village people must have tied a knot with my temper.
I visited his sister’s house, hoping for a glimpse of him or at least a clue, but she claimed she hadn’t seen him either. Her words were curt, her eyes betraying nothing. The silence she left me with felt like a heavy cloud pressing on my chest. In desperation, I turned to the only female friend I knew he was close to—Anna. I begged her, tears streaming down my face, to reach out to him on my behalf, to plead with him, to tell him I was sorry.
Anna sent a long, heartfelt message, weaving words of apology and reconciliation, but no response came. Days turned into weeks, and my hope faded like the last flicker of a candle. I even searched his profile on Facebook, only to find that he had deactivated his account, leaving no trace of himself behind.
For three long years, I heard nothing. Not a whisper, not a shadow. But I couldn’t let go. I kept searching, kept asking anyone who might have known him, clinging to the faintest thread of hope.
Life, however, didn’t pause for my broken heart. I moved to Lagos where I met another man—kind, patient, and loving. He wrapped my wounded soul in tenderness, and in just six months, he introduced me to his family. Two months later, we were married. His love was a soothing balm, but a part of me remained tied to Deji.
Every touch, kiss, lovemaking, the only way I could enjoy it was pictured Deji holding me. My husband even thought it’s a pet name that I gave him after moaning the name more than five times.
During the Christmas holidays, at his family’s reunion party, the unthinkable happened. My husband slumped suddenly, collapsing to the ground like a tree struck by lightning. Panic seized the room, and we rushed him to the hospital. The doctor who attended to us was calm and professional, her voice like a melody meant to steady my nerves. She was heavily pregnant and radiantly beautiful, her kind smile briefly soothing my anxiety.
But then, something stopped me cold. Her surname—Hopkin. It tugged at a corner of my mind like a forgotten song.
When she invited me to her office, I couldn’t shake my unease. And then I saw it: a picture frame sitting on her desk, displaying a photo of a newly wedded couple. My heart raced as I leaned closer, and the room seemed to tilt. The man in the photo—my Deji. His face stared back at me, happy and full of life, standing beside the pregnant doctor.
I froze as my suspicions solidified into a cruel reality. The doctor was speaking, but her words sounded like muffled echoes. My mind was a storm, her voice drowned in the deafening roar of my thoughts. Unable to bear it, I stood abruptly and hurried out of her office, my legs trembling beneath me.
My sister-in-laws were waiting outside, their eyes wide with curiosity and concern. They bombarded me with questions about what the doctor had said, but I couldn’t find my voice. I stood there, mute, as if my words had been stolen by the shock of the moment.
Their frustration grew. They brushed past me and went inside, determined to get the answers I couldn’t give. I stood there, staring at nothing, the world around me spinning as I grappled with the cruel twist of fate that had just unfolded before me.
While I was stylishly c°rying, a d£vastating mix of h£artbreak and frustrati●n brewing in my chest, a very handsome, dashing man strolled into the hospital lobby. He had a small cooler in his hands, and to my shock, it was Deji.
His charming smile was the kind that could disarm even the coldest heart. It used to be my weakness, the way his lips curled upward like they carried the promise of endless joy. For a moment, I thought he saw me. My heart raced with a dangerous mix of hope and longing. But then, he walked past me, like I was nothing more than a shadow on the wall. That cut deeper than any knife.
I tiptoed after him, curiosity mixed with jealousy driving me to peek through the keyhole of the office he entered. There he was, kissing his wife with a tenderness I hadn’t seen in years. He handed her a piece of chicken, gently guiding it to her mouth—the exact same way he used to do for me when we were together. That sight shattered me. My heart splintered like glass falling from a great height.
Jealousy coursed through my veins like venom. Memories of us flooded my mind, each one stabbing me like a thousand tiny daggers. I remembered the struggles we shared when he had nothing.
He is ungrateful!
Has he forgotten how I stole foodstuffs from home and smuggled them to him in school?
Jumped fences to see him happy? How I paid for his project, bought clothes for him, cooked, and even gave him my body.
He was my first.
My everything!
After our service year, when money was tight, it was my salary that kept us afloat. Now that life had smiled on him, he was spending the wealth I helped him build on another woman.
She’s living my life, I thought. Not under my watch.
As I wrestled with my emotions, I realized my sister-in-laws had already left the hospital. Moments later, Deji emerged with his wife.
“Hi, Avana,”
he said, his voice smooth but distant.
“Meet my wife, Evelyn. Evelyn, meet Avana—the lady I told you about. I’m sorry about what happened to your husband.”
His words stung, but I managed to smile. I stepped forward to hug him, but he stopped me with a raised hand. Instead, he turned to Evelyn, kissed her softly, and then reluctantly hugged me. The pain of that hug was unbearable.
“You know she’s living my life,”
I said, barely able to contain myself.
“You gave her the white wedding, the same diamond ring you almost proposed to me with. I want it back.”
It didn’t sound right, but at that moment, I didn’t care about what was right. I was tired—tired of pretending, tired of holding back, tired of watching the life I built with him slip away.
“Why did you leave without telling me?”
I sobb£d, my voice shaking with anger and heartbreak. “I was about to apologize! You left me shattered. You’re so wicked and mean. Men are scum!”
Evelyn, sensing the tension, stepped back, giving us space.
Deji’s life has really turned around. His car now lives in affluence. But, I am missing in that world. The world I created and suffered for.
“You shouldn’t have slapped me that night,”
he said, his tone calm but firm.
“And when you did, you walked away—on me, on us—in front of the people I had invited to witness my proposal. That wasn’t the first time or even the third. I couldn’t take it anymore.”
“But why did you still sleep with me afterward?”
I demanded, my voice rising with desperation.
“The first time we met, we had sex,”
he said, his words hitting me like a slap. “It felt like the only normal thing to do—farewell sex.”
I broke down completely.
“I still love you, Deji,”
I cried.
“I want to spend my entire life with you. Tell her to go. We’ll take care of her baby together. You and I were made in heaven. My mum told me you were my husband, and I didn’t believe her until now. Please, baby.”
“Avana,”
he said gently,
“it’s too late. You had all the time to change, and you didn’t. Evelyn is my wife, and I love her with every fiber of my being. I would die for her, just as I once thought I could die for you. But now, she owns my heart.”
Rage and despair took over me. I spotted a glass bottle near his car, picked it up, and smashed it against his head. Blood gushed out, and he crumpled to the ground. D£ad.
“Avana!”
I jolted back to reality, my heart pounding. It was all in my head. Deji was alive and well, standing right in front of me. T£ars welled up in my eyes, spilling down my cheeks like a broken dam.
Why had I slapped him that night? Why hadn’t I controlled my temper?
He had invaded my privacy, yes, and blocked my secondary school ex on WhatsApp, but was that enough reason?
I stood there, numb, as Deji and Evelyn got into their car and drove off.
Just as I turned to leave, a nurse rushed out to meet me.
“Ma’am, I’m so sorry, but your husband didn’t make it,” she said.
At that moment, my world collapsed. I had lost the two most important men in my life—one through my own flaws and the other to the cruel hands of fat.
Don’t be like me.
THE END…