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- Herausgeber: WS
- Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
- Sprache: Englisch
His wife wants him dead. Discovering why might kill him faster.
Cold and calculating, insurance executive Michael Azodo has built a life on refusing mercy to others. Then he meets Rebecca, a compassionate nurse with shadows behind her smile who breaks through his carefully constructed walls. Their intense romance leads to a happy marriage—until Michael collapses.
Hospital tests reveal someone is poisoning him. Evidence points to his beloved wife, but Michael, refusing the police, seeks her hidden motives alone. His investigation uncovers a devastating truth: Rebecca’s true identity is tied to a tragedy he caused but cannot remember—one his psychologist mother made him forget. As his health deteriorates alongside his crumbling marriage, Michael confronts who he’s been and who he could become.
In a race against his failing body, Michael faces the ultimate question: what price is too high for redemption?
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Seitenzahl: 295
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2026
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MoSA Publishing
Copyright © 2025 Gilbert Bassey
All rights reserved.
Published by MoSA Publishing
Lagos, Nigeria
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
ISBN: 979-8-89170-321-6 (eBook)
ISBN: 979-8-89170-322-3 (print)
Edited by Maggie Osuome and Claude Anthony
Cover Design by Marta Obucina and Cristian Gipalti
Text Layout & Design by Sam Okike
First MoSA Publishing printing, November 2025
Printed in Nigeria
Table of Contents
Acknowledgments
Dedication
Prologue: Two Meetings
Chapter One: Blood On His Hands
Chapter Two: Happily Ever After
Chapter Three: Brawl
Chapter Four: Two Cases of Mistaken Identity
Chapter Five: Unwanted Life
Chapter Six: The Queen’s Party
Chapter Seven: The People We Love
Chapter Eight: Let’s Have A Baby
Chapter Nine: An Unexpected Fall
Chapter Ten: A Promise Made
Chapter Eleven: BOOM!
Chapter Twelve: Proof
Chapter Thirteen: The Old Man
Chapter Fourteen: Looking For Sarah
Chapter Fifteen: Finding Isaac
Chapter Sixteen: Forgotten Memory
Chapter Seventeen: The Mistake That Cost A Life
Chapter Eighteen: What Did You Say?
Chapter Nineteen: I Hate You
Chapter Twenty: A Brother Lost
Chapter Twenty-One: A Family Destroyed
Chapter Twenty-Two: Death Sentence
Chapter Twenty-Three: A Difficult Decision
Chapter Twenty-Four: Amaka’s Intervention
Chapter Twenty-Five: A Mother’s Lie
Chapter Twenty-Six: A Promise Fulfilled
Chapter Twenty-Seven: New Friends
Chapter Twenty-Eight: Oruamen
Chapter Twenty-Nine: Mother and Son
Chapter Thirty: An Act of Kindness
Chapter Thirty-One: Hard Deadline
Chapter Thirty-Two: Two Dying Men
Chapter Thirty-Three: Beyond Redemption
Chapter Thirty-Four: A Personal Message
Chapter Thirty-Five: The Fall
Chapter Thirty-Six: The Old Man in Private Ward 10
Chapter Thirty-Seven: Saving Sarah
Chapter Thirty-Eight: A Father’s Regret
Chapter Thirty-Nine: Cap and Bucky
Chapter Forty: He Needs to Know
Chapter Forty-One: An Unexpected Revelation
Chapter Forty-Two: Together
Chapter Forty-Three: A Decent Man
Did you enjoy this novel?
About the Author
Postscript: Preview of ‘Ali: Raindance’
Chapter One: The Tape
Chapter Two: NTA on Fire
Chapter Three: The Rainmaker
Chapter Four: Four Million Naira
Acknowledgments
This story was birthed from a nightmare I had in 2015 from which I awoke terribly disturbed. Within months, maybe a year even, the idea for A Decent Man took shape. It began as my first feature-length screenplay—written after buying every book on storytelling I could find to teach myself a craft I didn’t know. But I hated the screenplay workflow: needing someone to buy my script, needing someone to make it into a film. In short, I wanted control, so I transformed it into a novel. The first draft of this book was finished in 2018, and seven years later, I’m finally publishing it.
To Hilda Baci, my sister and the first person to read this story, you woke me up from sleep weeping over the story. That moment gave me the confidence to keep going. Your tears mattered more than you may ever know.
To Mildred Okwo, you read the earliest screenplay draft and tore it apart with the kind of honesty I deeply respect. Your brutal feedback sharpened the pacing and structure of this story in ways that still hold. Thank you for not being “nice”.
To my beta readers, Sophia Macauley, Maxwell Paul, Daniel Chukwuemeka, Elvis Dampety, Abasiekeme Ekpenyong, Haleemah Billameen, and Favour Enekole, thank you for your careful eyes and for catching the errors I missed.
To the production team, Maggie Osuome and Claude Anthony for editing, Marta Obucina and Cristian Gipalti for cover design, Sam Okike for text layout and design. Your work brought this book into its final form. Thank you for your craft and care.
To Onyinye Kalu, my cousin and publishing assistant at MoSA Publishing—the company I created to publish this book and the works to come—thank you for being part of this from the beginning.
To the advance readers who believed in this story before the world saw it, your support made the launch possible.
And finally, to you, my reader, thank you for taking a chance on this story. I hope it stays with you as it has with me.
Dedication
For my mother, Lynda, who sacrificed her best years to give me the means to become.
Prologue:Two Meetings
Two meetings that day would change Michael’s life forever, though he wouldn’t know it for a year.
Amaka knew what was coming. How could she not? The walls had ears, and she had long mastered the art of listening. But still, her heart leapt when the door to Michael’s office flung open. It sank when Boyé stormed out, his face twisted with a rage she’d never seen in their three years as colleagues.
On instinct, she rose to intercept him and offer comfort, because what else could she do? He’d just been fired for trying to help a woman in need, and the least she could do was help numb the pain, however little.
“He is a devil,” Boyé announced, walking past Amaka’s outstretched arms.
Against her better judgment, she’d harbored faint hope that her impassioned speech might sway Michael’s mind. But he had proven once again to be a man who did exactly as he pleased, others be damned. A powerful quality, certainly, but like all power, dark shadows followed in its wake.
On a different day, she would have felt compelled to go after Boyé, to make sure he was alright. But this was today, and the woman in black was still inside with Michael. She would need help soon.
***
“Please, I need this money. My baby is dying,” the woman in black begged, her voice raw against the wooden walls of the immaculate office.
Dressed in an expertly-tailored black suit, no tie, Michael replied, his deep baritone carrying an honesty that was as heartfelt as it was devoid of compassion, “I’m sorry, madam, but I can’t…”
“I have to save him,” she broke in.
Michael pressed on, “help you. Policy demands we investigate your husband’s death.”
“Oga, don’t tell me about company policy!” she half-shouted, slamming her hand on the desk.
A tense silence fell. The AC hummed in the corner, cooling the thick air. Having realized what she’d just done, the woman regained some of her composure. Well, as much as she could under the circumstances.
“I’m begging for my baby,” she whispered, tears falling.
“Nothing I can do,” Michael said, voice flat, unmoved by her tears. He frowned, annoyed, wondering where Amaka was. She should have been listening.
The woman dropped to her knees. “You can do something,” she sobbed. “Mr. Boyé promised me the money today, but you fired him! Please don’t do this.”
Amaka stepped in just then. Seeing the woman sobbing on the floor, she glared at Michael as she rushed to the woman’s side.
“Help me,” the woman said, “please beg him to save my baby.”
Experience had taught Amaka that different people required different consolation methods, and she had also learned to identify which approach suited whom. She opted to offer quiet consolation. She bent down and pulled the woman up while gently patting her shoulders exactly as her mother would have done.
She held the woman in front of her, meeting her tear-filled gaze with a look that said: I’m really sorry. If I could help you, I would. She led the woman in black out of the office, shooting Michael one last scowl as she crossed the doorway.
Michael couldn’t care less; he was leaving for lunch.
***
The upscale restaurant hummed with the quiet chatter of late-lunch diners. Michael sat in the corner, half-listening to his phone call, waiting for his meal. Soft pop ballads from the 2000s drifted from hidden speakers; Leona Lewis was Bleeding Love.
“You may think I’m cruel, but decency doesn’t pay the bills,” he said into his phone as a petite waitress in well-fitted black pants and white shirt, punctuated with ankara at the seams, approached with a black wooden tray.
“Our loyalty—call it kindness if you like—belongs to the company, not the client.” He watched the waitress with absent interest.
“Why?” He gave a light laugh, mocking the other’s ignorance. “Because clients don’t fund the expensive vacations or luxury cars.”
“Excuse me,” Michael called to the departing waitress.
“I’ll call you back.”
“Yes sir,” she returned with her practiced smile.
“I ordered chicken fried rice.” He gestured at the food. A small vase of red hibiscus sat beside the plates.
The waitress checked her tablet, her smile unwavering.
“I’m sorry, sir, but you ordered Chinese fried rice, peppered chicken, and fruit salad,” she said, her voice small but warm.
“So I’m lying?” He looked up at her, his tone remained calm.
“No sir, that’s not… I’m sorry.” Her face flushed with anxiety.
“I’d like to speak to the manager.”
Goosebumps pricked her neck.
“Please, sir, I’ll get you the Chicken fried rice. If he thinks I messed up, I’ll lose my job.”
Michael stood, ignoring her plea.
“Stop acting like a brat and sit down,” a voice cut in.
He froze mid-stride, stunned by such directness. He never tolerated embarrassment. Turning to locate this audacious speaker, anger surged through him, venomous retorts forming.
What he saw extinguished his fury instantly. Before him sat a woman whose beauty he’d never encountered before. Her slender frame and luminous black skin seemed to absorb the restaurant’s light, radiating it back with ethereal glow. His legs carried him toward her table before his mind registered the movement.
“Nice to meet you too. What do you say we turn this into a date?” he said, deploying his practiced charm. This’ll be easy, he thought.
“I only date decent men,” she replied without looking up from her medical journal, ignoring him with perfected indifference.
“And what will it take to make me decent?” he countered with a practiced smile.
“More than you can afford.”
“I can afford quite a lot.”
Then she raised her eyes—eyes that seemed to hold magic within them. She held his gaze briefly before directing it toward the distressed waitress. “Can you?”
He caught her meaning and conceded, signaling the waitress to bring his food. Then he pulled out a chair, making himself her uninvited companion.
She gave him a questioning look. “Courtesy requires permission before you join another’s table.”
“Courtesy demands many unnecessary things from society.”
“Your opinion.”
“My fact,” he replied, smiling more than he intended. She maintained her composed expression, but something in her eyes suggested she might be more amused than she let on.
“Any other facts to share?” she asked with feigned interest.
“My name is Michael Azodo, and you will be my wife.”
She laughed then, not a polite chuckle, but a genuine laugh that transformed her face and, oddly enough, made him want to hear it again.
Chapter One:Blood On His Hands
Out of the black void sprang a blinding white light that dissolved into the yellow glare of the sun shining on a familiar red-brick building. The deceptive tranquility, broken only by chirping birds and the breeze rustling through the tall green trees, carried an ominous weight, as if the scene itself were holding its breath.
With no forewarning, it came, as it always did: a piercing scream, terrifying in its rawness. It filled his world, bringing that familiar dread that never faded until this phase of the nightmare had run its course.
Even though he’d experienced it over a hundred times now, the dread still paralysed him, making it hard to breathe. It gave him the feeling that something terrible had happened, or was going to happen.
Then came the fall.
From the top floor of the ten-story red-brick building, looking down from the ledge, a boy fell. The image wavered—sometimes sharp, sometimes hazy—like a painting struggling to find its focus. The closer the falling boy got to the ground, the louder the scream became until it was unbearable. Just when he thought his ears would give out, the black void offered escape, enveloping him in its emptiness. But only for a while, because then came the guilt.
Sometimes the fall came first, other times last. Either way, one always accompanied the other; inseparable twins walking hand in hand to deliver their gifts of fear and guilt, shame and pain.
The guilt was the worst part. While the terror made it hard to breathe, the guilt hollowed him out completely, leaving him wishing he’d never existed at all. This feeling tore at his mind long before the accompanying image emerged from the void.
The desolate office space was choked with file cabinets overflowing with papers and worn manila folders. The heavy air hung with dankness, lending everything an unearthly quality. There a boy sat in the corner, knees pressed tight against his chest, muttering in rhythmic repetition, “it was a mistake...it was a mistake...it was a mistake...” But this time, something was different. There was blood on his hands.
And with that revelation, he came into the light.
***
Michael jerked awake in the green-tinted darkness, his heart pounding. His Iron Man nightshirt clung to him, soaked in cold sweat. The split-unit’s indicator glowed green, confirming the air conditioner was working despite the heat he felt. After a few deep breaths to orient himself, he turned on the bedside lamp and pulled open the first of three drawers. He rummaged inside before extracting a white prescription bottle with cursive handwriting on the label:
For your dreams
It was empty. Shit!
He’d woken up in the middle of the night enough times to know that trying to go back to sleep was pointless. His body simply wouldn’t allow it. He had two choices: finish the movie he’d been watching before bed or play video games until dawn. Opting to decide in the parlor, he turned off the light and left the room, but not before taking a moment to look at his sleeping wife. Even in darkness, Rebecca was beautiful.
ChapterTwo:Happily Ever After
Rebecca stood in her kitchen, feeling weirdly happy as morning sunlight streamed through the window above the grey sink. Four months into her marriage to Michael Azodo, she found herself consistently surprised by her contentment. Before the wedding—that spectacular affair at Maitama’s domed cathedral—she had anticipated frequent conflict, not this easy companionship that had developed between them.
She broke eggs into the transparent ceramic mixing bowl Amaka had given them as a wedding gift, her hands moving with the practiced efficiency that had earned her “Kitchen Ninja”, Michael’s nickname for her. Pancakes, eggs, and oatmeal for now; yam flour disguised as pounded yam and her mother’s spectacular egusi recipe for later. The recipes flowed through her fingers without conscious thought, techniques her mother had taught her long before.
A sudden clatter behind her made her jump. The last egg slipped from her fingers, shattering on the floor. Rebecca turned toward the sound with a flash of annoyance.
“You should see your face right now.” Michael leaned against the doorway, his expression alight with amusement.
“You owe me one egg,” she said, half-sulking.
“I’ll gladly trade one crate for a point,” he said with a victorious smile, walking to what he’d christened their “Wall of Moments.”
Rebecca watched as he updated their game scorecard on the refrigerator; a competition they’d started two months before the wedding. Seven months ago, the double-door smart-fridge had been just a large grey appliance. Michael had transformed it into their visual history, documenting what he considered their best moments together. His two strict rules: only pictures of them together were allowed, and each addition had to be distinctly different from all others.
The collection had grown steadily: the photo from their second date—the only conventionally romantic image of the lot; another from their wedding day showing Michael’s laughing face peeking from beneath her Cinderella-inspired gown; several from hiking adventures; one from their Dubai trip undertaken because Michael had specific burger cravings.
Michael updated their unnamed game’s scorecard on the fridge’s edge:
Month 6, Week 3 Michael [2 - 4] Rebecca
They still couldn’t agree on a name. Michael had suggested “Game of Love” which was too cheesy for her taste. She’d countered with “Couple Kombat,” but he’d rejected it immediately, saying it conjured images of blood. Rebecca almost smiled at the irony.
“You’re still going to lose,” she said, pouring oil into the pan. “Why bother?”
“Planning the greatest comeback in comeback history.” He turned toward the door.
“Oshey! Comeback Master!” she teased. “Come back and help me cook.”
Rebecca watched his face as he tried to maintain his composure. She knew exactly how to break through his facade. Her particular brand of silliness never failed to win a smile from him, if not a full laugh. He returned to her side, where she put him to work flipping pancakes in the sizzling pan.
“Did the dreams drive you from the room again?” she asked, softening her tone. His nightmares troubled her, though not for reasons he would ever suspect.
Michael nodded.
“What about the Queen’s elixir?”
“It’s finished. I plan to get a refill at the party.” He glanced at her. “Speaking of, what time should I pick you up?”
“What party?” she asked blankly, before his bewildered look jogged her memory. The birthday. His mother. “Oh! Do I have to come?”
Rebecca turned back to the sink quickly, rinsing the mixing bowl to hide her expression. The thought of spending an evening with Lydia made her stomach tighten. Ever since she’d met Michael’s mother, she’d avoided the woman whenever possible. There was something knowing in Lydia’s eyes, something that made Rebecca feel exposed.
“It’s her birthday,” Michael said simply.
“That’s a good point,” Rebecca conceded with a sigh. Of all the performances her role required, the dutiful daughter-in-law was the most challenging.
***
Later that morning they sat at their dining table, an imposing glass-top supported by four ornately carved black wooden legs, nestled in a spacious alcove within the living room wall. Michael was dressed for work in his signature black suit and no tie, while Rebecca remained in her white nightgown, her black braided hair with blue streaks contained by a simple hair net.
Her mind drifted to his nightmare as she cut a small slice of pancake.
“You know? Your dream could be a prediction.”
Michael raised an eyebrow, curious.
“It’s probably forecasting that I’ll be a widow soon,” she continued casually, watching him. “With the blood on your hands and all.”
She saw him relax as he recognized her morbid humor. His laugh bounced off the beige concrete walls.
“From nightmare to widowhood? What an imagination! And Amaka thinks I’m the mean one.”
Rebecca shrugged. “I’ll hold the record for fastest widow.”
This cracked him up. “Is there even an award for that? In any case, I know a woman whose husband died at their wedding reception.”
“Liar!” she challenged, though she knew he wouldn’t lie to her. He had made that promise, and oddly enough, he’d kept it. It was one of the few aspects of Michael that had surprised her. He remained consistent even in small matters of principle.
“Honest to God. And the weirdest part is… She killed him.”
“You’re lying,” Rebecca countered instinctively. “And even if it were true, she’s disqualified.”
“Believe what you want,” Michael said, “but you’re lucky to have such an attractive, healthy stud for a husband.”
“Yay! Lucky me,” she replied, sarcasm at maximum. She watched him find even this amusing. Everything about her seemed to delight him, including her deliberate provocations. His standards were famously high, a fact she’d counted on when crafting her approach, yet somehow she’d cleared them with room to spare.
***
After demolishing four pancakes liberally slathered in peanut butter, a healthy serving of eggs, and a bowl of fruit salad, Michael rose from the table.
“I have to run now, I’m almost late,” he called as Rebecca returned to the kitchen to finish the egusi soup.
She completed her preparations methodically, listening to his movements in the living room. The space perfectly showcased Michael’s taste, exquisite and expensive. Everything was white, gold, or some elegant combination, giving their home the air of modern royalty that he preferred.
“Wait! Don’t forget your lunch.” Rebecca hurried into the living room carrying the bag containing his lunch flask just as Michael got to the door.
He grabbed it quickly, already pulling the door open.
“Aren’t you forgetting something?” she asked.
Michael smiled as if suddenly remembering, and planted a kiss on her lips.
Rebecca giggled. “Sweet. But I meant this.” She produced a checkered blue tie from behind her back. This daily ritual had become second nature—his protest, her insistence, his eventual surrender.
“Oh come on! Not today too.” Michael protested, raising his free hand. “I hate ties, they feel like…”
“Chains,” she finished for him. They both laughed as she secured the tie around his neck, her fingers working with practiced precision.
“I more than like you,” he said, caressing her face before kissing her lips.
“I more than like you too,” she replied, the words catching in her throat. The response had become automatic, reflexive. Yet sometimes, in moments like this, she wondered whether she was still acting.
As Michael departed, Rebecca stood in the doorway, watching him walk to his car. The warm July breeze played with her nightgown as a single, unwelcome thought surfaced: How was it possible that she genuinely meant those words? To him, of all people?
Chapter Three:Brawl
In Amaka’s four years as Michael’s secretary at Trident Independent Adjusters, she’d held more unofficial roles than her generous salary could cover: Queen Apologist, Minister of Compassionate Affairs, Royal Stormcatcher, to name a few. When a storm approached Michael, even one he’d invariably created himself, she’d anticipate its source and trajectory, then defuse it with apologetic gifts bought with his money. Most times she succeeded. But that day, the storm burst through her defenses with a fury that needed no interpretation.
Kola’s large frame burst into Amaka’s office and erupted into Michael’s less than two seconds later, his voice blazing with anger. “You fucking animal, you worthless piece of shit.”
Amaka hurried after him, positioning herself carefully at the corner of Michael’s office. She shot warning glances at Michael, loaded with messages she wished she could transmit directly to his brain: See? I warned you. Please don’t make this worse, you stupid idiot.
If only one true thing could be said about Michael, it was that nothing fazed him. Even if Satan himself emerged from the fiery pits of hell, Michael would remain seated in his customized office chair, his throne, as cool and dry as the harmattan breeze in January. This unflappable demeanor only fueled Kola’s rage.
“How can you just sit there after what you’ve done? How can you even be in this building?” the large man bellowed.
“I’m not sure what’s going on with you, but last I checked, I work here,” Michael replied, diverting his eyes from his iMac—the company-issued ProBook wasn’t good enough for him—to the seething man before him.
From her position by the door, Amaka watched Kola’s fury burn white-hot. His face swelled as it always did when truly enraged, looking seconds away from emitting actual steam.
“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but you’re hyperventilating. Calm down before you give yourself a heart attack,” Michael said. Amaka caught the hint of genuine concern beneath his condescension, a nuance Kola would surely miss.
Whether from the advice or having reached his anger’s peak, Kola’s expression gradually shifted toward something resembling control.
“How dare you? You had no right to speak to my clients.”
“I don’t get paid to explain your incompetence.”
“By taking advantage of what I told you in confidence? How could you sink that low?”
“I’m all the way up here,” Michael replied, spreading his arms. “It’s all about perspective. We did not swear an oath, nor are we in a relationship.”
Amaka winced at his callousness. This was Michael at his worst; coldly logical, utterly remorseless.
A heavy silence filled the office, the kind that follows statements so devastating they require extra seconds to process.
Amaka bit her blood-red artificial fingernail, a nervous habit she couldn’t shake. She clung to a thin hope that Michael’s callousness wouldn’t trigger another eruption from Kola.
Amaka watched the realization wash over Kola’s face; the painful understanding that someone he’d considered a friend saw him as nothing more than competition. His expression shifted from rage to something more vulnerable.
“Is that what you have to say, Michael?” he finally asked, his voice quieter, fury giving way to hurt.
Amaka noticed Michael studying Kola’s face with unusual attention. For a fleeting moment, something resembling guilt crossed his features before vanishing. He glanced at his Apple Watch, checking the time until his shopping date with Rebecca, no doubt.
“We may work in the same company,” Michael said, standing up, “but that doesn’t make us a team. If there’s competition, I compete. I offered your clients a better deal, fixed their problem, and secured the company more leverage. I’m not going to apologize for that.” He shouldered his lunch bag and moved toward the door.
“Bastard!” Kola spat.
Amaka saw it coming a second too late. In her years with Michael, she’d learned his triggers, and “bastard” was near the top of the list.
Before she could intervene, Michael transformed before her eyes, his composed exterior giving way to primal rage. He lunged at Kola with frightening speed, his fist connecting with the larger man’s jaw in a sickening crack.
Kola stumbled back against Michael’s desk but recovered quickly. With a roar, he shoved Michael across the room with enough force to send him staggering. Pain and fury flashed across Kola’s face as he charged forward, attempting to tackle Michael to the ground.
But Michael wasn’t an easy target. Amaka had seen him box at the company gym. She knew the lean muscle beneath his tailored suits wasn’t just for show. He sidestepped Kola’s rush with practiced precision, tripping the larger man and pouncing before he could recover. Michael straddled him, landing two vicious punches.
Amaka grabbed the nearest object and hurled it against the far wall. The glass paperweight shattered spectacularly, sending shards dancing in the afternoon sun.
“You FOOLS!” Amaka bellowed, baseball bat gripped in white-knuckled hands. “So help me God, I will smash the head of the next person that moves.”
The men froze.
Amaka knew from experience: sometimes you had to be crazier than the crazy people to bring them back to their senses.
***
Minutes later, with Kola gone, Amaka swept up broken glass while Michael watched from his chair. She paused occasionally to glare at him with enough heat to melt steel.
“I didn’t know you kept a bat in the office,” he said, attempting to lighten the atmosphere. “Nice weapon.”
Her eyes remained unrelenting in their condemnation.
“What? It was a confrontation!”
“A confrontation that didn’t need to happen,” she replied coolly. “What exactly did you gain from creating discord? From hurting another person? You could have helped him fix the deal rather than stealing it.” Her eyes searched Michael’s for any flicker of remorse. As always, they found none.
He looked away. “It’s a man-eat-man world out there. You do what you have to do. If not, someone else will do it, and then you blame fate.”
Amaka’s disappointment was so profound it seemed to physically affect him. He shifted uncomfortably under her gaze.
“Sorry you had to witness that,” he said, an obvious attempt to escape her judgment. “I’m going out to get a gift for the Queen with Rebecca. What should I get you?”
The anger coursing through her overwhelmed her usual filter. Words meant to remain unspoken tumbled from her lips: “I don’t see what she sees in you.”
Chapter Four:Two Cases of Mistaken Identity
The bright sunlight filtered through the glass walls of the gift shop, illuminating the bustling city streets several floors below. Michael’s red GT Camaro stood out among the vehicles parked along the sidewalk.
“You look like you’re in a hurry,” Michael observed, noting Rebecca’s restless movements as they browsed the home decor aisle.
“Aren’t we all?” She slipped on her sunglasses with dramatic flair. “Life is short. Haven’t you realized that yet, boy?”
Michael couldn’t help but laugh. She had this way of cutting through his darker moods. Hard to believe that just forty-five minutes ago, he’d been consumed with rage during the confrontation with Kola.
“I’ve thought about that,” he said, once his amusement subsided. “What if science found a way to extend our lives by three or four hundred years, and it came in an injection? Would you…”
“No, thank you,” she interrupted. “This is plenty long enough for me.”
“That was quick,” Michael remarked, pausing to examine an ornate flower vase. “So much for ‘till death do us part.’”
Rebecca laughed freely. “What are you talking about?”
“Well, what if I decided to stay? Would you go without me?”
“That’s a completely different question.” She tapped her chin thoughtfully. “I’d need to conduct a cost analysis, plus draft a happiness-time-spent graph. And don’t get me started on how absolutely fucked up the world will be in a hundred years, let alone four hundred.”
Michael’s quiet anxiety gave way to genuine laughter as she continued her elaborate analysis.
“All things considered, there’s a lot of thinking to be done. I’ll give you a definite answer when we’re a year into this marriage,” she concluded, crossing to inspect a display of kitchen decor that had caught her interest.
“Fair enough. I’ll have to wait for your decision before making mine,” he replied, selecting a cream-colored Happy Birthday to My World card from a display stand. “I happen to love your cooking a little too much to decide hastily.”
“Just my cooking?” She glanced back at him, eyebrow raised.
“Hmm... what else did you think?” He pretended to consider. “Maybe the sex too... definitely the sex. Oh, and your foolishness, of course. Beyond that, can’t say there’s much more.”
“Definitely the sex,” she agreed with a playful grin that made his pulse quicken.
***
The couple stood at the counter, waiting for their change. Michael had selected a card, a bouquet of striking red flowers, and a transparent vase shaped like a mountain, which, with the right arrangement, would create the illusion of a miniature ice mountain sprouting what he’d described to Rebecca as “Flava: flowery lava.” She’d rolled her eyes at the name but approved of the gift.
Rebecca’s current frustration stemmed from the temporarily malfunctioning cash register. The cashier had gone to find assistance. She returned moments later with Kalu, the manager. His near-symmetrical face bore the evidence of an ongoing battle with acne since puberty. Despite the rebellious state of his skin, he maintained a clean, professional appearance. He bent over the register, fingers working to resolve the issue.
“What happened to that bride?” Rebecca asked suddenly, turning to face Michael.
“Huh?”
“The record holder. The one who killed her husband at the reception. Did she get away with it?”
“Sorry for the delay,” Kalu interrupted, offering Michael the POS machine. “It’s working now.”
“Oh, she didn’t wait around to find out,” Michael replied as he entered his pin. Upon completing the payment, they left the shop.
***
“She escaped?” Rebecca asked as they stepped from the cool, artificial air of the shopping center into the scorching heat outside.
“No, silly. She killed herself. Best thing she could have done, given the circumstances.”
“Excuse me,” a voice called from behind them.
They turned to find Kalu approaching, a branded shopping bag in his left hand. He took long strides to catch up with them.
“You forgot this–” Kalu’s voice choked off, his eyes wide with shock as they locked on Rebecca. “Sarah!”
Rebecca glanced over her shoulder, confusion creasing her face.
“I never thought I’d see you again!” he rushed on, his grin collapsing into a stunned blink at her blank stare.
“Thank you for bringing this,” Rebecca said, taking the bag from his hand. “But I’m afraid I’m not who you think I am.”
“Sarah Okolo?” Kalu persisted, his excitement deflating.
“Rebecca. Rebecca Azodo,” she corrected, gesturing toward Michael who stood a few feet behind her. “And this is my husband.”
“I’m so sorry,” Kalu stammered, embarrassed. “You look exactly like someone I used to know.”
“It’s alright,” she replied good-naturedly. “Some people believe in doppelgängers, right? I guess I have one.”
“Yeah,” he agreed with a nervous chuckle.
The conversation faded into the ambient noise of the city. Michael grew impatient, gently taking Rebecca by the arm and steering her toward the Camaro.
***
As they merged into traffic, Michael’s mind gnawed at the encounter. “That’s the second time you’ve been mistaken for someone else. You must look like a lot of people.”
“What can I say? I descend from a long line of warrior princesses,” Rebecca replied, watching the tall, brown government buildings slide past her window.
“What does that have to do with two cases of mistaken identity?”
“Not a thing.” She smiled sheepishly.
Michael’s fingers tightened on the steering wheel as he recalled the incident in Benin. A girl had approached them at the airport and called Rebecca by another name. He’d found it amusing then, but now curiosity nibbled at the edges of his mind.
“Seriously though, I find it curious. Don’t you?”
Rebecca stared out at the federal secretariat buildings. Massive concrete structures housing various ministries soon to disgorge thousands of workers as the day ended.
“What can I say? I’m an enigma,” she replied lightly.
“I thought you were a warrior princess?”
“Duh! A warrior princess can also be an enigma.”
“Fair point,” Michael conceded.
As they drove on, he couldn’t entirely dismiss the strange coincidence from his mind.
Chapter Five:Unwanted Life
Rebecca arrived home early that evening, confirming with relief that Michael wasn’t back yet. Perfect. It was that time of the month again, the sixth consecutive month, and she needed privacy for what came next.
She stood in the white-tiled bathroom of their five-bedroom luxury home, staring at the plastic pregnancy test stick in her trembling hand. Her heart hammered against her ribs, while her lungs seemed to have forgotten how to function. The house maintained an eerie silence around her, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath, waiting for the verdict: life or death.
Beep!
Her breath caught, the silence stretching as she stared at the blank window, willing it to stay empty. Then they appeared—two pink lines, sharp as a verdict. Her heart sank to her feet. Life.
Rebecca stared at the test, her fingers suddenly numb. The irony wasn’t lost on her: most women prayed for this result, while she had been praying against it for months. Everything had just become infinitely more complicated.
