Tola stood in front of the mirror adjusting her necklace, her smile rehearsed. She was going out with friends, or so she told Jide. In truth, she was meeting Dayo, the colleague who had become her escape from the cold silence in her marriage.
Jide watched her from the couch, his fingers absently scrolling through his phone. “You look nice,” he said, not looking up. “What time will you be back?”
“Not late,” Tola replied casually. “I’ll call you.”
He nodded. “Enjoy.”
The door clicked behind her. Once alone, Jide tossed his phone aside and picked up his second phone from the drawer. “Hey, Ada. I’m on my way,” he said. “She just left.”
Their marriage had grown stale, two years in, and they barely touched. No children yet, no joy. Just accusations, silence, and avoidance. And instead of fixing it, they both strayed.
They hid their secrets well. Tola deleted her chats. Jide used a burner phone. They kept up the appearances—family gatherings, church services, Instagram posts. But cracks began to show.
One night, Tola came home earlier than expected and found Jide asleep on the couch. His burner phone buzzed loudly on the coffee table: a message from Ada with a heart emoji. Her stomach turned. She didn’t confront him that night. Instead, she started pulling away, no more effort in her lies, no warmth in her touch.
Jide noticed. “What’s wrong with you lately?” he asked over breakfast.
“You’re asking me? What’s wrong with you?”
He stared at her. “I’m trying here, Tola.”
“No, you’re pretending. Just like I am.”
The silence exploded between them.
Weeks passed. Then came the moment. Tola, weary of guilt and distance, finally confessed.
“There’s someone else,” she said one rainy evening. “It’s over. But… it happened.”
Jide didn’t speak. He didn’t yell. He simply nodded, stood, and walked out. He didn’t come back that night.
Three days later, he returned.
“I’ve been cheating too,” he said, eyes hollow. “Longer than I want to admit.”
It was a bombshell neither wanted to accept, even as they both knew it had been inevitable.
They slept in separate rooms. For weeks.
Then one Sunday, after church, Tola reached for his hand. “We need help, Jide. Real help.”
Therapy was awkward at first. Painful. Honest. They cried. They blamed. Then they forgave. Slowly, year after year, they rebuilt. They read books on trust and intimacy, cut off all ties to their past lovers, started date nights, and learned to speak again.
It took time, years. But one evening, as they danced barefoot in their kitchen to an old Asa song, Jide whispered, “This… this is the kind of marriage I dreamed of.”
Tola smiled, tears in her eyes. “Me too.”
