The day I locked him out with only a towel on, I wasn’t being petty. I was protecting my peace. But the drama that followed made our whole apartment estate turn into a Nigerian movie. And the gate? That gate saw things.
It all started on a Saturday morning. I was mopping the living room, wearing my old dera and vibing to Otile Brown. My man was in the shower, singing like he had won a BET award. But then his phone lit up on the table. Curiosity whispered. I peeked.
The name on the screen? “Mama Kevo.”
Now, this wasn’t his mum. Or his auntie. I had once seen this name on a suspicious comment on his Facebook post. Something like “Umenona sasa, unakumbuka tulivyokuwa na wewe Kisii?” with three kissing emojis.
That message haunted me like a rejected HELB loan.
So when I saw it again, I clicked. The texts were too sweet. Too detailed. They spoke of memories. Regret. What-ifs. She had sent a voice note that ended with, “Ukirudi town, niite. Nimekuwa nikikumiss vibaya.”
He had replied with, “Tutapanga.” Just like that. Tutapanga. Like she was a plan in his diary.
I saw red. To read more, click here.