My husband thinks he is James Bond online. Every night, once I roll over on the bed and pretend to sleep, he will grab his phone, open Facebook, and start smiling like goat wey see fresh yam peel.
What he doesn’t know is that the “fine babe” he has been toasting online for the past three months is me. Yes o, his own wife. I just created one fake account—slay queen profile picture, small waist, heavy makeup, name: Cynthia Sugarplum.
From the first “hello dear, how are you doing this evening” I knew this man was finished. I started billing him steady:
“Baby, I need ₦5,000 for data.” He sent it.
“Sugar, my gas has finished 😢.” He sent ₦8,000.
“Awww, I wish I could see you, but my landlord is disturbing me ðŸ˜.” He sent ₦20,000.
Meanwhile, me—the real wife—was there in the same house saying, “Honey, give me ₦2,000 to buy maggi and oil.” He would shout, “Money no dey! Things are hard!”
Yesterday, the idiot finally said, “Cynthia my love, I want to see you face to face. Let’s meet at Mr Biggs.”
I dressed up, wore shades, sat down inside Mr Biggs with my phone. The moment he entered and started looking around like a lost chicken, I texted him from “Cynthia”: I’m here, wearing red.
He turned and saw me.
The way his soul left his body ehn, if you put microphone near his chest, you’ll hear crickets. I just smiled, sipped my Fanta, and said, “So baby, is it me you’ve been sponsoring online?”
Up till now, the man has not spoken one word. He’s just been washing plates voluntarily in the kitchen, trying to buy back his life.
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