Part Two: From "Mama" to Mayhem

“Okay, hold on, let’s rewind a bit,” I interrupted Imani. “Now I feel like you're rushing the story.” I could tell she was eager to get to the part where he did her wrong. But I wasn't interested in that just yet. I wanted a clear picture of the story’s progression. I needed to hear about the in-betweens, everything that happened during the one-month and two-month intervals, especially the unforgettable moments before they started dating officially. I shared my perspective and was glad she understood why I needed more details. “I hope you're comfortable sharing all that,” I said, looking at her. She nodded with a soft, affirmative smile. I proceeded to order us drinks and cake, then lowered my gaze to my laptop and continued typing as she resumed her narration.

PART II

After our first meeting, everything between us seemed to deepen effortlessly. We grew closer and spent more time together, and every moment felt freshly exciting. Work was hectic, but the hybrid nature of my job gave me the flexibility to see him. And Dubem... he has this way of showing he cared that made my heart skip. Lunches delivered without me asking, little messages checking if I was okay, small gestures that felt huge. Would always send me lunch, whether I was at the office or working from home. Knowing how much I love good food, how could I say no to his thoughtful gestures or resist him? My friends kept warning me he might be “too good to be true,” but I brushed it off. I was living in reality with him. 

Our next two dates further confirmed it. A movie date, a picnic… each one better than the last. One was a movie date and the other a picnic. Dubem was everything I thought I wanted—refined, fancy, with impeccable taste. The way he would say, “Hey Mama, are you okay? Mama, do you need anything?”—Ugh! It sent flutters straight to my knees. Or maybe it was the way he looked at me with those deep brown eyes. His soft, focused gaze seemed to see right through me, melting the careful composure I tried to maintain. Every glance, every word, every tiny act of his made my heart swell. He was already inspiring me to want to add more items to my dream man list, which was somehow climbing past number twenty-two. 

The first time Dubem invited me to his house was on our fourth date. He called it "Chef Dubem’s Special." Promising a home-cooked meal made just for me. I felt comfortable enough to go—but this is Nigeria, and comfort doesn't erase caution. Memories of men who could not respect my “no” flashed uninvited through my mind, making me stiffen slightly at the thought of being alone with him. I wanted to trust Dubem, wanted to believe he was different… but a small, wary part of me held its breath, waiting to see if he truly would be. 

The little details he’d mentioned over text made me pause with a small, reluctant smile: how he had spent hours picking the best ingredients, how he joked that his secret jollof recipe could “win hearts or start arguments,” and how he teased that I might make him my private chef after I had a taste of his cooking.

I knew where he lived, he had mentioned it several times—but this was my first time actually going there. He came down to meet me as I drove into his compound, in one of the nicest areas of Abuja. He held my hand as I stepped inside. Dubem greeted me with a warm, easy grin, holding the door a little longer than necessary as if inviting me into more than just his home. “Hope you’re ready for a culinary adventure,” he said with a wink, and somehow, despite my caution, I felt my tension ease slightly. I couldn’t help but look around, taking it all in. This was a house where, I would later realize, we’d make bittersweet memories. 

It was a spacious four-bedroom duplex, decorated in soft, neutral colors—white, grey, brown, and black. The walls gleamed in a high-gloss white and grey combination, bouncing the natural light that poured in through huge floor-to-ceiling windows. Sheer and blackout-high curtains hung elegantly from the ceiling to the floor, giving the place a calm, airy feel. The furniture adhered to a monochrome scheme—sleek white Italian fabric sofas, a black marble coffee table with metal accents, and an abstract monochrome area rug grounding the space. There were touches of wood, soft fabrics, and matte black cabinetry, all balanced with statement chandeliers and soft LED lighting that made the rooms feel simple yet sophisticated.

For a second, I almost thought he was into shady business. How did he come by all this? “Tech money,” I reminded myself. They say tech money is like blood money. The man came from a wealthy family as well. This cleared my doubts and put my mind at ease. 

I sank into the sofa, and Dubem sat beside me. He took my hand in his and kissed it softly. “I missed you,” He whispered, his eyes locking with mine. He poured us some wine, and as we talked, I noticed little flashes of playful side—the way he would smirk when I teased him, or raise an eyebrow when he won our little arguments. He was a gentleman through and through, never pushing boundaries. When I complained about my aching shoulders, he didn’t hesitate. “Only if you promise not to fall asleep on me,” he joked. I laughed and agreed. His hand was warm and steady as it rested on my shoulders, and just that simple touch made me feel completely at ease. 

Later, Dubem cooked some delicious jollof for me. The smell of tomatoes, peppers, and spices filled the kitchen, making my stomach growl. I perched on a high chair across from him, watching him move around the kitchen like he was born to do this—slicing, dicing, and stirring—with a quiet confidence that made me admire him even more. Every now and then, he would glance up with that teasing smile. “Careful,” he said, I might just make you fall for me before you even taste this. I laughed, shaking my head, but my heart wasn’t knew where it stood.

As we ate, the aroma of the Jollof mingled with the warmth of the wine, and he kept sneaking glances at me, complimenting my looks and the way I carried myself. When we finished, he cleared the dishes and settled into one of the twin sofas. Then, leaning closer, he asked softly, “Wouldn’t you like me to keep making delicious meals for you?”

Of course,” I replied with a smile.

He leaned back, smirking, “Imani, would you be my woman so I can make tasty dishes for you all the time?”

A soft smile spread across my face. “Are you serious?”

“Absolutely,” he said, pulling me closer. His hand lingered on mine, warm and comforting, as I shook my head in disbelief. “Yes. I’ll be your woman,” I whispered. His eyes lit up as he hugged me right, and when we shared our first kiss, it was soft, tender, and completely unforgettable. 

Afterward, he gave me a playful tour of his house. “You've already seen the kitchen, where you’ll make all those delicious meals that'll fatten me. This is our bedroom, and this is another one in case we get tired of the master bedroom.” I had fallen head over heels for him, and hearing him talk about ‘us’ so naturally felt like the cherry on top.

We returned to his sitting room and made ourselves comfortable. Dubem draped an arm around my shoulders as we watched a movie, his hand warm and steady, and I felt a little thrill run through me. The faint scent of his cologne—spicy, a little woody—lingered in the air, and the quietness between us hummed with things left unsaid. Slowly, he leaned closer, his breath brushing my neck, and I turned to look at him, and our eyes met. The look of hunger—intense yet soft made my heart beat faster.

His fingers traced the line of my jaw before resting lightly on my neck, and I leaned into him, enjoying the warmth and gentle pressure. When our lips finally met, it was slow, deliberate, and everything outside the room seemed to disappear. This is exactly what I want, I thought, letting myself melt into the moment.

He pulled back just slightly, his eyes crinkling with a soft smile. “Wanna go upstairs?” He asked, his voice low and smooth.

“Yes,” I murmured shyly, feeling my cheeks warm.

He took my hand, and I loved the way his fingers fit perfectly around mine. Watch step upstairs was full of anticipation, every brush of the hand sending a little jolt through me. When we reached the bedroom, it was filled with the soft smell of fresh linen mixed with his cologne. It felt like we were wrapped in our own little world.  

We spent the next hours close to each other—soft touches, whispered words, and lingering kisses. Every glance and every brush of skin against skin made everything else fade away. I felt safe, desired, and completely seen.

When we finally lay together, catching our breath, I realized I had never felt anything like this before. Dubem had a way of making me feel wanted without words, and I knew deep down that this closeness, this intimacy, was more than passion—it was a connection that made everything else vanish.

As we lay catching our breath, the smell of sun and desire filled the air. 

Being with Dubem felt like a dream. He spoiled me endlessly, always doing thoughtful things without me asking, and honestly, I loved every second of it. It was the kind of princess life I’d always imagined for myself. We spent so much time together—taking trips, laughing, and learning more about each other. My friends never stopped saying how lucky I was to have “bagged a big fish” like Dubem, knowing how many women would kill to be in my shoes. They were right, but deep down, I always felt he was the lucky one.

 I spent most weekends at his place and even went to work from his house on Mondays. One morning, he asked me to move in with him. According to him, if we plan to get married soon, then living together shouldn't be an issue. That should have been the first red flag, but I ignored it. His place was bigger, more impressive, of course, but my own two-bedroom apartment was cozy, comfortable, and decorated exactly how I liked it. I told him I’d think about it.

On my way to work, my mind raced. I wasn’t a broke girl—I could take good care of myself. Cohabiting with a man before marriage had never crossed my mind, nor was it on my bingo cards for the year. What would my religious family think if they knew their second daughter was living with a man in Abuja? Dr Chuka would probably ask what he hadn’t already given me in life—best schools, education abroad, a good job placement, decent upbringing. And yet here I was, seriously considering moving in with a man I wasn’t married to. 

“Ah! Dubem didn't have to put me in that kind of position; there I was fighting my African morals and doing something for love.” I loved him, but I also valued my space and independence. I should have read between the lines, listened to that little voice in my head telling me it was a bad idea—but I didn’t. I was blinded by love, comfort, by the way he made being with me feel so effortless and exciting. Looking back, it almost feels like Dubem replaced all the sense in my brain with designer bags, fancy dinners, and weekend getaways. Maybe it was fate, maybe it was just me letting myself get carried away—but somehow, I agreed to move in with him.

Even though I said yes, a tiny, nagging part of me whispered warnings I tried to ignore. I told myself it was love, that we were heading toward marriage, that everything would be fine. But deep down, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had crossed a line I might not be able to undo easily. It must have been the devil’s plan all along.  

“Humans, Typical of them to blame the devil rather than take responsibility for their actions,” I thought, staring at Imani as if I could see straight into her soul. She had that look I knew too well, the “I should have known better”—but I couldn't blame her entirely. She was a woman in love. People tend to lose all sense of reason when their hearts take over. I’m sure someone must have warned her, but when you’re wrapped up in someone, especially in the kind of closeness where nothing is private, advice barely sticks. 

 I raised my glass and took a sip of the drink I ordered earlier, keeping my eyes on her, her voice right, like she had a lump in her throat. I could see her fighting back tears, trying not to let them fall. 

When we first started living together, it felt like being newlyweds. We laughed at the silliest things, stayed up late just talking, and shared meals we cooked together in his kitchen. I remembered the first night we stayed in, him insisting I pick the movie while he wrapped a blanket around my shoulders. I remembered mornings when he’d bring me coffee in bed, teasing me with little smiles and playful touches. We doted on each other, living in our own little world. 

But gradually, Dubem began to change. The man I thought I’d do life with slowly became a stranger. I kept excusing his insecurities, telling myself it was just stress or a bad day. 

It started small—complaints about my phone time, remarks that I didn’t make enough time for him. I was confused. We lived together. We were always around each other. But then it escalated. He began restricting my movements, letting me leave the house only when absolutely necessary. I didn’t know it then, but he had cloned my WhatsApp, watching everything I did. 

Dubem, who once apologized at the slightest misunderstanding, now demanded apologies for the tiniest things. If I protested, he’d retreat into silence, refusing to speak to me or even touch the meals I prepared. Arguments became constant, but always followed by declarations of love—how much he needed me, how he didn’t want to lose me, how I was his world. 

I thought about moving out, getting my own space again, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I loved him too much. I wanted to make it work, even if it meant compromising and losing pieces of myself along the way. There were days I felt like I was disappearing, swallowed by his love and control, yet I clung to the hope that the man I fell for—the one who brought me laughter, warmth, and the morning coffee was still buried somewhere beneath it all.

I put up with the toxicity until the day he threatened my life. His words still echo in my head: “I’ve invested too much in this relationship. There’s no way out. If you ever leave me, it’ll be in a body bag. 

In that moment, something inside me shifted. It was like a scene from a movie—only this wasn’t fiction. This was my life. My reality. Dubem had become so possessive that he didn’t care if his actions hurt me, as long as he woke up beside me every morning.

And yet, the sex… the sex was the one thing that never changed. It was still intense, intoxicating—dangerously so. He took his time, planting soft kisses, exploring every inch of my body until I was melting u dear his touch. Foreplay with him felt like slow, delicious torture. I always begged him to take me. It was addictive, the kind of pleasure that blurred the lines between love and lust. I can admit now—it kept me hooked, dickmatized, convincing myself I could endure the rest just to feel that way again. 

This Dubem man used his penis to hook her. I knew Imani wasn’t exaggerating when she said his touch could make her forget everything. I saw that look in her eyes—the mix of shame and longing. 

But I started to notice something strange. Dubem always seemed to want sex more often during certain days of the month. My fertile days. At first, I thought it was just a coincidence, until my gut told me otherwise. 

One night, curiosity got the better of me. I went through his phone, and my heart sank. He’d downloaded the Flo period app, linked it to my account, and had been tracking my cycle without my consent. That’s when it hit me—Dubem was deliberately trying to get me pregnant. 

I was furious. This wasn’t like e; it was control at its most dangerous. With his recent change in behavior, getting pregnant for him would be my undoing. I knew then that I had to start thinking smart—smarter than I’d ever been. I was dealing with a man who had crossed the line from obsessed to unhinged. 

The Dubem I once loved—the man who promised me the world—looked me in the eye and said he would never set foot in my father’s house unless I got pregnant for him first. After that, he started policing my body. He wouldn’t let me take contraceptive pills; he’d watch me closely to make sure I didn’t sneak out to get emergency contraceptives whenever I suspected he’d released inside me.

So I turned to the only options I had—desperate, ridiculous, and dangerous ones I’d read or heard about in whispers. I’d gulp down dry gin, swallow a mixture of salt and hot water, eat ridiculous amounts of oranges, and pineapples—anything I thought might make it impossible for a pregnancy to stick. And the worst part? These things were always in the house, like the devil himself had stocked them for my convenience.

I was ashamed. Me—sharp sabi gir—reduced to this, all because of a man. Because of love. I knew I was loved at home. I knew I could leave any day and go back to my family. But I couldn’t tell a soul what I was going through. My friends thought we were couple goals. And my family liked Dubem. They did t know the man he had become—and they would never stand for it if they did. 

Why I stayed, I can’t fully explain. It wasn’t like sex was scarce in the world—I could have gotten it from someone else. But I stayed. Maybe it was love, maybe it was weakness. Either way, I was trapped, and truly, matters of the heart can ruin you. 

The month my period didn’t come, my stomach sank. Perhaps it was stress or hormonal fluctuations.

After work one day, I stopped by a pharmacy. My hands were shaking as I asked for a pregnancy test. I didn’t even make eye contact with the cashier—I just shoved the box into my bag like it was something illegal and hurried home.

Dubem was still at work, thank God. I needed to take the test alone.

In the bathroom, I ripped open the box with shaky fingers. I followed the instructions carefully, then placed the test in the counter and stepped back, almost like I was afraid of it.

Three minutes. That’s what the instructions said. Three minutes to know if my life was about to change forever. 

I paced the bathroom, my bare feet slapping softly against the tiles as I whispered under my breath, “God, please, let it be negative.” But then, another voice in my head—one I didn’t want to admit was mine—whispered, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe a baby would make Dubem stay sweet, stay gentle, stay the man I first fell for. 

I hated myself for even thinking it.

When the two minutes were up, I turned slowly and picked up the test.

And there it was—the answer staring back at me. 

I just stood there. I couldn’t tell if what I felt was relief or disappointment. 

To be continued…

Cover Art: artt_jayy 📷