The Knock at Midnight...
It was a quiet, uneventful Thursday. The kind of night where the only sound in the compound came from crickets and the soft hum of the ceiling fan in our bedroom. My husband, Ebuka, just returned from a trip to Port Harcourt, claiming he had gone there for business. I welcomed him with a warm plate of egusi and pounded yam. We ate together, laughed a little, then later, he fell asleep beside me like he always did like a man with no secrets.
By 11:45 p.m., I was reading a devotional book under the bedside lamp when I heard a knock at the gate.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
At first, I thought I imagined it. Who would be knocking at this hour?
I sat up straight and listened again.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
“Ebuka,” I whispered, nudging him gently. “Did you hear that?”
He groaned and turned his back on me. “Ignore it. Maybe it’s one of those area boys.
They’ll go.”
But something in me wouldn't let it go. The knock wasn’t desperate, but it was confident, steady and deliberate, like someone who had every right to be here.
Curiosity dragged me out of bed. I threw a wrapper on my nightgown and weared my slippers. I went outside cautiously and peeked through the curtain that hung over the small window in the sitting room.
There was a woman standing outside the gate.
But something in me wouldn't let it go. The knock wasn’t desperate, but it was confident, steady and deliberate, like someone who had every right to be here.
Curiosity dragged me out of bed. I threw a wrapper on my nightgown and weared my slippers. I went outside cautiously and peeked through the curtain that hung over the small window in the sitting room.
There was a woman standing outside the gate.
She looked calm, poised, and strangely familiar like the kind of woman you see once in a wedding magazine and never forget. She wore a plain blue gown and carried a small overnight bag.
I unlocked the front door and went to the gate. “Hello? Who are you looking for?” I asked her, trying to keep my voice calm.
She looked at me with the softest smile, then said the words that turned my stomach to stone.
“I’m here to see my husband.”
I blinked. “Your husband?”
“Yes,” she said, her voice even more serene. “Ebuka. He’s my husband. And this is his house, isn’t it?”
My mouth went dry.
At first, I thought it was a joke. Or maybe a mistake or maybe she meant someone else, another Ebuka. But my husband’s name wasn’t that common, and she had come straight to our gate.
Still dazed, I managed to ask, “Who… who are you?”
She reached into her handbag and brought out a wedding photo. There he was, my Ebuka standing beside her in a cream-coloured suit, grinning like a fool. She was in a white gown, her hand placed delicately on his chest.
“I'm Amara,” she said. “Ebuka and I got married six years ago in Owerri. I just found out he moved here. I came to see him… and you, I suppose.”
My knees gave way. I leaned on the gate for support. “He said he’s been married once. That his wife left him and moved abroad.”
She shook her head slowly. “I never left him. I only traveled to Canada for three years. I came back last week. And someone told me he had another life in Lagos. I didn’t believe it until now.”
Inside the house, I heard the front door creak open. Ebuka stood at the entrance in with his boxers, rubbing sleep from his eyes until he saw us. Then he froze like a man caught in between two mirrors, unsure which life was real.
“Amara…?” he called.
I turned and looked at him. “Ebuka, who is this woman?”
He opened his mouth, but no words came out.
The silence between us cracked something deep inside me.
That night, I learned the man I called husband had a life I knew nothing about.
And the worst part? He wasn’t even sorry.
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