There I was, sitting in front of my fiancé—the man who had taken a leave of absence from work to travel to southern Nigeria and meet my parents. I was doing everything I could to keep from tapping the table, though my anxiety urged me to.

“Did you have any visitors at the hotel during your stay?”

That was the question I was waiting for him to answer. My cousin had hinted that Aniekeme was gay—that he had come down to see his politician lover, a wealthy and prominent man. She had gotten this information from a reputable source: her best friend, who worked at the hotel.

His response came slow and easy, as if he were recalling a distant memory. Except it wasn’t distant. From what I had been told, the politician had visited him on his second and third nights. Today was his fifth day in Calabar.

“Oh, yeah. My mother’s friend, who happens to be my godfather, heard I was here and came visiting,” he said.

“I didn’t know you had a godfather.” I kept my tone even. “And… why didn’t you tell me about it?”

He wiped the corner of his mouth with a serviette and signalled for the waiter. “I totally forgot. I was engrossed in meeting your people, spending time with you, and tasting all the Calabar cuisines. It wasn’t important.”

I wanted to ask him why his “godfather” had visited a second night. Why used condoms had been found in his waste bin. Why room service had seen a posture that made them suspect it was a romantic relationship rather than a father-son one.

But I didn’t want to give up my source. I didn’t want to spook him, to make him defensive. So instead, I asked, “Is there something else you’re forgetting?”

He shook his head slowly. “No. Nothing.”

The ride to the airport was filled with silence. Aniekeme tried to make small talk, but my mind was far away, my imagination running wild. Trust was slipping through my fingers, and with every mile we rode, the pain of heartbreak settled in deeper.

We hugged goodbye. That was the last time we saw each other. Ever.

I broke up with him a week later.

I had given him time to recall, to come clean, to hint at a second night, to say something—anything—that would dispel my doubts.

Nothing. Just casual conversations, wedding plans, and stories of how his parents were looking forward to visiting Calabar for our marriage.

It was over a WhatsApp message. Simple lines that read:

“You’re not the man I thought you were, and I’m so broken by it. It’s over between us. I can’t keep pretending. Don’t call me. Don’t bother reaching my family—I’ve informed them too.”

I blocked him. Then I spent the next two days wrapped in my sheets, crying. I took sick leave from work, doing everything I could to keep depression at bay.

On the third day, I told my parents what had happened—how I had found out, and how Aniekeme’s responses had confirmed his guilt.

My father held his hand to his mouth. My mother didn’t believe a word of it. She stormed out of the house, and minutes later, I heard her car cough to life.

When she returned, I was under my bed, my tears soaking the foot mat. Heaving, sobbing to the depths of my heartbreak.

She tapped my leg. “Sit up.”

When I didn’t respond, she tapped me again. “Sit up! This child!”

The anger in her voice startled me. She should be comforting me, not scolding me. Who screams at their heartbroken daughter?

“Did you pray about it before you called off your relationship?”

I shook my head. There was no need to pray. My cousin wouldn’t lie to me. And Aniekeme had withheld details. He was guilty. He had to be.

Benita wouldn’t sabotage my relationship. She loved me too much.

“I just came from Benita’s house,” my mother said, folding her arms as she sat on the edge of my bed. “That girl lied to you. She and her friend at the hotel colluded to destroy your relationship.”

I shook my head and opened my mouth to speak.

“Keep quiet and listen to me!” She pointed a shaking finger at me. “You didn’t even care to speak to me, your mother! You didn’t think to seek the opinion of your parents, or even that of God! Were you bewitched? Eh? Tell me!”

“But… but…”

“But nothing!” She was screaming now. “A simple phone call to his mother would have confirmed or debunked his response. And I just did!”

Her voice rose higher. “His mother knows the politician. He’s his godfather. He visited just that evening—exactly as Aniekeme said!”

“Oh, Jesus.” The words escaped my lips in a hollow whisper. My head spun. My eyes welled with fresh tears. My heart couldn’t decide what to feel.

“You have committed murder, Victoria!” My mother’s voice trembled with emotion. “His mother told me—through tears—that he’s on life support. And his chances are small.”

I shot to my feet, dazed, searching frantically for my phone. It was on my dressing table.

“I didn’t tell them why I was asking,” she continued. “Or that you had broken up with him. His mother didn’t sound like she knew anything.”

With my head still spinning, I scrolled through my WhatsApp chat list. I unblocked him immediately, but the only message in the chat box was the last one he had sent.

I felt like I was standing in an aeroplane that was slowly descending into a crash. Weakness seeped through my hands and legs. I fell onto my bed.

Aniekeme died that evening.

I found out from his brother via text:

“He’s gone. You must be happy now. The last thing he said before falling silent on his bed was, ‘I wish she’d tell me what I did wrong. And how I’m not the man she thought I was.’ Well done, Victoria. My brother is dead.”

I haven’t had the heart to call back. To ask what happened. How he fell sick so suddenly, so critically.

Was it a heart attack? His asthma?

How can a man die because of a breakup?

Did he starve himself?

My mother is still mad at me. I can’t ask if she knows—if Aniekeme’s mother told her more.

His burial is a week away.

And I won’t be attending. I can’t attend.

My surname is guilt. My days are sorrow. My heart swings between disappointment in myself and anger at my cousin. I haven’t confronted her yet. Haven’t asked why she did such evil to me.

I’ll find out later.

Right now, I’m asking myself the questions. Trying to crawl out of this pit of depression.

Will it ever go?

The lingering reality that I caused Aniekeme’s death. That I had something beautiful. Someone who loved me enough to break over my absence. And that I let it all crash and burn because of a rumour.

I doubt I’ll heal anytime soon.

Aniekeme is actually dead? Dead? About to be buried?

My nights are haunted by these thoughts. And my days? My days are darker than my nights.

I feel like my life is over.

Because this—this can’t be life.

I’ve been sentenced to torment.

And I deserve this prison.

💞
#truthinfiction
#JournalOfaJesusGirl