Gide found the envelope resting atop his autographed Nwankwo Kanu jersey. He snatched it up instinctively, pausing for a second to dust off the green-and-white fabric. It was his most prized possession, the only item in the bedroom he personally tended to.
His thoughts briefly flickered to Ajoke. He hadn’t worried when she missed his usual pre-lunch call. Eight months into their marriage, she had already adapted to his routine; he liked to know if a meal was waiting or if he should pick something up. Today, he had opted for a takeaway of fried rice and chicken from the spot next to his office.
The name on the envelope was written in a familiar, scrawling blue ink: “Gide.” As he pulled out the typed pages, a faint fragrance drifted from the paper, pulling him back to a memory from three years ago—mornings filled with fresh flowers and the scent of brewing coffee. He wandered down to the dining room, sat before his cooling meal, and took a large forkful of rice as he began to read.
The words on the page stopped him mid-chew. The letter was a scathing indictment of their life together. The writer, Morenikeji, stated bluntly that if the contents came as a shock, Gide’s self-awareness was even lower than she had imagined. She described a man who had warped into someone she could no longer stand to touch, let alone love. She admitted that she had once cared enough to complain, but now, even that felt like a waste of energy.
The letter delved into dark memories, recalling a night in Croatia after a wedding where, fueled by shots of Rakija, Gide had tried to force himself on her. When she resisted, he had slapped her. Her response had been a survival instinct—a punch that knocked him over and cracked the wardrobe mirror. She reminded him that her father, a former boxer, had taught his children how to defend themselves. While Gide never raised a hand again, the letter suggested it was likely out of fear of retaliation rather than genuine remorse.
According to the pages, Gide’s life in Abuja had become a “gilded cage” for his wife. While he enjoyed the comforts of his father’s car dealership and weekly boys’ nights, he had systematically isolated her. Every time she tried to return to her career as a financial consultant, he would stifle her ambition under the guise of “providing,” effectively trapping her in domesticity.
The letter recounted public humiliations, like the time at a friend’s BBQ when he had berated her maternal fitness after their child had a minor fall while she was ill from drinking. She explained that she had stayed for the children, but now that they were old enough to sense the hollow facade of their home, she could no longer endure it. She mourned the man he used to be before the family wealth took over—the rational, humble man she once relied on. “Money cannot buy good character,” she wrote, “but it appears to have destroyed yours.”
She closed by stating she wasn’t leaving for another man, but simply to save herself from a life of resentment. She warned him not to look for her, stating that her lawyer would handle the rest.
Gide sat in total silence, the only sound the heavy thudding of his heart in his ears. His mouth went dry, and he spat out the rice he had been unable to swallow. Panic and confusion washed over him in cold waves. Morenikeji, the woman whose name signed the letter, had been dead for nearly two years, killed in a car accident near Gada-Biyu.
A chilling question hung in the air: if Morenikeji was gone, who had placed this letter in his bedroom today?
