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It had started light — as it always does — until the incident in the lobby. Homosexuality and lesbianism are against the law in Nigeria, and I wasn’t about to test the legal system. “Please disregard my friend, Manager,” I’d said, flashing a rehearsed smile. “We all have boyfriends. It’s just a girls’ hangout — nothing sinister. We’re certainly not lesbians.” Zara had made another outrageous comment, and I had to do damage control before someone called security. When we got into my suite, I turned to Jasmine, eyes blazing. “Put her on a tight leash. I refuse to be arrested because of Zara’s whims and caprices. Geez, put a lid on it!” Of course, Zara didn’t listen. Zara never listens. Instead, she cranked up the music, spotted the dance pole (who installed that anyway?), and jumped on it like it owed her rent. Grinding. Twerking. Spinning. She was a whole show. The girl is incorrigible. We laughed until we couldn’t breathe. Then we attacked the feast, suya, fried rice, grilled catfish, palm wine, the whole Nigerian dream. Our sacred rule? No serious talk during meals. Food first, drama later. Once we’d eaten like queens, it was time to table our matters, girl-code style. No topic is off-limits unless the person says so. If she says no, we let it be. That night, we started with Bola. As you all know, Bola’s dating a married man and his wife had asked to meet her. We’d all said don’t do it. But Bola, as usual made her own, rules. “So are you going to tell us what happened,” Zara snapped, “or are we just going to sit like statues?” I rolled my eyes. “Let her breathe.” Then Bola dropped the bombshell. “The wife gave me terms.
One: I can’t take him from her. We’ll share.
Two: She gets four days. I get three.
Three: I mustn’t drain him sexually on day three, so he’s not too tired for her.
Four: No family functions. If we bump into each other, she takes priority.
Five: He’s part of his old boys’ club — I must never attend their events.”
“What?!” Jasmine screamed.
We were all stunned. Bola said it like she was reading a weather report. Calm. Collected. Delusional. Zara started swearing in five languages. Kaycee looked like she’d just watched a horror movie. And me? I was quiet. Processing. Because what kind of woman suggests sharing her husband? No woman wants to share. And when she does, she’s bleeding quietly. This wasn’t just about Bola. It was about all of us, our choices, our boundaries, our worth. Zara and Jasmine told her to take the man completely. Kaycee and I couldn’t agree. Because Bola is the other woman. And no matter how you wrap that, it’s wrong. You don’t destroy a home to build a fantasy. Men, if your woman’s lost her spark, help her reignite it. Train with her. Talk to her. Grow with her. Don’t trade her in for someone new and shiny. You’ll lose more than you think. That night, as I sat alone on my balcony, Lagos air thick with memory and perfume and bad decisions, I stared at my phone. Dennis: “Waiting for your answer.” Rick: “Lunch?” I let the phone fall to my lap. And whispered:
“God, this is Your script.
Write the ending.
I’m just waiting for direction.”
Because at this point, it’s no longer about choosing between men.
It’s about choosing me.
Choosing between who I’ve been and who I want to become.
