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SO-SO Infotainment, Lagos (2025)

13/11/2025

Episode 5: The Man in the Photograph
(“I Wish I Never Knew Him” — Episode 5 of 7)

The rain poured relentlessly that night, drumming against the windowpane like a thousand tiny fists demanding attention. I sat in the dim glow of my bedside lamp, the newspaper clutched tightly in my trembling hands. My eyes lingered again on the black-and-white photo of the “missing local painter.”
Her name was Elena Drew. A name I had never heard before, yet her face—those haunting eyes and gentle smile—felt strangely familiar. It was as if I’d seen her somewhere, in a memory buried deep under the rubble of forgotten years.
I couldn’t sleep. Each time I closed my eyes, I saw the framed photograph I found at the restaurant. The same woman. The same expression. Only… she wasn’t alone in the version I found.
In my photo, there was a man beside her.
The next morning, I drove back to Pine Street Diner, ignoring the curious glance of the waiter who had served me days ago. The picture was still there, hanging crookedly between a clock that had stopped at 9:42 and an old painting of the city’s skyline.
I stood there for a long time, my heart pounding. The man in the photograph looked no older than thirty. Sharp features, kind eyes—but his smile was strained, almost forced. And though the years had softened his jawline and added grey to his hair, I knew that face.
I’d seen it before.
In my mother’s old photo albums.
I called my mother that evening. Her voice came through the speaker, warm but cautious, as if she’d been expecting this conversation.
“Mom,” I said quietly. “Who is Elena Drew?”
There was silence. Then, a long exhale. “Where did you hear that name?”
“She was a painter, apparently. I found her picture in an old newspaper. The one hanging at the diner.”
The sound of shuffling papers came through the phone, followed by a sigh so deep it chilled me.
“Gabrielle,” she said finally, “you need to stop digging into things you don’t understand.”
“I’m just asking, Mom. Why does her face look so familiar? Why was she in that restaurant’s photograph—with Dad?”
Her silence was louder than her voice.
“Mom?”
Then, softly: “Because she was your father’s first wife.”
My stomach dropped. “His what?”
“She disappeared before you were born,” she whispered. “Your father never talked about her. The police questioned him for weeks, but they never found proof of anything. She was declared missing, presumed dead.”
I gripped the edge of the bed, the newspaper now lying open beside me like an accusation.
“So all these years—Dad knew her? He was with her?”
“Yes,” she said, her voice trembling. “They were married for two years. He was her muse, she said. Her everything. Until one night, she vanished. Your father was never the same after that. When I met him, he was… broken. Haunted.”
The line went silent for a moment. Then she added, “He told me he’d moved on, but he kept her painting locked in his study. I never asked why.”
After I ended the call, I sat still, staring into the darkness of my room. Every corner felt alive, pulsing with the ghosts of secrets I hadn’t asked to inherit.
That night, I dreamt of the painting.
It wasn’t the framed picture at the diner anymore—it was something larger, more vivid. A canvas of red and gold, of shadows and whispers. Elena stood at its center, her hand outstretched toward a faceless man whose figure was dissolving into smoke. Behind them, the same restaurant appeared, its lights flickering like dying stars.
When I woke, my chest was tight, my breath shallow. On my desk, the newspaper lay open again—even though I could’ve sworn I had closed it.
A small handwritten note had been tucked inside.
The ink was faded, but I could still read it:
“The truth is not buried. It’s waiting.”
The next day, I drove to my father’s old studio—a small brick building behind our house that had been locked since his death. The key still hung on a hook in my mother’s kitchen, untouched for years.
Inside, everything was exactly as he’d left it: brushes hardened with paint, easels covered with dust, the faint smell of turpentine still clinging to the air.
And then, leaning against the far wall, half-covered by a cloth, I found the painting.
When I pulled the cloth away, my breath caught in my throat.
It was her. Elena. Painted in exquisite detail, her expression caught between sorrow and fear. But it wasn’t just her face that froze me.
In the background stood my father—his hand on her shoulder, his eyes dark and unreadable.
And just below, hidden under the layers of brushstrokes, faint words emerged like ghosts rising from the paint:
“Forgive me.”
To be continued in Episode 6 — “The Secret in the Paint.”

12/11/2025

Episode 4 — “The Sister’s Secret”
Series Title: I Wish I Never Knew Him
Word count: ~890 words
The room felt colder than usual that night. Adesewa sat on her bed, staring at the letter again. The words “And so does she” pulsed in her mind like an echo she couldn’t silence. Every breath she took felt heavier, slower—almost as if the air itself resisted her.
Tola had offered to stay, but she refused. She needed time to think. To process. To remember.
His sister.
Her name was Anita Adebayo—Samuel’s younger sister. The one who had always worn that polite, calculated smile. The one who had visited every weekend, claiming she just wanted to “check on her brother.” But Adesewa knew better. She remembered the way Anita used to watch her—quietly, observantly, as if she was taking mental notes.
After Samuel’s disappearance, Anita had called only once. Her voice was distant, almost rehearsed.
“If anyone asks, tell them you don’t know anything,” she had said. “It’s better that way—for both of us.”
Then she vanished.
Until now.
The next morning, Adesewa woke up to a message on her phone.
Unknown Number: “Meet me at the old house. Noon. Come alone.”
Her stomach knotted. The “old house” could only mean one place — Samuel’s family mansion in Ikoyi. The place she hadn’t dared to return to since the night everything fell apart.
She tried calling the number, but it was switched off.
For a long moment, she stared at her reflection in the mirror. Her eyes looked sunken, older, as though every secret she had buried had begun to carve lines into her face. But there was something else in them too — resolve.
She had run for too long. It was time to face the past.
By noon, the sun hung lazily over the city, casting long shadows across the cobblestone driveway. The mansion looked exactly as she remembered — cold, immaculate, and eerily silent. The metal gate creaked as she pushed it open.
Her footsteps echoed on the marble floor as she entered the main hall. Dust coated the furniture, and cobwebs hung like forgotten memories.
Then she heard it — the faint sound of footsteps from upstairs.
“Anita?” she called out.
No answer.
She climbed the staircase slowly, her heart thudding in rhythm with her steps. At the end of the corridor, a door was slightly ajar. She pushed it open — and froze.
Anita stood by the window, dressed in black, her hair tied in a bun. She turned slowly, her expression unreadable.
“You came,” she said softly.
Adesewa swallowed. “You sent for me. What is this about?”
Anita tilted her head. “You look… different. Older. Tired.”
“I didn’t come here for compliments.”
“Of course not,” Anita said with a faint smile. “You came for the truth.”
Adesewa’s voice trembled. “What truth?”
Anita walked toward a wooden chest by the bed and opened it. Inside were neatly stacked folders, old photographs, and newspaper clippings. She pulled one out and handed it to Adesewa.
The headline read:
“Samuel Adebayo’s Fortune Under Scrutiny — Missing Assets Linked to Offshore Accounts.”
Adesewa frowned. “What is this?”
“Your husband wasn’t just a businessman,” Anita said quietly. “He was laundering money for people you wouldn’t want to know existed.”
Adesewa’s grip on the paper tightened. “That’s not possible. Samuel was—”
“Samuel was a liar,” Anita cut in sharply. “He hid it well. Even from you. But when he realized the net was closing in, he tried to disappear.”
Adesewa shook her head. “You’re saying he staged his own disappearance?”
Anita’s eyes darkened. “He didn’t just stage it. He made sure someone else would take the fall if things went wrong.”
“Someone else?”
Anita nodded slowly. “You.”
Adesewa’s mouth went dry. “What?”
“He left traces—documents, financial transfers, even forged signatures. Enough to make it look like you helped him.”
The floor seemed to sway beneath her. “Why are you telling me this now?”
“Because someone’s reopened the case,” Anita said, stepping closer. “And your name came up again.”
For a long moment, neither spoke. The ticking clock on the wall filled the silence like a countdown.
Then Anita’s voice softened. “You’re not the only one he hurt, Adesewa. He destroyed everyone who ever loved him. Including me.”
Adesewa looked up sharply. “You?”
Anita hesitated, her gaze distant. “He wasn’t just my brother.”
Adesewa’s breath caught. “What do you mean?”
“I mean…” Anita said, her eyes glistening with tears, “…he was the reason our mother died. The reason our father went to prison. He manipulated all of us. You were his final masterpiece.”
Adesewa took a step back, her mind spinning. “Why should I believe you?”
“Because,” Anita whispered, “he’s still alive.”
The words struck her like lightning.
“What did you just say?”
Anita looked her straight in the eyes. “Samuel is alive, Adesewa. And he’s coming back.”
The world seemed to tilt. Adesewa stumbled backward, gripping the edge of the dresser. Every memory — every night she cried over his disappearance — came rushing back with brutal force.
“How do you know?” she demanded.
Anita opened the drawer and pulled out a small flash drive. “He sent this to me last week.”
Adesewa stared at it, trembling. “What’s on it?”
Anita’s voice was barely a whisper. “A video. And a message — for you.”

10/11/2025

Episode 3 – "The Past I Buried"

The sound of the waves was faint that morning, barely audible over the distant rumble of traffic. The restaurant felt quieter than usual. Adesewa sat by the window, stirring her coffee absently. Her eyes were hollow from a sleepless night, haunted by the face she saw in that framed photograph—the man she once swore she’d never see again.
She didn’t tell Tola everything. Not yet.
She couldn’t.
When she had left Lagos five years ago, she had promised herself she was leaving her past behind. She even changed her number, her address, everything that tied her to him. But some ghosts, she thought, are too stubborn to stay dead.
As she sat there, her phone buzzed again. It was a message from Tola.
Tola: “We need to talk. I found something.”
Her heart skipped. What could he have found?
She quickly typed a reply — “Meet me at the restaurant in an hour.”
Then, almost instinctively, she reached into her bag and pulled out the old envelope she had hidden for years. Inside was a letter—creased, yellowed, and sealed with a faint smear of blood. Her hand trembled as she traced the handwriting on the front. It read, “To the one I failed.”
Before she could open it, the waiter interrupted. “Madam, another cup?”
She nodded, forcing a smile. But as the waiter turned to leave, she noticed something odd—he had the same birthmark on his wrist as… him.
Her throat tightened. No, it can’t be.
She stood abruptly, eyes fixed on the waiter as he disappeared into the kitchen. For a moment, her surroundings blurred—the sound of laughter, clinking glasses, the hum of life—all faded into a distant hum. She walked toward the kitchen door, pushing it open slightly.
The waiter was washing his hands, back turned. “Excuse me,” she said softly.
He turned. And in that instant, her entire world tilted.
It wasn’t him. But the resemblance was uncanny—the jawline, the posture, even the deep brown eyes that once disarmed her every defense. She felt her knees weaken.
“You’re okay, ma?” he asked, startled by her expression.
“Yes… I’m fine.” She forced a weak laugh. “You just reminded me of someone.”
He smiled politely and turned back to his work. She walked out quickly, her heart pounding against her ribs.
Minutes later, Tola arrived, his face etched with worry. “You look pale,” he said, sliding into the seat across from her.
“I barely slept,” she admitted. “What did you find?”
Tola placed his phone on the table and opened a picture. It was a screenshot from a newspaper archive. The headline read:
“BUSINESS TYCOON DECLARED MISSING – Wife Remains Silent.”
Adesewa’s hand froze midair. The name below the headline made her blood run cold.
“Samuel Adebayo.”
Tola studied her. “You know him, don’t you?”
She nodded slowly, tears threatening to spill. “He was my husband.”
Tola’s jaw dropped. “What? But I thought—”
“I know what you thought,” she interrupted softly. “Everyone did. They said I ran away because I couldn’t handle the shame. But the truth…” She swallowed hard. “…the truth is much darker.”
The restaurant suddenly felt suffocating. She looked out the window, trying to steady her breathing.
“Samuel wasn’t the man everyone thought he was,” she continued. “He was charming in public, generous, even worshiped by the media. But behind closed doors…”
She stopped, trembling. “Behind closed doors, he was a monster.”
Tola leaned in, voice barely above a whisper. “What happened to him, Adesewa?”
She met his eyes, a tear finally slipping free. “I buried him.”
Silence.
For a few seconds, all Tola could do was stare. The air between them was heavy, charged with disbelief and fear.
“You—you mean…”
She shook her head. “Not literally. I mean, I buried the memory. The day he disappeared, I made sure no one could trace anything back to me. But now…” She looked toward the framed photograph hanging at the restaurant’s corner. “Now he’s finding his way back.”
Tola exhaled sharply, running his hands over his face. “Adesewa, this is serious. You can’t just—”
“I know,” she cut in. “But you don’t understand. Someone knows. Someone is trying to bring it all back.”
Tola’s eyes narrowed. “Do you think it’s connected to that picture you saw yesterday?”
“Yes.”
He sat back, deep in thought. “Then we need to find out who’s behind it before they come for you.”
Adesewa nodded, clutching the letter again. For the first time in years, her hands were shaking uncontrollably.
“I never opened it,” she murmured.
“What is it?”
“The last thing he left behind before he disappeared.”
She carefully tore the envelope open, her breath shallow. Inside was a small, folded note. Her eyes scanned the words, and her heart stopped.
“I know what you did, Adesewa. And so does she.”
She froze, looking up at Tola in terror.
“She?” he asked, his voice trembling.
Adesewa whispered, barely audible—
“His sister.”
End of Episode 3 – “The Past I Buried”

Next episode: “The Sister’s Secret.”

09/11/2025

Episode 2 — “The Lie Beneath the Smile”

The following days passed in silence.
Michael didn’t call, and I didn’t reach out either. But silence, I learned, can be louder than noise — especially when guilt lives in the space between you and the truth.
At work, the atmosphere was strange. Everyone acted normal, but I could feel the undercurrent — those subtle stares, the whispers that stopped when I walked in. It felt as though people knew something I didn’t. Or maybe they just saw what I was trying so hard to hide — heartbreak.
By Tuesday, I couldn’t take it anymore. I needed closure, or at least an explanation that would make sense of the chaos in my head. I decided to call him.
He answered on the first ring, his voice low, careful.
“Amara… I was hoping you’d call.”
“Are you at the office?” I asked coldly.
“No. I’m at home. Can I see you tonight?”
Every rational part of me screamed no, but curiosity is a dangerous thing. Against my better judgment, I agreed.
We met at a small restaurant near the Lagoon. It was one of those quiet places that looked romantic to outsiders but felt heavy when you were there to discuss pain.
He arrived late, looking tired, a shadow of the confident man I once knew. His shirt was wrinkled, and his eyes carried a weight I couldn’t quite read.
“I’m sorry,” he said before he even sat down. “About everything.”
I wanted to shout, to throw the glass of water in his face, to demand why he thought I deserved deceit. But instead, my voice came out small. “Why didn’t you tell me you were married, Michael?”
He sighed deeply. “Because I didn’t want to lose you.”
“That’s not love,” I said, my chest tightening. “That’s manipulation.”
His eyes darted around, as if searching for the right words. “It’s not what you think. My marriage has been dead for years. Tola and I… we live separate lives. She stayed because of our daughter.”
I froze. “Your daughter?”
He nodded slowly. “Teni. She’s eight.”
Something about the way he said her name made my heart soften for a moment — then immediately harden again. “So, while you were telling me you couldn’t live without me, you were also visiting your ‘dead’ marriage and your child?”
“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he said, reaching for my hand.
I pulled away. “But you did.”
The silence that followed was suffocating. The sound of clinking cutlery and soft jazz filled the space where our laughter used to be.
“I was going to tell you,” he murmured finally. “I just wanted the right time.”
“There’s never a right time to tell a lie, Michael.”
He exhaled sharply, rubbing his temples. “I didn’t lie about my feelings. Everything I said to you was real.”
I looked at him — this man who had once seemed so sure of himself — and realized that truth meant different things to different people. To him, maybe love was enough to justify deception. But to me, love without honesty was poison.
That night, when I got home, I sat in the dark for hours. His words echoed in my head — I didn’t want to lose you.
Was I angry? Yes. But beneath the anger was something scarier — pity. Because I had seen that look in his eyes before. The look of someone who believed his own lies.
I wanted to move on. To erase him. But the heart never obeys logic.
By Thursday, he started showing up again. Small gestures — coffee on my desk, short messages like “Thinking of you” and “I’ll fix everything.”
I ignored them at first. Then one night, exhaustion took over, and I replied, “You can’t fix this. Please stop.”
His response came instantly:
“If you’d just listen, you’ll understand. You’re the only one who ever saw me.”
Something about that message made me uneasy. Not flattered — uneasy. There was an obsession buried under those words, a quiet intensity that felt wrong.
The next morning, my best friend, Tomi, called.
“I heard about Michael,” she said. “Are you okay?”
“I will be,” I lied.
“Good,” she said, her tone changing. “Because I did something. Don’t be mad.”
My heart skipped. “What did you do?”
“I called a friend who works at the corporate registry. I asked about Michael Durojaiye.”
“Tomi—”
“Wait. Let me finish.” She paused. “There’s no one by that name in the firm’s records before three months ago.”
“What?”
“Exactly. And the address he listed on his onboarding forms? It’s an empty lot.”
I felt the room spin. “That’s impossible. HR verified his documents.”
“Or he gave them a reason not to check too deeply,” she said.
The phone slipped from my hand. My stomach churned. Every instinct screamed that I was standing on the edge of something dangerous — something far bigger than a broken heart.
That evening, I tried calling him, but his line was switched off. The next day, he didn’t show up at work.
By the weekend, I got a call from an unknown number. When I answered, there was silence for a few seconds — then a woman’s voice.
“Is this Amara?”
“Yes… who’s this?”
“This is Tola. Michael’s wife.”
My breath caught.
“I think we need to talk,” she said, her voice trembling. “Before he hurts you the way he hurt me.”
The call ended before I could respond. My hand shook so badly I almost dropped the phone.
For a long moment, I just sat there, staring at my reflection in the dark window. I didn’t know what scared me more — the fact that she called, or the quiet certainty in her tone.
Because for the first time, I realized something chilling:
I hadn’t fallen in love with a man. I had walked straight into a web — and I wasn’t sure I could get out.

End of Episode 2 — To Be Continued in Episode 3

08/11/2025

Take good care of yourself.....every other thing comes after

08/11/2025

He microwaved his sister because he felt she took everything from him....

08/11/2025

If anyone had told me that a simple “hello” could change the course of my life forever, I would have laughed. I wasn’t the type to believe that people could walk into your life and rearrange everything you thought you knew about love, trust, and pain. But then, I met him.
It was a quiet Thursday evening when I saw him for the first time. The sun was setting behind the glass walls of our office building, washing everything in a golden hue. I had stayed late to finish a report, tapping away on my keyboard, when a deep voice broke the silence.
“Still here?”
I looked up. He leaned on the doorframe, his tie slightly loose, a cup of coffee in one hand. I didn’t know him well then—just the new project consultant everyone couldn’t stop talking about. Michael Durojaiye. Tall, confident, and annoyingly composed.
“Deadlines don’t care what time it is,” I replied, forcing a smile.
He chuckled and walked in, placing a second cup of coffee on my desk. “Then let’s fight the deadlines together.”
That was the first time anyone had done something so thoughtful for me in that cold, corporate jungle. From that moment, it felt like the air between us shifted. There was something in his gaze—warm, assuring, yet slightly unreadable.
We started talking more after that night. A few shared lunches became evening drives home. Before long, Michael knew everything about me—how I hated the smell of onions, how I couldn’t sleep without background noise, how I buried myself in work to avoid loneliness. And he? He was perfect—or so it seemed.
He had that effortless charm, the kind that made you feel safe and seen at the same time. Everyone in the office loved him, but he seemed to pay attention only to me. Soon, his messages became the first thing I read every morning and the last thing I saw before bed.
It was harmless—until it wasn’t.
One Friday night, after a long week of meetings, he asked me to dinner. “Just to celebrate surviving another crazy week,” he said with that half-smile that could melt glaciers.
I agreed. I shouldn’t have.
We met at a quiet restaurant on Victoria Island. The lights were dim, the air smelled of roasted peppers and jazz filled the room. He talked about his dreams, how he wanted to start his own firm someday, how he admired my dedication. I remember laughing so hard that night that my cheeks hurt. It felt… right.
But there was a moment—a fleeting one—that I still replay sometimes.
His phone rang. He looked at the screen, and for the first time, I saw something flicker across his face. Guilt? Panic? He silenced it quickly and smiled again, but that split second stuck with me.
When I asked, “Who was that?”
He said, “Just work. Don’t ruin tonight.”
And I didn’t press. That was my first mistake.
Over the next few weeks, things grew deeper. He started picking me up in the mornings, leaving coffee on my desk, sending flowers “just because.” My friends noticed the glow. They teased me about being in love, and maybe I was. I stopped questioning how fast it was happening.
Until the day I walked into his office and saw a framed picture turned face-down on his table.
He wasn’t around, so curiosity got the better of me. I lifted it.
It was him—with a woman and a little girl.
My heart pounded. Maybe it was his sister? A niece? But the inscription on the frame froze me: “Forever my family – Love, T.”
I placed it down exactly as it was and walked out. That evening, I didn’t respond to his calls. He sent messages:
“Are you okay?”
“I feel like something’s wrong.”
“Please talk to me.”
I ignored them all. But at 10:47 PM, he showed up at my door.
“Why are you here, Michael?” I asked, voice trembling.
He looked exhausted, his shirt half-buttoned, eyes pleading. “Because I can’t lose you without explaining.”
“Then explain,” I said, crossing my arms.
He hesitated, then sighed. “Yes, I’m married. But it’s complicated—”
I didn’t let him finish. My ears rang, my heart broke in slow motion. “Complicated?” I repeated, almost whispering. “You made me believe I was special.”
“You are,” he said, stepping closer. “It’s not what you think. I haven’t been with her for years. We’re just… not divorced yet.”
The pain of that sentence was sharper than anything I’d ever felt.
He reached for my hand, but I pulled away. “Leave, Michael.”
He did. But not before whispering, “I’ll fix this, I promise. Don’t give up on me.”
I cried all night, trying to convince myself that I had imagined everything—that maybe he really was trapped in a loveless marriage. But something deep inside me warned that this was just the beginning of something darker.
The next morning, I came into the office, and everything looked the same—but felt different. People whispered as I walked past. His door was locked. And when I asked his assistant where he was, she said softly,
“He took the day off. His wife had an accident.”
I froze.
In that moment, my world tilted again. Because despite my anger, a part of me still cared. I wished I didn’t.
I wish… I never knew him.

End of Episode 1 — To Be Continued in Episode 2

08/11/2025

Amen.

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