08/30/2025
WHEN I TASTED ANOTHER WOMAN'S MAN
EPISODE 7
Written by: Catherine Nduka
“How I Slept With a Married Man”
Immediately the door squeaked, the young lady inside turned sharply to see who had entered. She was dressed in a way that made me feel unwelcome, and her eyes narrowed the moment they landed on me.
“Excuse me, who are you?” she demanded, her voice sharp.
I stood frozen for a moment before answering, “I’m in my friend’s house.”
“What!” she exclaimed, almost dropping the glass she was holding. Shock covered her face.
Thinking she was just another girlfriend, I said calmly, “He told me the only person who lives here is his mother. Are you his mom?”
Her eyes widened. “Do I look like his mom? Are you sure you are not in the wrong house?”
I shook my head, still confused. “No. He just walked in to tell his mum he was going out. I presumed you were his mother.”
Her voice rose with authority. “Who are you, woman? I am his wife!” She raised her left hand, showing me the wedding ring. “We’ve been married for two years.”
The words pierced through me. I stared at her. She was breathtakingly beautiful, the kind of woman people would admire in a crowd. With all her elegance and natural charm, I wondered what he had truly seen in me. I knew I was attractive in my own way, but in that moment, I felt small.
Just then, Johnson rushed out from the inner room, his face drenched in panic. Before he could say anything, I quickly turned to his wife and said, “I am sorry, madam. I’m just his colleague from work. I came to drop off something from the office. I didn’t mean to intrude. I honestly thought you were his mom, so I wanted to greet.”
“Yes, honey, she is my colleague,” Johnson quickly added, his words stumbling over themselves. “Let me see her out.”
His wife frowned suspiciously. “I hope so.”
I didn’t argue further. I was too dignified to fight with another woman in her own home. Quietly, I walked out of the house. Johnson followed me immediately, driving me out in his car.
He looked restless, his hands shaking slightly on the steering wheel. “I am sorry you had to find out this way,” he muttered.
My heart was pounding. “So you are married? And you made me believe you weren’t?”
He lowered his eyes, ashamed. “I’m so sorry. Thank you for not telling my wife the truth. Please… tell me what you want. I promise I’ll do everything to make you happy.”
I took a deep breath. “Stop seeing me. And you must pay for the damages you’ve caused me and my son. I’ll tell you what to do later, so I won’t have to tell your wife about us.”
“Cathy, please,” he begged. “Don’t do this to me. Name your price.”
I thought of demanding a huge ransom, but my mind was clouded. Instead, I simply asked him to drop me at my shop. I needed time to think.
That night, questions tormented me. Should I tell his wife? Should I ask him for money? How did I fall this low—to be with another woman’s husband?
Life had played me a bitter trick. I had run away from men who were players, only to fall into the trap of a married man. It was like escaping a brief storm and walking straight into a hurricane.
But it wasn’t over yet. He had to feel the weight of his actions. He had to pay, so that whenever he thought of betraying his wife again, he would remember me and retreat.
After thinking for hours, I came up with a plan. The next day, I picked up my phone and dialed his number.
“Hello,” he answered, his voice low.
“I’m pregnant,” I said firmly.
“For who?” he asked quickly, his tone laced with disbelief.
“As if you don’t know,” I replied coldly. “I’m two months pregnant for you.”
“No, no. That is impossible!” he exclaimed.
“What’s impossible? You wanted to lie with a woman who wasn’t your wife, but now you’re shocked she ended up pregnant? Did you forget consequences exist?”
“But Cathy, you know I’m married,” he whispered, sounding defeated.
I cut him short. “And you knew that before coming to me. Don’t pretend.”
That evening, he stormed into my shop, demanding proof. Calmly, I handed him the hospital report. Instead of accepting it, he accused me of forging the papers.
“I’ll report you to the police!” he threatened.
I laughed bitterly. “What do you prefer? To take responsibility for your child in my womb, or for me to walk straight to your wife with this report?”
His shoulders slumped. “Okay… I’ll take care of the child.”
That was my chance. I didn’t give him a moment to breathe. Every night I sent him a text message.
“My baby wants her father by his side,” I wrote one night.
He called me instantly. “But Cathy, I’m married. Why are you sending me such messages at midnight?”
“Because I can’t sleep. Your child needs you,” I insisted.
Sometimes, after waking from a dream or simply going to relieve myself, I would call him again. He would answer groggily, his voice filled with frustration.
“Please, I beg you, stop calling me at this hour.”
But I would press further. “I want roasted fish and fried plantains.”
“I’ll buy it tomorrow, please.”
“I want it now. If you don’t, I’ll tell your wife.”
He sighed heavily. “I’ll block your number.”
“If you do,” I warned, “your wife will know everything.”
He went quiet for a long while before replying, “Alright. I’ll go buy the fish and plantains.”
“Make sure the plantains are ripe, but not too ripe,” I added.
“I’ll sneak out,” he murmured helplessly.
And that night, he did.
To Be Continued…
