11/30/2025
I watched through the departure glass as my wife, Sandra, was dragged away by airport security. She was screaming my name, her wig falling off, her hands in the air.
I sipped my champagne, turned my phone to Airplane Mode, and buckled my seatbelt.
I am not a victim. I am not asking for your pity. I am asking for a round of applause.
They say revenge is a dish best served cold. I served mine frozen.
My name is Kelvin. Six months ago, I found out that Sandra, the woman I married and sponsored through her Masters degree, was sleeping with our landlord.
I didn't catch them in bed. I didn't see a text message.
I saw the DNA test results for our set of twins.
"0% Probability of Paternity."
The landlord, a short, pot-bellied man who always complained about maintenance fees, was the father of my children.
I didn't cry. I didn't confront her. I didn't break bottles or shout like a madman.
I went to work. I smiled when I came home. I played with the twins.
But inside, I began to draw a map. A map out of this marriage and into a new life.
Sandra had one weakness. She was obsessed with Japa. She wanted to move to the UK more than she wanted air to breathe.
So, I gave her a dream.
"Baby," I told her one evening over dinner. "I got the job. The Tech company in London. They are paying for everything. Relocation allowance, visa for the whole family, everything."
She screamed. She jumped on me. She called her mother. "Mama, we are going to London."
I told her there was a condition.
"The company requires us to show Proof of Funds in our Nigerian account. We need to liquidate our assets here to show we have ties to nothing."
She agreed.
She was so blinded by the lights of London that she didn't read the documents I gave her to sign.
We sold her boutique.
We sold the land her late father left her in Lekki.
We sold her jewelry.
The money came into my account. Over 45 Million Naira.
To Be Continued........
