How I almost married a married man

How I Almost Married a Married Man It was a humid evening in Lagos, the kind where the air clung to your skin like a damp wrapper. I was at a cozy bookshop café in Lekki, flipping through Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s Half of a Yellow Sun, a glass of zobo in hand, when Chinedu sauntered over. “You know, that book will break your heart,” he said with a grin, his Igbo accent smooth as palm wine. His charm was electric, his eyes like dark pools of mischief. We talked for hours—about jollof rice wars, Lagos traffic, and our dreams. By the time I left, his number was saved in my phone, and my heart was doing a small azonto dance. Chinedu was everything I thought I wanted in a man. A tech bro with a sleek office in Victoria Island, he was sharp, attentive, and had a laugh that could light up a room. Our dates were pure magic: suya under the stars at Freedom Park, late-night drives blasting Burna Boy, and WhatsApp chats that kept me smiling till dawn. He spoke of our future—owambe weddings, a house in Lekki Phase 1, and kids who’d call me “Mummy.” Six months in, he proposed at a rooftop restaurant in Ikoyi, slipping a gold ring onto my finger under the glow of fairy lights. I said yes, my heart full like a pot of egusi soup. But something wasn’t quite right. Chinedu was slippery about certain things. He never took me to his flat in Yaba, claiming it was “under renovation.” His weekends were often “booked with client meetings” in Abuja or Port Harcourt. His Instagram was private, and he’d laugh off my questions about his family. “Nne, relax, you’re my queen,” he’d say, kissing my forehead. I ignored the red flags, blaming my overthinking and Lagos’s fast-paced life. Love, I told myself, was about faith. The truth came crashing down when my friend Amaka, ever the detective, insisted on vetting him. “You’re engaged, Nkechi. Let’s be sure this guy is legit,” she said, sipping Malt at my flat in Surulere. I rolled my eyes but gave her his full name—Chinedu Okonkwo—and some details. A week later, she showed up at my door, her face tight like she’d seen a juju priest. “We need to talk. Now.” Amaka had done some digging. Chinedu’s LinkedIn led to an old classmate’s Instagram, which led to a photo from a traditional wedding in Owerri. There he was, in full Igbo regalia, smiling beside a woman in a glittering gele. Another photo showed them with a little girl, captioned, “My heart, my home—five years strong!” My chest tightened like I’d swallowed a lump of pounded yam. I confronted Chinedu at a buka in Ikeja, where we’d planned to share isi ewu. At first, he denied it, his voice smooth as ever, blaming “haters” and “fake news.” But when I showed him the photos on my phone, his face fell like a badly baked chin-chin. He confessed: he’d been married for five years, with a daughter, living in Port Harcourt. His “business trips” were weekends with his family. He swore he loved me, that his marriage was “dead,” and he’d planned to divorce her for me. But the lies stung worse than a suya pepper burn. I slid the ring across the table, tears hot on my cheeks, and walked out into the Lagos rain. The weeks after were pure wahala. I questioned everything—my instincts, my worth, my ability to trust again. Lagos kept moving, but I felt stuck, replaying every sweet word Chinedu had fed me. With Amaka’s tough love, prayers at MFM, and long talks with my mum, I started to heal. I learned to trust my gut, to value myself over empty promises. Chinedu’s deception was a bitter lesson: love isn’t just about butterflies or sweet talk—it’s about truth. Now, when I think back, I’m grateful for the near miss. I almost married a married man, but God’s grace and Amaka’s nosiness saved me. And that, my dear, is the real testimony.

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