My Wife Brought Me A Wife, Episode 1

By Banke Abel 

The old ceiling fan in Ikeja High Court’s room 3 groaned like it was gasping for breath, fighting a losing battle against Lagos' sticky heat. It spun lazily above a sea of restless spectators, their eyes darting, their shirts clinging to damp backs.
Below it, Adesuwa "Adé" Oladele stood, unmoved. In a sharp navy-blue power suit that clung to her like purpose, and red stilettos that echoed across the courtroom floor, she was a vision of precision and poise. She wasn’t just present—she owned the space.
 
The air was thick with tension, sweat, and the distinct scent of fear. Adé raised a single sheet of paper, holding it like a dagger. “Mr. Adekunle,” she began, voice cold and unwavering, “you told this court you never sent these messages to your girlfriend. Correct?”
 
The man in the box—grey tie askew, lips trembling—wiped sweat from his brow. “Y-yes! Those texts are fake!” His voice cracked like thin glass under pressure.
 
A smirk tugged at the corner of Adé’s lips. She turned to the judge, giving a respectful nod. “My Lord, kindly observe Exhibit B.” The courtroom lights dimmed slightly as the screen behind her came to life. A grainy hotel security video flickered into focus. 

The courtroom held its breath.

There he was—Mr. Adekunle—bold as daylight, arm draped around a younger woman, strolling into a hotel lobby. The timestamp? The same day as his daughter’s seventh birthday. Gasps sliced through the room. Mr. Adekunle’s wife sat motionless in the front row, until a sharp cry escaped her throat. She clutched her bag like a lifeline and turned her face away, tears spilling freely.

 
“You see, Mr. Family Man,” Adé said, taking a few slow steps forward, “hotel cameras don’t lie.”
 
Silence. His lawyer buried his face in his palms. Mr. Adekunle looked like a man aged by twenty years in the span of twenty seconds. But Adé didn’t flinch. Her eyes remained locked on him like a sniper’s crosshairs.

 
                                                                        --------
 
                                                    Flashback: 15 Years Earlier
 

Smoke danced in the dusk sky like spirits in mourning. Young Adé crouched behind the iron gate of their old Surulere home. Her knees trembled, dust clinging to her skin. Through the slits, she saw her father—Chief Oladele—standing over a fire, hands shaking as he fed sheet after sheet into the flames. His white agbada was no longer pristine. Ash clung to the hem. Sweat poured down his face, mixing with soot.
 
“Papa, why?” she whispered, unable to move.
 
He didn’t turn. “They’re saying I stole money.” His voice broke, cracking under the weight of betrayal. “They want to destroy me, Adesuwa.” A moment passed. Then he yelled, “Run inside, Adé! Now!”
 
But she didn’t move. Not when her mother fainted behind him with a thud that cracked the soul. Not when the police sirens screeched like banshees from down the street. Not even when they stormed the compound and ripped the last pieces of their life apart. She stayed. Watching. Remembering. And when the fire finally ate the last piece of paper—every receipt, every invoice, every proof of innocence—something inside her snapped. Something cold. Something permanent.
 
                                                                        ---------
 
                                                                   Present Day

 
“Divorce granted,” the judge declared, hammering the gavel like thunder. The courtroom erupted. Some gasped. Others whispered. Reporters sprang from their seats like caged birds finally set free, cameras flashing like lightning. Adé ignored them all. She calmly began to pack her files—no hurry, no emotion. Just control.
Mr. Adekunle, now cuffed and humiliated, turned to her as guards led him away. “You’re evil,” he spat, voice trembling. Adé froze. For a fraction of a second, the courtroom dissolved. She wasn’t a lawyer anymore. She was just that scared little girl again—watching her father get dragged away in handcuffs while the truth burned to ash. But then she straightened her shoulders. She leaned close to him, her voice, a whisper that cut like ice. “No, you’re the evil one. And I break people like you.” He flinched. 

Outside, Lagos roared with life. Honking cars, shouting bus conductors, street hawkers yelling “pure water!” filled the air with chaos and rhythm. Adé climbed into her black SUV. The windows were tinted, the AC cold, the silence dignified. Tunde, her driver — who also stepped into a PA's shoe at times — glanced at her through the rearview mirror. “Madam, the next case is that rich Okafor woman. Her husband is a billionaire o.” Adé didn’t look up. Her eyes were fixed on her phone screen—a photo of her father’s forgotten grave, its headstone nearly swallowed by weeds. 

“Good,” she replied. “Rich clients pay more.”

 
The car slid into the traffic on Third Mainland Bridge, joining the unending stream of Lagos’ heartbeat.
 

To be continued.