Married to My Destiny Thief Episode 1

I Didn’t Catch My Husband Cheating I Caught Him Trading My Future

I discovered my husband’s secret at 3 a.m., and my life changed forever.

The house was quiet in that special way that only exists before dawn when sleep is deep and truth is awake. I had risen for water when I noticed it: the Home Office door wasn’t fully shut. A thin line of candlelight breathed across the corridor. Then the sound low, rhythmic chanting crept under my skin like cold rain.

I stood still, heart hammering, telling myself to go back to bed. But curiosity has a way of dragging you by the wrist.

I peered through the gap.

Femi was kneeling naked before a black clay pot. The candles trembled, throwing shadows that looked alive. Inside the pot floated my original certificates birth certificate, WAEC, university degree softened by water gone brown with ink. He scooped the water, washed his face, and whispered to a small idol carved like a mouth that never smiled.

“As her papers drown, let my business float,” he said. “As she dries up, let my oil overflow. She is the sacrifice. I am the receiver.”

Something inside me cracked without a sound.

Suddenly, my entire marriage rearranged itself into sense.

I am Amaka. I used to be unstoppable. A First Class Economics graduate from the University of Lagos. Banks chased me before NYSC ended. My future felt like a city with all green lights.

Then I married Femi.

He was a struggling mechanic with oil-stained hands and big dreams. I loved him. I funded him. I believed in him when nobody else did. I emptied my savings to open a spare parts shop. I paid the rent. I cooked. I encouraged. I bent my life around his.

Six months after our wedding, my job disappeared. “Restructuring,” they said. I applied elsewhere. Rejection after rejection. Interviews that went perfectly then silence. Doors that should have opened slammed shut.

While I fell, Femi flew.

One shop became three. Three became a warehouse. Containers arrived at the port bearing his name. Land in Banana Island. Cars multiplied. And me? I begged him for ₦2,000 to buy sanitary pads. I roasted corn by the roadside. Neighbors laughed.

“Look at the mechanic’s wife,” they said.

That night, watching him kneel before my stolen destiny, I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry.

I waited.

By morning, he kissed me goodbye, smelling of soap and victory. “I’ll be back early,” he said.

I walked to the garage.

His brand-new ₦40 million Range Rover slept like a fat promise. I poured petrol over the leather seats, the dashboard, the tires. My hands were steady. When I struck the match, the fire leapt like it had been waiting for permission.

BOOM.

Flames swallowed metal. Smoke punched the sky.

Femi ran out half naked, towel slipping, screaming my name. For the first time in twelve years, fear lived on his face.

While neighbors gathered and sirens wailed, I went back inside. I took the black clay pot. I wrapped it in cloth. I left.

I traveled to my village to see a man of God so old they say time respects him. He opened the pot, closed his eyes, and sighed.

“Your destiny was not destroyed,” he said softly. “It was diverted. But rivers can be returned to their source.”

For seven days, we prayed. For seven nights, the idol cracked on its own. On the eighth day, the water in the pot dried completely, leaving my certificates clean as if nothing had ever touched them.

That same week, Femi’s accounts froze. Shipments vanished. Buyers disappeared. The same doors that once opened for him slammed shut.

And me?

I got a call from a bank I applied to ten years ago.

Today, I sit in my own office. Real office. Sunlight, not candlelight. My name on the door.

If your life keeps collapsing while someone beside you rises unnaturally, don’t always blame the village.

Sometimes, your village people sleep next to you.

And sometimes, the fire you’re afraid to light is the beginning of your rebirth.

TBC...  Episode 2