I invited 200 guests to my 10th Wedding Anniversary just to play a video of my wife sleeping with her Gym Instructor on the massive projector screen.
They say revenge is a dish best served cold. Mine was served frozen.
My wife, Tolu, is currently rolling on the floor of the Event Hall in Ikeja, crying and begging. Her mother has fainted. Her pastor is pretending to be on a phone call.
But I am sitting in my G-Wagon, drinking a cold bottle of water, feeling lighter than air.
For the past ten years, I was the “Mugu.” The ATM. The foolish husband.
I work on an Oil Rig. I spend two weeks at sea, two weeks at home. I sent Tolu millions to start businesses that always “failed.” I built a house in her father’s village. I bought her a Range Rover for her last birthday.
We have three beautiful children. Or so I thought.
Six months ago, our last born, Davidson, fell sick. He needed blood. I rushed to the hospital, rolling up my sleeves, ready to donate.
The Doctor, who is my old secondary school classmate, pullI invited 200 classmate, pulled me into his office. He looked uncomfortable.
“Bro, your blood type is O Negative,” he said. “Tolu is O Positive. The boy is AB Positive.”
I laughed. “What does that mean? Biology was not my best subject.”
He didn’t laugh. “It means, biologically, it is impossible for you to be the father.”
My world stopped.
I told him to run a DNA test on all three kids.
I waited for two weeks. Those two weeks were hell. I looked at Tolu sleeping beside me, snoring peacefully, and I wanted to strangle her. But I kept quiet.
The results came back.
Child 1 (Junior): 0% Probability of Paternity.
Child 2 (Sandra): 0% Probability of Paternity.
Child 3 (Davidson): 0% Probability of Paternity.
I had been training another man’s platoon for 10 years.
I didn’t scream. I didn’t fight. I didn’t even ask her.
Instead, I told her, “Baby, for our 10th Anniversary, I want to give you the wedding of your dreams. A Vow Renewal.” story by jerry smith
She screamed in excitement. She called all her friends. She bought Aso-ebi for her family. She booked the most expensive makeup artist in Lagos.
I paid for everything. I hired the biggest hall. I invited her entire village, her church members, her “Gym Instructor” (who I found out was the father of the second child), and my colleagues.
Today was the D-Day.
The hall was packed. The MC announced, “And now, a special video tribute from the husband to his lovely wife!”
Tolu was sitting on the high table, smiling like a queen, waving at the crowd.
The lights went dim. The projector screen came down.
Everyone expected a montage of our romantic photos.
Instead, the DNA results appeared on the screen. Huge, bold letters.
PROBABILITY OF PATERNITY: 0%.
The crowd went silent. You could hear a pin drop.
Then, the next slide played. It was a video I had paid a private investigator to record. It showed Tolu entering a hotel room with her Gym Instructor. It showed them kissing.
The chaos that followed was beautiful.
Tolu screamed and tried to run to the projector, but she tripped on her expensive gown. Her father stood up and held his chest.
I simply walked up to the microphone.
“The house has been sold,” I said calmly. “The cars have been retrieved. The divorce papers are on the table. Tolu, you can go home with your Gym Instructor. He is the father of your children.”
I dropped the mic and walked out.
As I drive to the airport now to catch my flight to the Maldives for a solo vacation, my phone is blowing up.
Some people are saying I was too cruel. They say I should have covered her shame for the sake of the children. They say I am heartless to disgrace a woman publicly like that.
But I feel peace.
Did I go too far? Or did she deserve the public humiliation?