Chapter 1 - The Welcome Speech-1
My husband invited his ex to our housewarming party and made it clear that if I couldn’t accept it, I was free to leave. So I gave him the calmest, most “mature” response of my life.
The night he told me, I was sitting on the kitchen floor of our tiny apartment in Yaba, fixing a leaking pipe beneath the sink. My hair was tied back, my jeans were stained from work, and I still had a wrench in my hand.
Then the front door slammed hard enough to shake the picture frames.
When I slid out from under the cabinet, he was standing there with his arms folded, looking like a boss preparing to discipline an employee.
“We need to talk about Saturday,” he said.
Saturday. Our housewarming. Our first real party since moving in together.
“What about it?” I asked, wiping my hands.
He straightened up. “I invited someone,” he said. “She matters to me. I need you to handle it calmly and maturely. If you can’t, then we’re going to have a problem.”
“Who?” I asked.
“Funmi.”
His ex.
The one he always had excuses for. The one he still followed online because, according to him, “blocking people is childish.”
I set the wrench down. The sound it made against the floor seemed louder than it should have.
“You invited your ex to our housewarming party?” I asked.
He didn’t hesitate. “Yes. We’re friends. Good friends. If that makes you uncomfortable, then maybe you’re more insecure than I thought.”
There it was.
Not a discussion. A warning.
“I need you to act like an adult,” he said again. “Can you do that?”
He was expecting anger. Tears. A scene.
Instead, I smiled. Calmly. Steadily.
“I’ll be very mature,” I said. “I promise.”
He blinked. “That’s it? You’re okay with it?”
“Of course,” I said. “If she’s important to you, she’s welcome.”
He studied my face, looking for sarcasm, but found nothing.
“Good,” he said, relieved. “I’m glad you’re not going to make this awkward.”
The moment he walked away, already texting someone about his “cool” wife, I grabbed my phone.
“Hey, Ada. Is your guest room still free?”
Her reply came immediately.
“Always. What happened?”
“I’ll explain on Saturday,” I wrote. “I just need somewhere to stay for a while.”
“The door is open. Come anytime.”
The next day, he was full of excitement. He kept texting me about the snacks, the music, the decorations, and who was coming. Not one word about Funmi. In his mind, that issue had already been settled.
At lunch, sitting alone in my work van, I made my own list of what actually belonged to me.
My clothes. My tools. My laptop. My photos. My grandmother’s jewelry.
After work, I sorted out my finances. I moved my savings, paid my share of the rent, packed a bag, and hid it in the van.
When I got home, he was surrounded by decorations.
“Can you help me hang these?” he asked.
“Sure,” I said.
We decorated together while he talked about “our future,” “this new chapter,” and how proud he was of us.
“Don’t you think this is special?” he asked.
“Oh, definitely,” I replied. “A turning point.”
That night, he checked his phone and smiled.
“Funmi confirmed,” he said. “She’s bringing good wine.”
“That’s nice,” I said.
He looked at me closely. “You’re very calm.”
“You asked me to be mature,” I replied. “That’s exactly what I’m doing.”
The day of the party arrived.
By four o’clock, the apartment was full. Music, laughter, drinks, people talking everywhere.
Some guests whispered, “Is it true his ex is coming?”
“I’m just keeping the peace,” I said.
My best friend leaned in. “Something feels off. This doesn’t even feel like your party.”
“Because it isn’t,” I said quietly. “Stay close. And keep your phone ready.”
Around five, the mood shifted.
He kept checking his phone, adjusting his shirt, glancing toward the door.
Then the doorbell rang.
The room went quiet.
He started toward the entrance, but I stepped ahead of him.
“I’ll get it,” I said.
Behind me stood thirty guests.
On the other side of that door stood the woman he had told me to welcome.
I opened it.
And the second I saw her, I knew exactly what I was going to say.
The heavy oak door swung inward, revealing Funmi standing on the welcome mat in a shimmering emerald silk dress that practically screamed for attention. In her hands, she held an expensive bottle of vintage red wine, a sleek leather designer bag slung over her shoulder, and a practiced, triumphant smile painted across her lips. Behind her stood two tall, sharp-dressed men in dark tailored suits who didn't look like housewarming guests—they looked like corporate auditors or personal bodyguards.
My husband, Femi, shoved past a few guests to stand beside me, his face glowing with a mixture of pride and smug relief. He looked down at me, expecting to see the subtle twitch of a jaw or a hidden tear. Instead, he saw my calm, polite smile.
"Funmi! You made it," Femi beamed, reaching out to hug her a little too tightly, a little too long. "Thank you for coming. I told you my wife was completely fine with it. She’s extremely mature."
Funmi stepped into the foyer, her high heels clicking sharply against the newly polished tiles. Her eyes scanned our cozy Yaba apartment, taking in the string lights, the modest spread of small chops, and the thirty guests gathered in the living room. Her gaze settled on me, filled with a mixture of condescension and quiet pity.
"So, you're the mechanic wife," Funmi said smoothly, her voice laced with a subtle velvet poison as she handed me the wine bottle. "Femi told me you fixed the plumbing yourself. How... charmingly domestic. I brought this French cabernet. I assumed you wouldn't have anything quite this refined on hand."
The room went dead silent. Ada, standing near the punch bowl, squeezed her phone so hard her knuckles turned white. Femi shifted his weight, waiting for the explosive confrontation he had secretly prepared himself to defend against.
"Thank you, Funmi," I said, my voice echoing clearly across the hushed apartment. "I appreciate the wine. But more importantly, I appreciate you bringing Mr. Lawson and Mr. Adeleke with you."
Femi blinked, his smug smile faltering instantly. He looked at the two men in dark suits standing behind Funmi. "Wait... who? Funmi, who are these guys?"
Funmi’s eyes widened in sudden, sharp surprise. She took a half-step backward, her air of superiority fracturing for a fraction of a second. "How do you know their names?"
I set the expensive wine bottle down on the entrance console table with a quiet clink.
"Because I spent my lunch break yesterday reviewing the land registry, the corporate tax filings, and the bank ownership documents for this very apartment," I said, my voice sweet, measured, and entirely unbothered. "You see, Femi told me we bought this place together. He told me our joint savings went into the down payment, and that his name was simply listed first for 'administrative ease.' But when I dug deeper into the building's holding company, I found out that this apartment doesn't belong to us at all. It belongs to Lawson & Adeleke Holdings."
Whispers erupted across the living room like wildfire. Guests pulled out their phones, leaning in closer.
May you like
Femi’s face went pale. "What are you talking about?! What is this nonsense?"
"Tell him, Funmi," I said gently, placing my hands behind my back. "Tell my husband why your private legal team is standing in our hallway on the exact day our lease options expire."
