This Man Is Too Perfect

I need to tell you about Chidubem Okafor.

And before you say “who is that?”, relax. By the time I finish this story, you go know his name. Everybody will. But not for the reason he wanted.

Let me start from the night everything was still sweet.

Saturday night. Chinyere’s apartment in Yaba. Four girls. Cheap wine. Smirnoff Ice that nobody asked for but everybody was drinking. You know the kind of night, music low, gist high, everybody in their feelings.

That was the night Adetola showed her friends Dubem’s picture for the first time.

Chinyere grabbed the phone, zoomed in, and said, “Tola, if you’re lying, thunder will fire you tonight.”

She wasn’t lying.

This man was fine. And not Lagos-boy-fine where you look closely and it’s just beard and cologne doing the heavy lifting. No. This one was fine fine. Tall. Clean face. Jaw like God used a ruler. And when Tola scrolled to a picture of him smiling?

Bisola whispered “Jesus” like she was in church.

“Where did you even find this one?” Bisola asked. “Because I’ve been in this Lagos for five years and the finest thing that has asked me out was a married man carrying two phones.”

Everybody laughed. But Tola? Tola was smiling that kind of smile that told you this girl had fallen. Not small fall. The kind of fall you don’t get up from easily.

She told them how they met. Some tech event in VI that she didn’t even want to attend. Her oga — one Mr. Balogun who wears agbada to a tech company like it’s normal — sent her to “represent the brand.” She was standing near the drinks table, planning her escape, when this man walked up and said, “You look like you’re planning an escape.”

That was three months ago. Three months of this man being absolutely, completely, annoyingly perfect.

He called when he said he’d call. Every time. He never did that thing where his phone is always face down on the table. No, his phone sat face up every single time they were together. He remembered that she hated cucumber in her salad. He remembered her mother’s birthday. He asked her, “What does Mummy like?” and Tola almost proposed to him right there in the restaurant.

Three months. Not one red flag. Not even pink. Not even light yellow.

Funke… the one in the group who doesn’t trust any man the way you don’t trust Lagos weather — even Funke had run out of questions.

“He’s either a saint,” Chinyere said, pouring more wine, “or a very good criminal.”

They laughed.

They really, really should not have laughed.

Fast forward. Tuesday. Ordinary, useless Tuesday that didn’t warn anybody it was about to ruin a life.

Tola was at work editing Instagram posts when Dubem texted — traveling to Abuja for a meeting, back Friday. He came to her place that evening, ate her jollof rice — two plates, even though she put too much pepper and they both knew it — kissed her forehead at the door, and left.

He called when he landed. He always called.

Wednesday, Thursday — voice notes, sweet messages, a picture of him in the hotel. White robe. Room service. “Wish you were here.” Normal.

Friday he said the meeting dragged, he’d come back Saturday. Okay. Saturday morning he texted: Just landed. Give me two hours.

Two hours became four. Something came up at the office. But — he made a dinner reservation at that restaurant she liked in VI. The one with jollof risotto that costs more than her light bill. So she forgave him.

Because that’s what you do when a man is perfect. You hand him every benefit of every doubt you have and pray you’re not stupid for doing it.

He showed up forty-five minutes late. Phone dead. Charger forgotten in Abuja. He looked a bit off, a bit stressed, but he smiled when he saw her and honestly? She forgot she was angry.

They ate. They talked. He held her hand across the table. She drove him home to Lekki because his car was “in the shop.”

Normal night.

It was on the drive back — somewhere on Lekki-Epe expressway — that she saw it.

A piece of paper on the passenger seat. Small. White. Folded once. Must have slipped out of his pocket.

She almost didn’t pick it up.

Almost.

Red light. She reached over. Opened it.

A receipt. Jewelry store in Abuja. The kind of store with the name written in cursive.

Her heart jumped. Wait — is he about to propose?

Then she read it properly.

One gold bracelet. Purchased Thursday. ₦485,000.

Engraving: “To my wife. Forever yours — D.”

Let me repeat that for those in the back.

“To my wife.”

Tola does not own a gold bracelet. Tola is not anybody’s wife.

The car behind her honked. The light had changed. Somebody shouted from their window. But she could not move. She sat there holding this receipt, reading those words over and over, waiting for them to rearrange into something that made sense.

They didn’t.

She drove home. No music. No phone calls. Nothing. Just the road, and that receipt on her lap like a small bomb that had already gone off.

She parked outside her apartment. Sat in the car. She didn’t count how long.

“To my wife. Forever yours — D.”

Then she whispered to the darkness:

“Chidubem… who are you?”

What would YOU do if you found that receipt? Tell us in the comments 💔