Two Phones

One phone stays on the table face up. The other one? She was never supposed to find it.

Tola became a different person that week.

From the outside, nothing changed. She went to work. She edited Instagram posts. She laughed at Mr. Balogun when he showed up on Wednesday wearing a bow tie with his agbada — “I’m trying something new, Tola. Global fashion.” She nodded in meetings. She ate lunch at her desk. Normal.

But behind her eyes, something was running. Calculating. Watching.

She was studying Chidubem Okafor the way you study for an exam you cannot afford to fail.

Thursday evening. Dubem took her to a lounge in Ikoyi. Nice place. Low lights. Afrobeats playing soft. He pulled out her chair. Ordered her favorite drink without asking. Smiled that smile.

Before, she would have melted.

Now she was taking notes.

She watched his phone. It was on the table. Face up. iPhone 14. Gold case. The same phone she’d always seen. He wasn’t guarding it. He even showed her a funny video — turned the phone to her, no hesitation.

Okay. So this phone is clean. This is the display phone. The one he WANTS me to see.

Then she watched something else. His trouser pocket. Left side. Every now and then, maybe twice during dinner, his left thigh moved slightly. Like something was vibrating. He didn’t reach for it. Didn’t even glance down. But his jaw tightened each time. Just slightly. If you weren’t looking for it, you’d miss it.

But Tola was looking for it.

There it is. The second phone is in his left pocket.

She sipped her drink and smiled at him like she hadn’t just confirmed that the man sitting across from her was carrying two separate lives in two separate pockets.

“You okay?” he asked. “You’ve been quiet tonight.”

“Just admiring you,” she said.

He grinned. “Ah, so I’m the view tonight?”

“You’ve always been the view.”

The words tasted like metal in her mouth. But she needed him comfortable. She needed him to believe everything was fine. Because tonight, she was going to his apartment. And tonight, she was going to look.

They got to his place around 10pm. Lekki Phase 1. She’d been here twice before but she’d never really looked. Before, the apartment felt like a nice place where a nice man lived. Now it felt like a set. A stage. Everything placed just right to tell a story that wasn’t true.

The living room was minimal. Grey couch. Glass coffee table. A bookshelf with books that looked unread. No family photos on the wall. No pictures of anyone anywhere. Not even a small frame on a shelf.

What kind of man has zero photos of anyone in his house?

The kind who can’t afford for you to ask questions.

Dubem went to the kitchen to get drinks. She heard him opening the fridge, humming some Burna Boy song. This was her window.

“I’m going to use the bathroom,” she called out.

“Sure, baby.”

She walked down the short hallway. Bathroom on the right. She went in. Locked the door. Her heart was pounding so hard she was sure he could hear it from the kitchen.

She looked around. Toothbrush. One. Towel. One. Everything for one person. She opened the cabinet above the sink. Cologne — three bottles. Moisturizer. Shaving cream. Paracetamol.

She moved the cologne bottles aside carefully, memorizing their positions.

And there it was.

A small black box. Tucked behind the bottles, pushed against the back of the cabinet. The kind of box you’d miss if you weren’t searching.

She opened it.

A ring. Gold. Simple band. No stones. The kind of ring a man wears on his left hand when he stands before God and says “I do.”

A wedding band.

Tola held it up. It was warm, like it had been worn recently and taken off before she came over. She turned it slowly in her fingers. Inside the band, she could see an engraving. Small letters.

N & D. Forever.

N.

Nkem.

D.

Dubem.

N & D. Forever.

The same “forever” he’d put on that bracelet. This man had one word for love and he just used it on everyone.

She heard his footsteps in the hallway. Her body went cold.

“Tola? Drink is ready oh.”

She shoved the box back. Pushed the cologne bottles into place. Flushed the toilet even though she hadn’t used it. Turned on the tap. Washed hands she didn’t need to wash.

She looked at herself in the mirror. Her hands were trembling but her face was calm. She didn’t recognize herself. Three weeks ago she was a girl who giggled when this man texted her good morning. Now she was standing in his bathroom hiding evidence of his marriage behind his cologne.

“Coming!” she said.

She opened the door. Walked out. Took the drink from his hand. Said “thank you, baby.” Sat on his grey couch. Sipped the drink. Let him put his arm around her.

And she smiled.

Because now she knew.

The receipt was not a mistake. The Instagram wife was not a coincidence. The second phone in his left pocket was not work. And the wedding ring in his bathroom cabinet, the one he takes off before she comes over and puts back on when he flies to Abuja, was not a prop.

Chidubem Okafor was a married man. Living a double life so carefully, so perfectly, that if a receipt hadn’t fallen from his pocket on a random Friday night, she would never have known.

But she knew now.

And she wasn’t done looking.

To be continued…