Wedding Photos

Chinyere said it first.

“You need to follow her.”

It was Sunday. Tola was at Chinyere’s place again. Just the two of them this time. Bisola had church. Funke had “moved on emotionally”, her words… and said she’d be available when Tola was ready to leave Dubem. Until then, she was “conserving her energy.”

Classic Funke.

Chinyere was sitting cross-legged on her bed, laptop open, phone in hand, looking like a woman with a mission. “Her page is private. We can’t see anything. But if we follow her and she accepts—”

“She won’t accept me. If she knows who I am…”

“She doesn’t know who you are. That’s the whole point. This man has kept you so far from his real life that his own wife has no idea you exist.” Chinyere paused. Let that sink in. “So we make a fake account. Something innocent. Follow her. Wait.”

Tola didn’t like it. It felt sneaky. Dirty. Like she was becoming someone she wasn’t.

But then she thought about that ring. Warm. Behind the cologne. N & D. Forever.

“Give me your phone,” Tola said.

They spent thirty minutes building the account. A girl’s name. A few reposted photos of food, sunsets, motivational quotes. Followed some random pages to make it look real. Nothing suspicious. Just another girl on Instagram.

They sent the follow request to Nkem.

Then they waited.

Three days. Three whole days of Tola checking that fake account every hour like a mad person. Every time she opened it, Requested. Nothing.

Meanwhile, Dubem was being Dubem. Sweet texts. Voice notes. He sent her a picture of some shoes he wanted to buy. “Which one do you think?” Like she was his personal stylist. Like she was his person.

She played along. Every reply felt like swallowing broken glass, but she played along.

Tuesday evening, Chinyere called.

“She accepted.”

Tola’s heart dropped to her stomach.

“Come to my house. Now. I haven’t opened it yet. I waited for you.”

They sat on Chinyere’s bed. Shoulder to shoulder. Phone between them. Chinyere looked at Tola.

“You sure you want to see this?”

“Open it.”

Chinyere tapped.

And there it was. Nkem Okafor’s life. Laid out in squares.

The first thing Tola noticed — this was a happy woman. Or at least a woman who believed she was happy. Every photo had light in it. Nkem at brunch. Nkem at a friend’s wedding wearing aso-ebi. Nkem with her mother — you could see where she got her face. Nkem laughing. Nkem praying. Nkem living a full, real, unhidden life.

The exact opposite of what Dubem had given Tola.

Chinyere scrolled slowly. Tola’s eyes moved from photo to photo, searching for him. For any sign of—

“There.”

Chinyere stopped.

A photo from eight months ago. A caption that said: “1 year with my best friend, my king, my everything. God did it. ❤️👑”

And there was Dubem. Sitting at a restaurant, not in Lagos, somewhere in Abuja, with Nkem beside him. His arm around her. That smile. That exact smile that Tola had seen a hundred times across a hundred dinner tables.

He was wearing a white shirt. Sleeves rolled up. And on his left hand, the ring. The gold band. N & D. Forever. Right there, in full colour, for anyone to see.

Anyone except Tola. Because she was never supposed to find this page. She was never supposed to know this woman existed.

“Keep going,” Tola whispered.

Chinyere scrolled further back. And that’s when the algorithm — or God, or the devil, depending on how you look at it — delivered the knockout blow.

Wedding photos.

Not one or two. An entire carousel. Twenty pictures. Posted one year and four months ago.

A church. Big. Beautiful. Our Lady of the Rosary, the location tag said. Enugu. The pews were full — two hundred, maybe three hundred people. Flowers everywhere. Bridesmaids in dusty pink. Groomsmen in grey.

And at the altar, standing like he had never told a lie in his life, Chidubem Okafor. Black suit. White shirt. Smiling. Holding hands with Nkem, who was wearing a wedding gown that probably cost more than Tola’s rent for a year.

Tola didn’t blink. She swiped through every single photo. The vows. The rings. The kiss. The reception at Nike Lake Resort, the hall was massive, the cake was five tiers, the guests were dressed like it was a state event.

The traditional wedding photos were there too. Igbo traditional. Dubem in red and gold. Nkem beside him. Family everywhere. His mother. His father. Obinna, she didn’t know who he was yet, but she’d find out.

This wasn’t a small, quiet, “it’s complicated” kind of marriage. This was a PRODUCTION. Three hundred guests watched this man marry this woman. Three hundred people knew. His family knew. His friends knew. The whole of Enugu knew.

The only person who didn’t know was Tola.

Chinyere said something. Tola didn’t hear it.

She was staring at the last photo in the carousel. A candid shot. Dubem and Nkem dancing at the reception. Her head was on his chest. His chin rested on top of her head. His eyes were closed. He looked peaceful. He looked like a man in love.

Was any of it real? The things he said to me — the “I miss you,” the “you’re special,” the forehead kisses — was any of it real? Or am I just a girl who fell for a performance?

“Tola,” Chinyere said softly. “There’s something else.”

“What?”

Chinyere scrolled to the most recent post. Three weeks ago.

A hospital. A gown. Nkem sitting on a bed, glowing, hand resting on her belly. Smiling the biggest smile Tola had ever seen on her face.

The caption: “Baby Okafor loading… 🤰🥹 God’s timing is perfect. We can’t wait to meet you, little one. ❤️”

Tola’s body went cold.

The room went silent.

Chinyere didn’t say anything. There was nothing to say.

Dubem’s wife was pregnant.

The man who had kissed Tola goodnight five days ago, who had held her hand, who had told her she was the best thing that ever happened to him, was about to be a father. With his wife. In Abuja. In the house he goes back to every time he tells Tola he’s “traveling for work.”

Tola closed the phone. Placed it on the bed. Stood up.

“I need air.”

She walked to the balcony. Stood there. Held the railing.

She didn’t cry. She was past crying. Crying was for when you found out your boyfriend might be lying. This was something else. This was finding out the person you loved was a stranger. A complete, total, well-dressed stranger.

The worst part? Tomorrow he would text her good morning. And the emoji would be a heart. And it would land on her phone like nothing had happened.

Because for him, nothing had.

To be continued…