I Caught My Wife Breastfeeding Her Twin Brother and They Said It’s Not a Big Deal
Episode 1

I used to think I knew my wife better than anyone else in the world. Adaeze was the kind of woman people pointed at and said, “That’s a good wife.” She was gentle, prayerful, respectful, and she carried herself with such innocence that even the elders in the village used to praise me for choosing her. From the day I married her, I believed I had found peace. For two years of marriage nothing shook that belief. We lived quietly, we laughed together, we prayed together, we worked side by side to grow our small provisions shop. She never gave me a reason to doubt her. Until the night everything changed.

It was a Sunday evening, one of those evenings when the air feels heavy with secrets. I had traveled to Enugu for a business deal and returned a day earlier than expected. I didn’t tell Adaeze I was coming back because I wanted to surprise her. When I entered the compound, the house was unusually quiet. Normally, she would be outside waiting for me, or at least I would hear her singing softly inside. But that day, silence greeted me.

I pushed the front door open and called her name, “Adaeze!” No answer. I dropped my bag and walked through the corridor. The air inside the house felt strange, heavy, as if I had stepped into a place that was holding its breath. Then I heard it—faint, muffled, coming from the guest room. At first, I thought she was on the phone, maybe laughing with a friend. But when I pressed my ear against the door, what I heard wasn’t laughter. It was… sucking.

My heart skipped. I didn’t understand. I turned the knob slowly, and the door creaked open. What I saw inside nearly stopped my heart.

Adaeze was sitting at the edge of the bed, her blouse open, and pressed against her chest was her twin brother, Chike. His head was buried into her as though he were a newborn, and she held him with both hands like a mother rocking a child to sleep. My legs went weak. My eyes refused to believe what they were seeing. For a moment, I couldn’t breathe.

“Jesus Christ!” I shouted without meaning to, and they both jerked up. Adaeze’s eyes widened for a second, then quickly softened, as if she wasn’t surprised. She pulled her clothes together while Chike sat up, wiping his mouth lazily, as though what I had caught them doing was the most normal thing in the world.

“Adaeze!” I barked, my voice shaking with rage. “What in God’s name is this?!”

But instead of shame, instead of fear, she looked at me calmly and said in a voice that still haunts me, “It’s not a big deal.”

Not a big deal? My ears rang. My wife, the woman I trusted with my life, was breastfeeding her grown twin brother, and she dared to tell me it was not a big deal. I turned to Chike, expecting him to look guilty, to beg, to explain. Instead, he shrugged like a spoiled child and said, “We’ve always shared everything since we were born. This is nothing new.”

My body shook. My vision blurred. I wanted to rush at him, to drag him out of the room, but something in Adaeze’s eyes froze me. It wasn’t fear—it was defiance, like she was daring me to question what I didn’t understand.

I staggered back, gripping the doorframe, my breath heavy, my chest burning. My mind tried to find reason, to find sense, but all I saw was madness. Madness wrapped in calm voices and familiar faces.

That night I couldn’t sleep. I sat alone in the parlor while Adaeze knocked on the door softly, begging me to let her explain. When I finally allowed her inside, she sat across from me, her eyes steady, and said words that broke me even more.

“Chike and I came into this world together. We shared everything from the womb. We don’t see this as wrong. We don’t see this as shame. You’re the only one making it sound like it’s evil.”

I stared at her, my mouth dry, my hands trembling. “Adaeze, are you hearing yourself? This is sick! This is ungodly!”

But she only shook her head slowly, almost pitying me. “You will never understand. To us, it’s nothing. To us, it’s normal.”

And in that moment, with her twin brother sitting silently in the corridor as if waiting for her, I realized I had stepped into something far darker than betrayal. This was not just my wife’s secret. This was something rooted deeper, something woven into their blood, something older than our marriage itself.

And as I lay awake in the suffocating silence of that night, one thought would not leave my head—if they could do this so calmly in my presence, then what other things had they been hiding all along?

To be continued…

Episode 2

I thought the nightmare would end after that night, that maybe Adaeze would wake up from whatever twisted illusion she was living in and see the madness of her actions. But instead, what followed only dragged me deeper into a world I was not prepared for. The next morning, I didn’t eat, I didn’t speak. I just sat on the chair staring at the wall, my mind replaying what I had seen. Adaeze cooked yam porridge, brought it to me, and quietly placed it on the table. The smell alone made me want to vomit. I looked at her, hoping to see guilt, but instead her face was calm, almost too calm, like someone who had accepted her own truth and didn’t care whether I swallowed it or not.

“Obinna,” she said softly, “you cannot understand what you saw unless you know our story.” Her voice carried no shame. “I and Chike have been like this since childhood. It is not strange to us.”

I wanted to shut her up, but a part of me—maybe the part that still loved her—needed to know how something so dark could have grown inside the woman I thought I knew. So I let her speak.

She told me about their childhood in the village. How when their mother gave birth to them, she nearly died, and because her breastmilk was not flowing well, she depended on old herbs and strange practices to keep the babies alive. An old midwife, a woman known for her odd ways, had advised their mother to always keep them “connected” or else one of them would weaken. Adaeze said from the time they were toddlers, everything was shared between them—food, clothes, even their sleeping space. Their father traveled often, and their mother, weak and frightened, allowed the closeness to continue unchecked. She told me that when they cried as children, the only thing that calmed them was each other’s presence.

By the time they grew older, other children in the compound used to mock them for always being together. They bathed together, ate from the same plate, even slept on the same mat until they were almost teenagers. Their mother defended it, saying, “They are twins, leave them. The bond is strong.” Adaeze’s eyes glazed over as she spoke, and I realized she wasn’t ashamed of these memories—she was proud.

Then she lowered her voice, as though telling me a holy secret. She said one night, when she was sick with fever at about fourteen, she had collapsed on the mat. Chike, desperate to comfort her, had rested his head on her chest. She woke up to find him there, and instead of pushing him away, something in her heart felt peace. “From that day,” she whispered, “it became our way. Not every day. Not always. But whenever life was too heavy, whenever we felt pain, we returned to each other.”

I felt bile rise in my throat. I wanted to scream, but she kept talking, each word cutting deeper. She said their mother once walked in on them during one of those moments, and instead of scolding, she simply sighed and said, “Do what you must to survive.” That was the day they decided it was not a sin, not to them.

I stood up, shaking my head, pacing the room. “Adaeze, do you hear yourself? You are married to me! You are my wife, not your brother’s comforter!” My voice cracked. “This thing is an abomination!”

But she only looked at me with pity, as though I was the foolish one. “To us, it is not. To us, it is survival. Chike and I have never known life apart. You married me, but you did not marry my history. You cannot change what has always been.”

Her words rattled in my skull. I wanted to believe she was bewitched, that some dark spirit had chained her to this madness. I even thought of running to our pastor, confessing everything, begging for prayers. But fear silenced me. Fear of shame. Fear that people would laugh, that the world would never look at me the same way again.

That night, I could not bear to sleep in the same bed with her. I locked myself in the spare room. But at midnight, when I stepped out to get water, I heard movements in the corridor. Quiet whispers. My heart froze. I crept forward, and there, in the faint glow of the kerosene lamp, I saw Adaeze again, her blouse half-open, with Chike leaning against her as though nothing had changed since childhood.

I wanted to charge at them, but my legs betrayed me. I stood rooted, watching, my soul burning. And when Adaeze turned her head and our eyes met, she did not flinch. She did not even look ashamed. Instead, she whispered to me across the silence, “Obinna, it’s not a big deal.”

And in that moment, I realized something terrifying. To them, it truly wasn’t. And nothing—not my anger, not my threats, not even God’s judgment in their eyes—was enough to tear them apart.

To be continued…

The days that followed nearly drove me insane. I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t sleep. Every time I looked at Adaeze, I saw her with Chike. Every time Chike walked past me, I felt the urge to grab a cutlass and end him right there. But something inside me—fear, confusion, weakness—kept me silent. I thought about telling my mother, but how could I? What kind of man tells the world that his wife is sharing herself with her own twin brother? I thought about calling the pastor, but then I imagined him looking at me with pity and disgust. I carried the burden alone, and it ate me alive.

One evening, when the sun had gone down and the compound was quiet, I decided enough was enough. I would confront both of them properly, and this time I would not let Adaeze twist my mind with her calm words. I walked into the parlor, and they were both there—Adaeze sitting on the chair, Chike leaning lazily against the wall as if he owned the house. I stood before them, my fists clenched, my voice trembling with rage. “This ends today,” I said. “Whatever sick bond you think you have, it dies now. I am her husband, not you. Do you hear me?!”

Chike laughed. Actually laughed. His laughter was slow, mocking, the kind that makes your skin crawl. “Obinna,” he said, “you think because you paid bride price, you own her? You don’t even know her half as much as I do. She was mine before you even thought of her. She will always be mine.”

I nearly lost control. I rushed forward, but Adaeze jumped between us, pressing her hands against my chest, her eyes wide but steady. “Stop this madness,” she whispered. “You can never separate us. What we share is older than your marriage certificate. You came into our story late—you cannot rewrite it.”

Her words cut through me like a blade. My heart pounded so hard I thought it would burst. I shoved her aside and pointed at Chike. “Leave my house this night or I swear—”

Before I could finish, Adaeze screamed. A scream so loud it shook me to the core. She grabbed my hand, her nails digging into my skin, and shouted, “If Chike leaves, I leave too! If you push him out, you will never see me again!”

The room fell silent. My body went cold. I stared at her, at the woman I loved, and realized I had already lost her. Not to another man, but to something I could never fight—blood. Twin blood. A bond that had been twisted and poisoned long before I came into the picture.

That night, I packed a small bag and left the house. I couldn’t bear it anymore. I walked the streets aimlessly, the night air burning my lungs. I thought of drinking rat poison, of ending my life just to escape the madness. But then I thought of my mother, my siblings, of the shame my death would bring, and I kept walking. By morning, I found myself in my friend Emeka’s house. When he opened the door and saw my face, he knew something was wrong. I broke down in his sitting room, crying like a child, but even then, I couldn’t tell him the full truth. How could I?

Weeks passed. Adaeze sent me messages, begging me to come home, telling me I was overreacting, telling me that love means acceptance. Chike, bold as ever, even sent me one single message: “You cannot fight what is natural.”

That was the moment I knew I could never return. Not to her. Not to them.

So I ended the marriage quietly. No court drama, no pastor announcements, nothing. I just disappeared. To the world, it looked like I abandoned her. Let them believe it. I would rather be called a wicked husband than expose the abomination I witnessed.

But sometimes, late at night when I lie awake, I still hear Adaeze’s voice in my head, calm and haunting: “It’s not a big deal.”

And that is what chills me the most—that to her, to them, it was never wrong. That somewhere, even now, they are still together, continuing what they began in childhood.

And me? I am left with the scars of knowing a truth so dark, no one would ever believe me if I told it.

The end.