SHE ALWAYS BATHES TWICE BEFORE BED—I FINALLY FIGURED OUT WHY
At first, I thought it was just her way of feeling clean.
My wife, Amaka, had always been this delicate: delicate in her movements, delicate in her voice, delicate in the way she placed things carefully, as if they might break at the sound of harsh words. We had been married for five months, and every night she followed the same rhythm: she would eat, laugh a little, tap her phone a bit, and then take her second bath of the day.
Even on the days she hadn’t been out.
Even on the days we weren’t touching.
Even when I begged her.
She would come out smelling like the woman in the perfume ads: her skin damp, her towel wrapped tightly, that same hibiscus-vanilla scent wafting behind her. She would climb into bed, her back to me, say, “Goodnight, baby,” and be asleep before I could reach her. I told myself not to rush her. That maybe I needed time.
The truth is, I was afraid of ruining what we had.
My name is Femi. I’m 31 years old. I design kitchens for a living. I’m not rich, but I know how to make a woman feel secure. That’s all I ever wanted: someone to come home to, someone who wouldn’t make me feel like I was too much or not enough. When Amaka came into my life, I thought I had finally arrived.
We met at a furniture store. She was looking for a new reading chair, and I was fixing a broken drawer. Her first words were, “Why are you sweating like that?”
I told her it was the price of honest work. She laughed. I knew from that moment I wanted to be around her laugh for a long time.
It made it easy to love her. She liked old Nollywood movies, yam porridge with too much pepper, and sleeping in her socks even when NEPA was being taken lightly. Her smile exuded peace. But it was her silence that struck me the most; Not the kind of anger, but the kind that made you wonder what she was thinking.
I started noticing the second bath during our second week together. At first, it didn’t bother me. A woman has her habits, right? Some snore, some talk in her sleep. If hers was to bathe again before bed, then so be it.
But little by little… I started to feel like she was washing something off.
Something more than sweat. More than stress.
Something I didn’t want around me.
She never said no.
But she never really said yes, either.
Just soft smiles. Light touches. And silence, wrapped in the scent of hibiscus.
Then, one night, I heard something.
Just as I was stepping out of the bathroom—my hair wet, the towel sticking to me—something fell.
It didn’t make much of a sound. Just enough to make me turn around.
It rolled under the bed. She bent down quickly and picked it up, too quickly, as if unwilling to explain.
And in that brief instant… I saw it.
A small, dark bead. Not part of her jewelry.
Something older. Cruder.
Something that didn’t belong in our room.
SHE ALWAYS BATHES TWICE BEFORE BED — I FINALLY FIGURED OUT WHY
CHAPTER 2
The bead was black, tiny, and opaque. The kind you find sewn into the waistbands of old robes or tied with red thread and tucked under pillows in village houses. It wasn’t like anything Amaka would wear, not with her silk bonnets, perfume, and Instagram scarves. But she picked it up roughly, as if she had something to hide, and just like that, pretended nothing had happened.
She climbed into bed next to me, said her usual “Goodnight, honey,” and faced the wall as if the day weighed nothing.
I didn’t say a word.
My back was stiff against the mattress, but my mind had already left the room.
That very night, I decided to stop pretending. I’d smiled through too many things. I’d ignored too many. This time, I needed to see with my own eyes what was really going on in that bathroom.
So the next night, I waited.
I acted normal. We had rice and stew for dinner. Afterward, we watched a program on TV. I asked her about her day at work, and as always, she replied normally: “Work was good, just a little stressful.” The air between us was clean but thin, like a paper wrapper spread out on a clothesline without a breeze.
Then, around 10:30 p.m., she got up.
“I want to take a quick shower,” she said, as if it were a normal occurrence.
I nodded. “Okay.”
She grabbed her towel, her sponge, her phone.
She always had that phone in her hand, even when she went to the bathroom.
The door closed softly behind her. I counted twenty seconds. Then I stood up.
I moved slowly. No slippers. I tiptoed like someone who doesn’t want their own truth to hear them coming. The hall light was off, but the dim light from under the bathroom door spilled onto the tiles. That’s when I heard it.
A sound.
Soft at first, like a voiceless hum. Then it deepened. It stretched out like breathing. Then it came back.
This time, it was clearer.
She wasn’t praying.
She wasn’t singing.
It wasn’t anything I’d ever heard my wife do.
I moved closer. Not too close. Just enough to see the light from her phone—the light from the screen—flickering across the tiles through the narrow space under the door. Then I heard something else.
Wet sounds. Rhythmic. Almost… mechanical.
And then I heard his voice. Not a full speech. Just breathing. And tiny, muffled sounds that didn’t sound like sadness, fear, or worship.
And my heart? It stopped beating normally.
I leaned back against the wall. Not because I was tired, but because my legs suddenly didn’t trust the floor. My eyes stung, not from tears, but from the way your face tenses when something happens right in front of you and your body can do nothing to stop it.
Then the sound changed. A low, quick gasp.
And just as quickly as it came, silence.
Stillness.
The shower turned on. It didn’t make much noise, just the usual sloshing of warm water. I stepped back before he could open the door and see me. I walked back to the bed like a burglar in my own house. I lay down. I covered myself. Eyes open. Mind reeling.
A few minutes later, he stepped out. Damp skin. That towel again. That smell again. Hibiscus and vanilla.
She walked peacefully into the room. As if her body hadn’t been doing something that didn’t include me. As if she didn’t know I was breathing heavily.
She climbed into bed next to me. She whispered, “Goodnight, baby,” and turned over.
And me? I stared at the ceiling.
I wanted to speak. To ask. To at least move a little and let her know I wasn’t sleeping. But something was holding me back.
Shame? Fear? Ego?
I wasn’t sure.
I didn’t sleep for a long time, but I didn’t cry either. I just lay there, feeling like a stranger in my own marriage.
And while I continued to think about what I had just heard, something else quietly entered the room.
It was Mirabel;
Mirabel was my niece, and she had been living with us for a while.
She had a habit of not always knocking. But that night, I was too overwhelmed to call out to her.
Maybe she had come to relax, because we shared the same bathroom—I didn’t know. But she stopped by the door, and after a while, I heard her enter the bathroom…
Somehow, my mind wasn’t at peace. I needed to know what my wife was hiding from me.
I was still consumed by my thoughts when, suddenly, an idea struck me.

HE ALWAYS BATHES TWICE BEFORE BED—I FINALLY FIGURED OUT WHY
Chapter 3
The idea came to me like a whisper: small and uninvited, but firm.
“Talk to Chuka.”
Not because I thought he had the perfect advice. Far from it. Chuka was the kind of friend who would call you at two in the morning to chat about football and still somehow relate it to marital problems. But there was something about his way of thinking that always caught on. No sugarcoating. No long grammar. Just straight talk.
So the next morning, after Amaka left for work and Mirabel went to school, I sat alone at the dining room table, staring at my half-eaten bread and lukewarm tea. Then I grabbed my car keys and drove straight to his house.
Chuka lived in that kind of bachelor pad where nothing ever changed. The same brown cushion, the same fan missing a blade, the same faint smell of pepper soup and stale sweat. He opened the door with one eye closed and a toothpick in his mouth. He was glad to have a pair of boxers that had been in the wash too many days.
“Man, this one you showed so early. What happened?” he asked, scratching his stomach.
I didn’t speak. I just walked in and sat down. He knew my expression.
“Na Amaka?”
I nodded.
“What will he do this time?”
Still, I didn’t respond immediately. I stared at the floor as if that would help me find the right words. Then I told him. Everything. From the second bath, to the bill, the sound I heard through the door, the porn video on his phone, to Mirabel entering the room that same night like a spirit.
When I finished speaking, Chuka whistled and stood up slowly, like someone who had just discovered he had carried a heavier load than he expected. “Omo.” “This matter has crossed my mind,” he said, walking to the fridge and taking out two cans of malt. He gave me one. “Drink it first. You need it.”
I took it, but didn’t open it.
He sat down opposite me, serious.
“Femi, see, I’ll tell you the truth. What you’re seeing is no small thing. It’s driving you crazy, I understand. But you see, woman… ha! Women keep secrets to get through underground tunnels. When you get married, you start asking if it’s the same person you toast Shoprite with at home.”
I gave a weak laugh.
He leaned forward. “But, kid, can I ask you something? Before you get married, do you do things? I mean, do you touch me well?”
I looked at him and then looked away.
He nodded. It’s not clear. That’s where the problem begins. Kid, I’ll tell you the truth: if you don’t have a serious relationship before marriage, when you get married you’ll start to get to know the real person. Sometimes it won’t be how you expect. And if you don’t care, you’ll keep your frustration inside a lace blanket.

I sighed. “But it’s not just that, Chuka. It’s the way he behaves. He doesn’t flinch, he doesn’t argue, he doesn’t explain. It’s like he’s sleeping next to a closed door.”

Chuka scratched his jaw. “Are you sure this isn’t the only bath you’re going to take?”

“I heard her, Chuka. I know what I heard. Wet sounds. Her own voice. She was looking at something. I saw the light of her phone.”

He raised his eyebrows and shook his head slowly. “That’s not it. Are you sure this one doesn’t make it past the average hand?”

I frowned. “What do you mean?” “The beads fall out of the wrapping, she bathes as if it were a ritual. She cleans her body as if she wanted to wash something. And then she uses the phone inside. Don’t you feel her becoming like this? I’m not saying she’ll make you go to the village to free yourself, oh, but this business of yours… it’s not clear.”
I wanted to downplay it, but the thought had already turned in my chest.
He sat back and spoke again, more slowly this time. “Femi, you see, sex doesn’t prove someone loves you. Marriage doesn’t guarantee someone will open up completely. Sometimes, after the wedding ring, they’ll show you the true picture, and you’ll need a strong mind to wear it.”
I stared at my untouched malta.
He continued, “This could be a private addiction. It could be trauma. It could be something spiritual. Or maybe she doesn’t even know it, that you don’t realize. But waiting for you to do it now is the main thing.”
“What should I do?” I asked quietly.
Chuka didn’t respond immediately. He picked up the toothpick again, chewed it a little, and looked me straight in the eye.
“Go confront her. But not like you’re accusing her. Just watch her. Observe. Wind her up. Women tell stories with their bodies before they do with their mouths. But if after all that, she’s still manipulating you like a mule, then you’ll need more help. Not friends. Not yelling. But serious help.”

I nodded slowly. “Mirabel too. That girl is watching.”

“Hey!” Chuka pointed out. “Don’t forget that one. Little girl, big eyes. If she doesn’t notice, then Amaka isn’t hiding well.”

I looked at my watch. I had to leave soon.

Chuka followed me to the car. Before getting in, he said something I wasn’t expecting.

Femi, you can still love someone and feel alone with them. Don’t let it drive you crazy. Just keep a clear mind. Whatever you do, don’t beg for what should come naturally. Especially within a marriage. I
drove slowly. Her words weighed on me all the way home.
By the time I got home, it was almost 6 p.m. Amaka’s car was already at the compound.
I walked in quietly. The living room was quiet. Her slippers were at the edge of the rug.
Then I heard laughter.
None.
Two voices.
From the kitchen.
One was Amaka’s.
The other… was a man’s.
But not just any guy.
This voice had a softness to it. Almost… silky.
And I froze in the hallway, hearing her say, “No, no, just try this one. You’ll like it,” and the voice replied, “Do you want to poison me?”
That voice didn’t belong to any neighbor. And it definitely didn’t sound like she was just visiting.

Okay, girl, what have I done to you? Why are you so stingy with your reaction?😒

She always bathes twice before bed—I finally figured out why
CHAPTER 4
It wasn’t until I heard that voice in the kitchen that I remembered Mirabel must be home.
The hallway remained silent, but I was alert. I didn’t even move from where I stood by the shoe rack. I simply listened. Amaka laughed again, that soft laugh she usually reserves for calls with friends. The male voice chuckled too. Not loudly, just enough for me to know it was playful.
What unsettled me most wasn’t that there was another man in my kitchen. It was the way their voices sounded relaxed, familiar, carefree. As if it weren’t the first time. As if this house, this space that used to be mine, had adapted to another energy.
I turned and walked quietly out—not toward the kitchen, not to confront, but straight to the back door. I needed air. Not the kind you breathe deeply, but the kind that reminds you that you’re still real. That you still breathe. I sat on the edge of the generator slab, my hands gripping the cold cement.
And while I was trying to gather my thoughts, the door to the back room creaked open. It was Mirabel.
She didn’t say anything. She just looked at me briefly, as if unsure whether she should speak or not. Then she turned around and went back inside.
That was the first night I noticed.
Mirabel had been living with us for almost a year. She’s seventeen, and yes, she’s the quiet type. One of those you’d almost forget was home. She did her homework, went to school, helped in the kitchen, and stayed out of adult conversations. She barely spoke to me, except to say hello and, occasionally, to ask if I needed help serving the food.
But from that day on, I began to observe her. And, in a strange way, I felt like she was watching us too. Two nights later, around 9:45 p.m., I was lying in bed looking at my phone when Amaka grabbed her towel and phone and left the room as usual. This time, I didn’t follow her. I just listened.
Five minutes passed.
Then ten; she was checking the time.
I got up and walked out slowly, pretending to turn off the living room light. Just then, Mirabel came out of her room. Her hands were clasped, holding her nightgown as if she wasn’t expecting to see anyone.
Our eyes met.
She blinked, quickly looked down, and walked past me.
But what I saw made me stop.
She wasn’t wearing slippers.
She wasn’t going to the bathroom.
She was going straight for the toilet.
The same toilet Amaka was in.
And then I remembered something: that toilet didn’t have a lock. We had planned to fix it, but we never did.
I stood there, uncertain. Mirabel reached the door and, as if she’d rehearsed it, opened it a crack. Light spilled in. I heard Amaka’s voice. It was low, as if she were rushing to speak. Too bad I didn’t hear what she said.
Then Mirabel quickly stepped back.
She touched the handle again, as if she wanted to open it wider, but this time she paused. She turned, saw me standing there, and stiffened.
She adjusted her robe.
“Good night, Uncle,” she said, barely meeting my eyes.
I nodded slowly. “Are you all right?”
She nodded quickly. “Yes, sir. I meant to… I thought the bathroom was free.”
I said nothing.
She turned and went back to her room.
I stood there for a moment longer, unsure of what had happened. Then I went back to the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed. This time I didn’t lie down. I waited. When Amaka finally emerged twenty minutes later, she looked fresh again, her skin radiant as if she’d been soaked in hibiscus and at peace. She didn’t say much. She just applied cream to her legs, tied her scarf, and slipped under the duvet like someone who had conquered something.
I watched her.
But my thoughts weren’t just on her anymore.
They were on Mirabel.
Because the next morning, I walked past the bathroom and saw something I couldn’t ignore.
Two wet footprints.
Not one.
Two.
One small. One large.
As if two people had bathed.
Or been under the shower.
And now, I wasn’t just dealing with secrets.
I was beginning to suspect a connection I couldn’t explain.
Mirabel also began to act more vigilantly. She’d enter rooms and look around as if searching for something, or perhaps listening for sounds. She didn’t ask questions. But her silence felt louder. Three days later, she left a piece of paper in my nightstand drawer. It was folded. It had no name on it. Just three words: “Check her phone.”

SHE ALWAYS BATHES TWICE BEFORE BED—I FINALLY FIGURED OUT WHY
CHAPTER 5
I sat up in bed, staring at the folded piece of paper Mirabel had left in my drawer as if it had hands and could speak.
“Check her phone.”
Three short words, but they carried the weight of a full-blown war.
I didn’t touch it again. I simply left the paper where it was and stood up slowly, trying to calm the heat rising inside me. I knew the moment was approaching. That limit, that burden of patience I’d been managing since the second bath, since the moans, since the check, since Mirabel opened the bathroom door—had come to an end.
Amaka was brushing her hair in front of the mirror, using that wide-toothed comb she always complained was old but still refused to throw away. She was humming something soft, maybe a gospel song, maybe not. She didn’t even notice me looking at her. I walked over to the bed and opened the drawer as if looking for a pen. My heart was pounding, but my mouth was silent.
She turned slightly. “Is there a problem?”
At first I didn’t answer.
Then I said it.
“Why do you always bathe twice?”
She blinked.
The comb stopped halfway through her hair.
She stared at me, her hand still in the air, as if unsure if I was joking or just crazy.
“What?”
I leaned in closer. “Every night, Amaka. You leave this room with your towel and your phone. You stay in that bathroom longer than it takes to cook rice. And when you come out, you don’t say anything. You just lie there like nothing’s happening.”
She sneered, looked away for a moment, and then looked back at me, her voice more strained. “So you’re supervising my bathing routine?”
“I’m not supervising anything. I’m just asking. What exactly are you doing in there?” Her eyes narrowed. “Femi, are you listening to yourself? Are you counting how many times I bathe? Is that where marriage is?”
“Don’t twist it, Amaka. I heard you. I saw your phone light. I saw your towel fall. I saw wet footprints. And don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about.”
She turned completely around and dropped the comb on the table. “You saw footprints, so what? This is my house too. I can bathe ten times if I want.”
“And hide my phone while I do it?”
Her eyes widened for a second, then her voice turned deep and sharp. “Did you touch my phone?”
I took a step back. “I didn’t touch it. But I should have. Maybe I should have done that a long time ago instead of sitting here pretending not to see what’s right in front of me.” She brushed past me, opened the closet, pulled out a robe, and tied it tightly around her waist as if trying to ward off more than just the cold. Then she turned, crossing her arms.
“So this is it? You look at me like a thief. Do you think this is love? Do you think dragging me around like this, making me feel like a prisoner in my own house—do you think this is what marriage is all about?”
I said nothing.
I just picked up my pillow.
He laughed once; the laugh was dry but painful.
“Oh, now you want to go sleep in the guest room. That’s your solution. When things get awkward, you pack your things and run out like always. But let me tell you, Femi, you’re not ready for the truth. You want answers, but you’re scared of how they’ll sound.”
I didn’t reply. My hand was already on the door.
He sat back down on the bed and grabbed his scarf as if he was done struggling.
I left the room. That night, I slept in the guest room. Or rather, I lay there with my eyes open and the ceiling staring at me, as if waiting to hear more.
I didn’t hear Amaka leave the room. But I knew she was awake.
The bed creaked around 1:30.
I heard a faint sniffle, like someone trying to swallow tears. But not sniffles.
Just the intermittent sound of breathing, followed by absolute silence.
And somewhere in the hallway, Mirabel’s door moved. But I didn’t hear her leave. Nor did she speak.
But I knew she heard everything.
The next morning, I was awakened by the sound of the blender in the kitchen. It wasn’t just the usual blender noise; this one was different in its intensity, like someone trying to drown something. Maybe guilt and shame. Who knows?
But when I sat up and looked at my phone, I saw a new message.
It wasn’t saved. Just a number. Three more words.
But this time it wasn’t from Mirabel.
And it said,
“You are not alone.”

SHE ALWAYS BATHES TWICE BEFORE BED—I FINALLY FIGURED OUT WHY
CHAPTER 6
The message was still staring at me when the blender stopped.
“She’s not alone.”
I sat there for a moment, not blinking, not scrolling, just holding the phone as if I was afraid it would vibrate again and spill something inside me. I didn’t know who had sent it, and I wasn’t even sure I wanted to know. I already felt a knot in my stomach. That knot that starts in your lower back and spreads to your chest like warm oil.
Just then, there was a soft knock on the door. It was a subtle, delicate touch.
“Uncle Femi?”
The voice that came next was so low I almost thought I’d imagined it.
It was Mirabel.
She didn’t knock again. She just waited. I got up, opened the door a crack, and saw her standing there in her oversized T-shirt and leggings, one hand across her chest and the other clutching her phone as if she were hiding it.
At first, her eyes didn’t meet mine. She just stared toward the guest room, as if checking if it was safe.
“I can come back later,” she said, backing away.
“No. It’s okay. Come in.”
Then she walked in slowly. Not like someone entering a room, but like someone approaching a wound. She sat on the edge of the chair near the window and put her hands on her thighs. Finally, she looked up.
“I’m sorry, Uncle Femi. I should have spoken sooner.”
I didn’t rush her. I said nothing. I just sat on the edge of the bed and waited. The air between us was thick.
She swallowed hard and pressed her lips together as if preparing the words before they could come out. “I’ve seen her. Not once. Not twice.” She paused. “It started small. At first, I thought it was normal. We all enjoy privacy sometimes. But then, the nights dragged on. I could hear… sounds.”
“What kind of sounds?”
He blinked, and I could see the heat rise to his cheeks. He lowered his voice.
“Sounds of pleasure. Masturbation. Almost every night. Sometimes he takes his phone into the bathroom. I only noticed because of the light and the reflection in my window.”
I didn’t move. My hands were clasped together. My mind wasn’t even in the room anymore. It crawled back to every night I’d ignored the tension. Every night he laughed too loud. Every bathroom that didn’t make sense.
Mirabel continued. “Two weeks ago, I was going to the kitchen. I passed by in the hallway and heard something again. It wasn’t loud, but it was clear. I stayed, just to make sure. I don’t know what I was seeing, but… I could hear… what you hear in… adult movies. At first, I didn’t want to believe it.”

I rubbed my jaw. Slowly. As if I rubbed hard enough, the pain would go away. I couldn’t look at her again, not now. I just turned to the wall and rested my eyes there for a while.

“So this is what it is now,” I said quietly. “After all.”

He got up from the chair and walked over to where I was. Then he sat down on the other end of the bed, not too close, but not too far either.

“I didn’t tell you before because I wasn’t sure how you’d react. I didn’t want to cause trouble. But last night… I heard you both. I heard her scream. And I heard you leave the room.” I turned to her. “Do you think there’s someone else?”
She paused.
“I don’t know. But whatever she does… it’s not for you.”
The words hit me differently. There was no insult, no mockery, no judgment in them. Just the cold truth, like water from a leaky roof that eventually soaked through the mattress.
I stood up and began pacing. Back and forth, as if my body was moving in a place filled with questions in my head:

Because?

When did this start?

What did I miss?

Where was I when my wife became a stranger under the same roof?
I looked back at Mirabel.
“But why? What did I do wrong? What exactly is missing? I’m her husband. Sometimes I cook. I clean. I provide. I try my best to talk, even when she ignores me. So why?”
Mirabel looked at me. This time, her voice was firmer. “Sometimes it’s not about you, man. People carry things that don’t have names. Shame. Guilt. Addiction. Secrets they don’t even understand. But if you want my opinion… she’s hiding something deeper than what you’ve seen.” She
was about to say something else when her phone vibrated. She looked at it. Then her eyes met mine.
“I think you should see this.”
She turned the screen toward me.
It was a screenshot.
From Amaka’s phone.
A thread of messages.
And above it, a saved contact:
“HIM. 💦🖤”
Below it, the most recent message, dated only two days ago.
“Don’t forget to delete the video after watching it. I don’t trust her anymore.”
My mouth went dry.
“Who is ‘she’?” I asked.
Mirabel hesitated.
“I think… she was talking about me.”

He always bathes twice before bed — I finally figured out why
CHAPTER 7
The moment Mirabel said, “I think he was talking about me,” I didn’t know where to put my feet. My legs were still planted on the floor, but it no longer felt like solid ground. Suddenly, everything in that room seemed to have changed, as if the air was different, as if my ears were hearing too many things at once.
The name saved with “HIM 💦🖤” was still on the screen, frozen, as if mocking me quietly. That emoji. That stupid emoji. I wanted to laugh, cry, and break something, all at once. But I just handed the phone back to him without touching it too much, as if my own fingerprints would sully the madness I’d just seen.
I didn’t even ask Mirabel any more questions. I didn’t want to. I needed to hear it from my wife, from Amaka. Not secondhand, not through screenshots, not from my niece, who seemed to be keeping secrets bigger than her years. I immediately left the guest room and went straight to the master bedroom.
The door wasn’t closed, but she was inside. Sitting on the edge of the bed with her scarf still tied, her robe still on, but her face… her face looked like it hadn’t rested since the night before. Her eyes met mine as we entered, and for the first time in a long time, she didn’t look away.
I closed the door carefully and stood there, watching her, waiting. I asked no questions. I said nothing. I just leaned against the wall, crossed my arms, head slightly tilted, as if waiting for an answer to a question I hadn’t yet asked.
And she knew.
She opened her mouth, then closed it. Then she inhaled deeply and exhaled as if releasing something she’d carried for too long.
“It started at boarding school.” “Go on, I’m listening!” I snapped.
“I was in JSS2.” My housemate sometimes borrowed her sister’s phone when the matron was asleep. One night she told me she had something to show me. I thought it was music or a movie. But no. It was porn.
She paused; her eyes were still on me, but her fingers twisted in her lap, as if trying to expel shame.
“At first, it scared me. I didn’t even understand what I was watching. But the next day, I found myself thinking about it. And the next week, when her sister came back, I asked to watch it too. I told myself it was nothing. Maybe just teenage curiosity. But before I knew it… it became a habit.”
Her voice lowered a little, almost to a whisper, as if she didn’t want the air to carry her too far. From watching so much, I started masturbating. I used to sneak into the bathroom. I’d stay there for a long time… It gave me a… release. I didn’t know what it was called then. But I knew it made me feel… alive.
He stood and walked to the window, parting the curtain a little, even though the sun was already high in the air.
I thought he’d stop after school. But I took him to college. And now… marriage.
I didn’t move from where I was. Not because I couldn’t, but because I didn’t know how.
He turned to me. His eyes were glassy, ​​but he hadn’t cried yet.
I thought getting married would fix it. That loving someone, being loved, would be enough. But the truth is… I never stopped. Not really.
I swallowed, silent. Still wordless. At that moment, I could only listen. He leaned against the dresser, still looking at me.
“Sometimes I wait until you’re asleep. Sometimes I pretend to bathe twice a night. Sometimes I just need to feel… something. Anything. I hate myself for it. I pray. I cry. I erase. I reinstall. I fall apart. And then I start again.”
He wiped his eyes, but not completely. Just a little.
“I’m not proud. I’m ashamed. Deeply. I know I’m supposed to be better. I know this isn’t the woman you married. It’s just… I don’t know how to stop.”
Then her voice cracked a little.
“I don’t want to lose you.”
In that moment, my body finally shifted. Something inside me snapped.
I sat slowly in the same chair she’d left by the dresser, not looking at her, not thinking about the words yet. My mind tugged and twitched; part of me was furious, heated, that anger that creeps up your neck and keeps your jaw rigid. Another part… I don’t even know what to call it. Confused, maybe. Maybe tired. Not from a lack of love, but from not understanding the person you thought you knew.
She moved closer. She knelt in front of me.
“I didn’t cheat on you. I swear. I didn’t sleep with anyone. I know this doesn’t make it better, but I just need you to know.”
My eyes finally left the floor, and I looked up at her. And the pain I saw there… wasn’t fake. It wasn’t an act. It was the kind of pain that doesn’t know how to express in complete sentences.

“I want to fight this,” she said, her voice shaking. “I want to try therapy. Counseling. Anything. But I don’t want to pretend anymore.”
I put my hand on my head, rubbed it slowly, and leaned forward with my elbows on my knees. I wasn’t angry anymore. Or maybe I was, but it had softened. I didn’t respond with any pep talks or quick apologies. I just sat there, staring at my feet.
The door creaked.
We both turned.
It was Mirabel.
She looked at me and then at Amaka.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” she said. “But there’s someone at the door.”
“Who?” I asked.
She hesitated.
“He says he’s looking for Amaka.”
I stood up immediately.
She took a step back.
“Did he say her name?” Amaka asked. Her legs had started to tremble.
Mirabel’s mouth moved. Then she stopped. Finally, she said, “The man at the door told me to tell you… that it’s HIM.”

HE ALWAYS BATHES TWICE BEFORE GOING TO BED—I FINALLY FIGURED OUT WHY
CHAPTER 8
When Mirabel said, “The man at the gate told me to tell you… that it’s HIM,” I didn’t even wait for another word. I walked past her without thinking, without slippers, with nothing on my mind except that name. That name. That stupid name that I’d been carrying like salt in my wound since the night before.
I didn’t go out immediately. I stopped first in the dining room and peered through the curtain. There was a man standing by the door, but he wasn’t looking toward the house. He was staring out at the street, as if pretending to admire the sky. Like someone who knew his presence was already a problem and was trying to pretend to have common sense.
I didn’t even go out to greet him. I simply called the security guard and said, “Tell that man to leave.”
He looked confused. “Oga, but he…”
“Tell him to leave.” If he doesn’t move in five minutes, I’ll chase him away myself.
I didn’t wait to hear the argument. I just turned around and went back upstairs.
When I got to the room, Amaka was sitting on the floor, as if she’d been told her house was going to be demolished and didn’t even know what to pack first. I didn’t say anything to her. She didn’t say anything to me. I just grabbed my phone, put on my sandals, and left the house.
I’d even forgotten I had a car… How funny?
I didn’t even know where I was going.
It was Chuka who called me, as if he knew I needed air.
“Guy, where are you?
” “Wandering.
” “Meet me at Atrium, please. You need to calm down.”
When I arrived, he was already sitting down. A bottle of Origin was in front of him, his eyes scrutinizing me like a nurse waiting for blood pressure results.
I sat down.
He didn’t say anything for a while. He just poured me a drink and nodded slowly.
“I saw your face; I know you shouldn’t wear heels in your house.”
I didn’t even reply. I just drank.
After a while, he said, “You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to. But don’t regret anything.”
I looked at him and then smiled slightly. “Too late. I already regret being home.”
He was quiet.
And then this woman walked in.
She wasn’t dramatic. She didn’t have all the false eyelashes and plastic hips most people wore these days. She was just there. Fine, yes. But normal fine. Her kind of fine was dangerous because she didn’t shout. She whispered. Subtle beauty. Slim waist, simple black dress, no earrings, just a small chain around her neck. I could tell because when she passed by, she smiled at me.
That was all.
Just a smile.
But Chuka caught it. He always caught these things. His mouth curved.
“He likes you.”
“Abeg.”
“Yes.”
I looked again. She was sitting two tables away, but her eyes were still scrutinizing me, as if she were trying to hide it.
Chuka took a sip of his drink and leaned back.
“Brother, I know you think this is a chance for a little revenge. But to be honest, it’s not the place to start the temptation. They don’t come with horns. They wear perfume.”
I laughed softly, but didn’t respond. I already knew what he was thinking. It wasn’t about the woman. It was about me. Everything that had been boiling inside me since last night.
He finally stood up. He walked to the bar. He came back. Then he stopped by my table. He just stopped. “Hi,” he said gently, as if he didn’t want to upset me.
I looked up and smiled. “Hi.”
“Are you expecting anyone?”
Before I could answer, Chuka chimed in.
“Yeah, he’s married. Thanks.”
He smiled and held up his hands playfully. “No offense. Just asking.”
Then he returned to his seat.
I looked at Chuka and shook my head. “You don’t let anyone breathe.”
He leaned closer, his voice low. “Do you want to breathe? Go home and breathe with your wife.”
I didn’t say anything else. But something inside me was already pulling me to a dark place. I knew it. There was a part of me that wanted to follow that woman’s car. Not out of attraction. But to escape. Out of a hurt ego. Because I wanted to feel desired again. Because I wanted to stop thinking.
But I didn’t go. I finished my drink and left.
When I returned home, everything was quiet. The living room lights were off, but a faint yellow glow from the hallway told me someone was still awake. I let myself in, gently closed the door, and stood there for a while. In the silence. Just me, the house, and all the memories that closed in on the walls.
I didn’t go to the bedroom. Not yet. Instead, I went to the kitchen. I made tea. I heated rice. I don’t even know why. I wasn’t hungry. I was just trying to do something to remind myself he was still alive.
Then I heard his voice.
“I waited.”
It came from the hallway. Calm. Soft. Empty.
I turned.
He was standing near the stairs, his shawl tied tightly, his face washed, and his lips dry. But he was looking at me as if waiting for an answer. As if my arrival was the beginning of a decision I wasn’t sure I was ready for.
I didn’t answer. I just went up.

But as I climbed, my mind no longer thought only as a man. I thought as a husband. A tired husband. A wounded husband. But a husband nonetheless. I knew now that this wasn’t a battle I could win with pride. That it wasn’t about who was more wounded.
Because if I crossed that line, if I touched another woman now, the entire moral foundation I’d stood on would crumble.
I walked into the bedroom, dropped my phone, and collapsed onto the bed with my clothes on.
I closed my eyes.
And just as I was drifting off to sleep, my phone vibrated again.
A message.
From an unknown number.
“Do you think she told you everything?”

SHE ALWAYS BATHES TWICE BEFORE BED—I FINALLY FIGURED OUT WHY
CHAPTER 9
The moment I saw that text, I felt a cold sensation in my chest, like a breeze from an open freezer. I stared at it for a while and then reread it, as if the words would change if I stared long enough. “Do you think he told you everything?” No name. No greeting. Nothing more. Just that.
I set my phone down beside me and lay there for a moment, but my mind wouldn’t rest. Sleep was already a stranger. I got up, walked over to the window, pulled back the curtain, and looked out, as if I might somehow see the sender walk by. But the street was quiet. Not even a dog barking.
In the morning, I didn’t mention it to Amaka. Not because I didn’t want to, but because… the truth is, I didn’t know what else I could hold back. I already had too much on my chest. More questions wouldn’t help.
That same morning, Chuka sent me a number. “Call this woman,” she said. “She helped my cousin and his wife when they were almost scattered. She’s very good.”
At first, I didn’t even think about it. I ignored the message. But around 2 p.m., when I found myself going through Amaka’s old photos again, trying to compare smiles, looking for signs I’d missed, I knew I was going crazy.
That’s when I called.
Her name was Angela. Her voice was calm, like that of a teacher who’s seen too many students fail and still thinks she can pass.
“Do you want to come together, or do we start with individual sessions?” she asked.
I told her we’d go together, but honestly, I wasn’t sure.
That night, after dinner, I sat next to Amaka in the living room. The TV was on, but no one was looking at me. I turned to her and said in a low, fragile voice, “I want us to try therapy.” She turned slowly, as if unsure she was hearing correctly.
“Therapy?”
“Yes.”
She didn’t reply. She just stared at me, then returned to the screen. Silence fell.
After about ten minutes, she said, “Is it for me or for us?”
“For both of us.”
She nodded slowly. Then she shrugged. “Okay. I’m ready.”
That was it. Well, the truth is, I never expected there to be any kind of disagreement.
We started the following Monday. The place was on dry land, a quiet compound, with no sign. Angela opened the door herself, dressed in simple clothes, no makeup, just someone who felt… normal. She didn’t say much. She only asked brief questions and waited for you to fill in the blanks.
At first, we were both stiff. I watched her mouth, she watched her nails. We answered like JAMB candidates.
“How are you feeling about your marriage right now?”
“Good.” “It’s difficult.”
“Do you feel safe with each other?”
Silence.
But something started to change after the third session. It was as if we ran out of lies and started using real words. Amaka spoke first, like someone wiping a dusty shelf: with a small rag, corner by corner.
She spoke of shame. Of fear. Of how, in her head, I had become too perfect. Of how that made her feel as if her past was always a stain I would never let dry. And I listened. Attentively. Not like those people who wait their turn to speak. I listened like someone who had finally admitted they didn’t know everything.
I spoke too. Of the feeling of betrayal. Of how everything I was hiding made me doubt reality. Of how difficult it was to trust again. How difficult it was not to compare. We
didn’t fix everything in one day. But I started to feel like we were in the same boat again. Rowing. Not perfectly, but at least in the same direction. Oddly, Mirabel started sitting closer during dinner. Asking questions. Laughing again. Sometimes I caught her watching us and smiling to herself. Like someone who had seen war and now believed peace was still possible.
One Friday night, the generator died. NEPPA had refused to turn on the light.
Amaka sat next to me on the couch and used her wrapper to fan us both. She wasn’t even saying anything profound. She only talked about mango season, how she used to climb trees as a child, how she once fell and her father beat her for wasting fruit. She was laughing, a real laugh that made her body buckle. I didn’t realize how much
I had missed that sound until it came back.
After a while, she stood up, stretched, and said, “I think I’ll take another bath.”
I looked at the clock. It was almost midnight.
My old self might have felt something like this. Suspicious. Alert. Ready to start calculating again. But this time, I just stood and followed her. She
paused and smiled slightly. “Do you want to take a shower too?”
I nodded. “Make room for me.”
We didn’t talk much in the bathroom. We didn’t need to. It was a romantic moment that began with a kiss in the shower… I would have loved to share what followed, except Facebook doesn’t allow sexual details. But for the first time in a long time, it didn’t feel like we were acting.
It was healing. Real healing.

And it made me realize something: every woman has a past. Every man must grow. Shame, silence, and secrets destroy more homes than infidelity. But healing is possible. Not with perfection, but with patience, communication, and a love that listens.
All’s well that ends well.
THE END…