My name is Kunle, and I am writing this from my friend’s balcony

My name is Kunle, and I am writing this from my friend’s balcony, staring at Lagos traffic below, because shame has locked my legs and pride has swallowed my voice.

For six months, I cheated on my wife with a woman I never met, never touched, never saw in person, yet I told myself she was my escape.

I am what people call a “Big Boy” in Lagos. I have a solid job, a car with working air-conditioning, and a wife named Tolu.

Tolu is not what Instagram celebrates. She ties wrapper at home, smells of onions and baby powder, and discusses tomatoes, children, and school fees without apology.

When I returned from work tired and restless, she never flirted, never whispered fantasies, never made my chest beat faster with mystery or danger.

I wanted excitement. I wanted adrenaline. I wanted a “babe” who would remind me that I was still desirable, still sharp, still winning at life.

Six months ago, a WhatsApp message appeared on my phone while I waited in traffic, bored and irritated by the heat and my own thoughts.

“Hi, is this Dayo?” the message said, innocent and casual, like fate pretending not to know what it was about to ruin.

I replied without thinking, “No, this is Kunle. But I can be your Dayo.” I thought I was being clever, charming, harmless.

That single sentence cracked my marriage open like an egg on hot asphalt, though I did not hear the sound yet.

Her name was Cynthia. She said she was a 200-level student at UNILAG, studying something impressive and modern I never bothered to verify.

She typed with confidence, used smooth English, laughed at my jokes, and sent voice notes that made my heart forget my surname.

Her voice was playful, warm, teasing. It made my body react in embarrassing ways even while my wife slept beside me.

At night, when Tolu snored softly, exhausted from managing the home, I hid under the duvet like a thief, chatting with Cynthia.

Cynthia listened to my complaints about marriage, about boredom, about responsibility, and she validated every selfish thought I had.

She never asked about my children. She never mentioned groceries. She never reminded me of tomorrow. She existed only in pleasure.

Very quickly, Cynthia became “high maintenance,” but I wore that burden proudly, like proof that I was still a man of means.

“Baby, my rent is due,” she typed one afternoon. I sent one hundred and fifty thousand naira without blinking or asking questions.

“Baby, I need bone straight hair,” she followed. I sent three hundred thousand naira, imagining how stunning she would look.

“Baby, I need the new iPhone,” she said sweetly. I swiped my card and felt powerful, generous, admired.

In six months, I spent over two million naira on Cynthia, and I never once checked my bank alerts with regret.

Meanwhile, my wife would ask for money to buy food, and irritation would rise in me like bile.

“There is no money,” I would snap. “Manage the five thousand I gave you,” as if I were performing charity, not responsibility.

That same evening, I would send fifty thousand naira to Cynthia for “data” without any internal debate or shame.

Looking back now, I see how cruel I became to the woman who knew my weakness, my fears, and my real name.

Last week, Cynthia finally agreed to meet me, after months of excuses, delays, and teasing promises.

“Book a room at the Continental Hotel,” she said. “I want you to devour me.” My knees nearly buckled from excitement.

I told my wife I was traveling to Abuja for a conference, lying with ease I did not recognize in myself.

She nodded calmly, reminded me to drive safely, and asked if I had eaten. Her normalcy irritated me.

I went to the hotel early, bought champagne, sprayed perfume, and wore my best boxers like a teenager on his first date.

Room 304 felt like a shrine to my ego. I paced, rehearsed lines, and imagined a life where boredom was permanently defeated.

When I knocked, my heart beat like a talking drum at a village festival, loud and uncontrollable.

“Come in, the door is open,” a voice said softly from inside. I felt electricity rush through my spine.

The room was dim. A woman stood by the window with her back to me, framed by city lights and mystery.

She wore the red dress I bought for Cynthia. She wore the bone straight wig I paid for with pride.

“Cynthia, baby,” I whispered, moving closer. “Turn around, let me see your face.” My hands were trembling.

She turned slowly, calmly, deliberately, like someone who knew exactly how much damage one movement could cause.

It was Tolu.

My wife.

Not in wrapper. Not tired. Not ordinary. She looked expensive, confident, breathtaking, and terrifyingly composed.

The champagne bottle slipped from my hand and shattered on the floor, the sound finally catching up with my reality.

“Tolu?” I stammered. “What are you doing here? Where is Cynthia?” My voice sounded small to my own ears.

She smiled, not cruelly, not kindly, but knowingly, like a teacher watching a student finally understand the lesson.

She pulled out her phone and dialed a number with slow precision, never breaking eye contact with me.

My phone vibrated violently in my pocket. The screen lit up like a judge’s verdict.

Incoming call: “My University Babe.”

My legs weakened. The room spun. The air felt heavier than Lagos humidity in August.

“You?” I whispered. “It was you?” The words tasted like metal in my mouth.

“Yes, Kunle,” she said calmly. “I was bored too. I wanted to know if my husband still had romance inside him.”

She paused, then added, “Turns out you save it for strangers.” Her voice never shook.

She picked up her handbag, the Gucci bag I bought for Cynthia, and adjusted it on her shoulder.

“Thank you for the phone, the hair, and the money,” she said. “I used it to finish my building project.”

“At least one of us was sensible,” she added, without raising her voice or insulting me directly.

She walked past me toward the door, heels clicking like punctuation marks ending my foolish sentences.

“Tolu, wait!” I shouted, panic finally overpowering pride. “Let’s talk!” I reached out but stopped myself.

She turned and looked at me with a mixture of disappointment and exhaustion that hurt more than anger.

“Talk about what?” she asked. “The five thousand you give me for soup or the three hundred thousand for hair?”

She opened the door and took one last look at me, not as a wife, but as a woman who had seen everything.

“Enjoy the room,” she said. “You paid for it. I’m going home to my children.”

Then she left.

I sat on the hotel floor and cried, not for the money, but for the clarity that arrived too late.

My “boring” wife was the most interesting woman I had ever met, and I paid millions just to notice.

Now she has locked the master bedroom. She says if I want entry, I should message “Cynthia” and negotiate.

I am learning that women keep receipts, not just financial ones, but emotional, psychological, and spiritual.

Men, fear women. Your side chick might be your main chick with a different SIM card.

And if anyone knows how to beg a woman who planned six months ahead, please tell me. I am listening. 😭📱