A Coolvalstories Production
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Episode 1: The Promise at the Grave
The rain poured like heaven itself was mourning. It was the kind of heavy downpour that made umbrellas useless and turned fine clothes into clinging rags. But no one moved. We all stood silently around Chima’s grave, eyes fixed on the final resting place of a man gone too soon.
He had been more than a friend to me—he was my brother. We met during NYSC in Kogi State, survived camp wahala together, and somehow ended up building our lives side by side in Lagos. He knew my secrets, and I knew his. We raised our children like cousins, and our wives became sisters through our bond.
When that trailer crushed his Toyota Camry on the Lokoja highway, it didn’t just break metal. It broke hearts.
I stood there, drenched, heart beating like a war drum. Then I saw her—Amaka—his widow. Her wrapper was soaked to her waist, her eyes empty, lips trembling as she held her younger son. The boy was crying softly, too young to understand the weight of death.
I looked at them—her and the two boys, Uchenna and Ebuka—and I felt it. A wave of guilt, duty, and brotherly love all wrapped in a knot inside my chest.
That was when I made the vow.
I didn’t say it out loud. I didn’t kneel or raise my hands dramatically. I just stood there beside his casket and muttered under my breath:
“As long as I live, your family will never suffer.”
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Two weeks later, I started small. I paid the remaining part of the children’s school fees—Amaka didn’t even ask. When she thanked me, her voice cracked, and she hugged me briefly at her doorway. It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t even warm. It was a thank-you hug. Still, it lingered.
I told my wife, Ifeoma, about it. She nodded with a calm smile. “You’re a good man,” she said. “Chima would’ve done the same.”
She meant it, at the time.
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A month passed.
Then came the rent issue.
Amaka called me in a panic—her landlord had given her two weeks’ notice. Apparently, Chima had paid only six months before his death. I didn’t even ask questions. I sent ₦450,000 from my savings, quietly.
Ifeoma noticed the debit alert.
“You transferred ₦450k to Amaka?” she asked, arching a brow over her glasses as we lay in bed.
I explained.
She sighed. “Next time, just let me know first.”
Simple.
No drama.
Or so I thought.
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By the third month, I was dropping by Amaka’s place more frequently. Nothing scandalous. Just to check on the boys, drop groceries, or fix minor things around the house. One day her ceiling fan started sparking—I sent an electrician. Another day, I dropped by with snacks and mosquito nets I had bought during a promo at Shoprite.
That evening, Ifeoma watched me unpack the car.
“All this… for Amaka again?”
I smiled. “It’s not much. Just provisions.”
She said nothing. Just stared at me for a while, then walked into the kitchen.
That silence spoke louder than any insult.
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Weeks later, while playing Ludo with her on a Sunday evening, she said:
“You know, people are starting to talk. Mama Nkechi told me she saw you at Amaka’s house on Saturday.”
I laughed. “Ah!.”
She didn’t laugh.
“I’m just saying,” she continued. “People talk. Even if you mean well, they’ll still twist it. And Amaka… she’s a fine woman, o.”
I looked at her, confused. “So?”
“So don’t let your good heart put you in trouble.”
We didn’t talk about it again that night.
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Then came the day that made me realize the road I was on was getting narrower.
It was a Tuesday morning. I dropped by Amaka’s flat to give her details of a contact I had arranged for her—she had finally agreed to take a cashier job in Festac. I wanted to encourage her to move on with life.
As I was about leavz, she held my hand gently. Just for a second.
“I don’t know what I would’ve done without you, Ifeanyi,” she whispered. “God bless you.”
At that exact moment, Uchenna ran in and shouted: “Uncle Ifeanyi! Mummy said you’re our daddy now!”
Amaka’s face turned red.
I laughed it off. Kids say the darndest things.
But as I drove back to my office, my phone rang.
It was Ifeoma.
Her voice was cold.
“I hope you’re not at Amaka’s house again,” she said.
I hesitated. “Why?”
“Because I’ve been thinking lately… Maybe your help is becoming something else.”
My hands tightened on the steering wheel.
“Are you accusing me of something?” I asked.
“I’m not accusing,” she said. “I’m warning. Chima was your friend, not your responsibility. Don’t forget who your real family is.”
She hung up.
I sat there, in traffic, caught between two worlds:
Loyalty… and suspicion.
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🔥 To be continued in Episode 2: The Line Between Help and Husband
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