Episode 3: The Betrayal Blueprint
(~1,200 words)
I once read somewhere that betrayal never comes from enemies. It always comes from the people you call “baby,” the ones you let sleep beside you with a loaded gun and your secrets under the pillow.
Amaka was that for me.
That night after I saw the messages with Razor, I didn’t sleep. I just watched her. Her mouth slightly open, her eyelashes fluttering like a bird in a cage. My chest was tight. Not with hate—but with heartbreak. I had allowed myself to be human, and now I would pay for it.
But if there’s one thing the street taught me, it’s this: never act on your first emotion. Plan. Wait. Then strike.
By morning, I was calm.
She woke up, kissed my chest, and asked if I wanted tea. I smiled and said, “Yes, with honey. Like your voice.”
She laughed. “You dey craze, Bobo.”
I watched her walk to the kitchen. She was still pretending. Or maybe, she thought I was still blind.
Over the next few days, I played the role of the loving boyfriend. I took her to La Campagne Tropicana. Booked a spa day for her and her friends. Gave her my second iPhone “for TikTok.” But unknown to her, I had installed a mirror spyware app.
Everything she did, I saw.
Every time Razor called, I recorded it. Every location she visited, I tracked. I knew where they met. What they drank. Even the color of Razor’s belt. He was using her to find my Yahoo ledger—the small diary where I kept offline records of high-paying clients and active accounts. It was my real empire—without it, I was just another scammer in rented glory.
So, I built a plan.
I created a fake deal—an oil contract with a French client. I told Amaka I was expecting over $100,000 in one Bitcoin wallet, and the ledger had the passphrase. She swallowed the bait like hot akara.
Two nights later, I pretended to fall asleep in the living room after taking some codeine. Left the iPhone and the ledger in the bedroom drawer, slightly open like temptation.
By 1:47 AM, she entered the room like a shadow. I watched her through the CCTV feed on my smartwatch. She didn’t even hesitate. She picked up the phone, took pictures of the ledger, and walked into the bathroom to text Razor.
I had her.
But I didn’t want to just expose her. I wanted both of them to suffer.
The next day, I called a meeting with my crew—Uche, Format, Cleaner, and G-Wire.
“She betrayed me,” I told them, passing the phone around. “And Razor wants war. But we go strike first.”
We planned everything down to the second. Cleaner would tail Razor for 48 hours to know his movements. G-Wire would monitor Amaka. Uche would call Baba Tunde to prepare the return-to-sender ritual—jazz to reverse spiritual attacks. Format was instructed to prepare fake login credentials that would explode Razor’s system if he tried to access them.
It was war time.
But you don’t enter war with half loyalty. That was the day I learned betrayal always comes in layers.
Uche—my right-hand man—was selling me out.
He had been feeling like second fiddle for months. I should have seen the signs—the late responses, the suspicious withdrawals, the constant defense of Razor. While I was focused on Amaka, Uche had been feeding Razor information in exchange for promises of partnership and independence.
I found out the day before our planned ambush, when Baba Tunde summoned me privately.
“Your friend, Uche,” Baba said, his voice hoarse like gravel, “him spirit no dey clean. The gods say make you purge your circle.”
I felt sick.
These were people I would’ve died for. Now they were lining up to kill me. Out of jealousy. Greed. Ego.
I didn’t confront Uche. I let the plan continue.
We staged the final act in a short-let apartment in Ikoyi. I invited Amaka there on a Friday night. Told her we’d celebrate our big win. She came dressed to kill, literally—red gown, stilettos, perfume that smelled like expensive sin.
I had Champagne ready. Music low. Fake Bitcoin screen flashing on the wall.
She laughed. “You finally made it, Bobo.”
I smiled. “We made it, baby.”
At exactly 11:30 PM, Razor entered through the back door. I knew he would. I had unlocked it deliberately.
He stormed in like a soldier, holding a Glock, eyes red with greed. Amaka screamed—fake scream, of course. She was in on it. Or so she thought.
“You dey mad, Bobo? You think you can play me?” Razor snarled.
I sat back, calm. Sipping my drink. “Razor, Razor. You too dey rush.”
He raised his gun—but before he could fire, Cleaner stepped out of the bathroom, silenced pistol in hand.
“You drop that thing, or na your spirit go sign out tonight,” Cleaner said coldly.
Razor froze. Amaka’s mouth was shaking.
“You think I don’t know?” I said, rising to my feet. “You used my girl, bribed my man, and tried to rob me of everything I built with blood and brain. But you forgot—I wrote this game.”
I nodded to Cleaner.
One shot.
Razor dropped like a log, blood soaking into the Persian rug.
Amaka screamed again—but this time, the fear was real.
I turned to her. “You know I loved you, right? I could’ve given you everything. But you chose him.”
Tears flowed freely now. She knelt, begged. “Please, Bobo. I swear, I didn’t mean to. He threatened me—”
I raised my hand.
“No more lies.”
I didn’t kill her. I gave her to Baba Tunde. What he did with her soul, I’ll never know. But that night, I made a vow:
Never trust a smiling face. Never love in this business. Never again.
But fate, as always, has its own plans.
Because Razor had a younger brother.
And he wasn’t going to let that death go unpaid.
