The characters, events, and situations depicted in this story are purely fictional. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or events is purely coincidental. This story is a work of fiction created for entertainment purposes only.
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…my destructive side has grown a mile wide
And I question myself again: what it is ‘bout men?
What is it—
Adaeze groaned as her favorite Amy Winehouse tune was abruptly interrupted by an incoming call from Stephanie.
She debated a second or two, knowing if she picked up, Steffi would keep her on the line for at least thirty minutes longer than she wanted to be on this serene Sunday morning.
She sighed in relief as the line rang out—‘bout men?—only to stifle another groan when her phone immediately began ringing again.
“Steffi, what is it now?” Her irritation bled into her tone as she reluctantly answered, wincing at the sound of Steffi’s voice escalated to a pitch higher than her usual banshee tone.
“Dezi, this woman get craze for head o! You never see the rubbish wey she send to that yeye blog so? She craze pieces!”
“Steffi, calm down,” Dezi interjected, adding two cubes of sugar to her steaming mug of black coffee and nodding her thanks to Cook. “Calm down, ah ah. I can’t even hear you. Which woman? Which blog?”
“Dezi, abeg, no dey wind me!” Steffi chided. “I done tell you say make you tell Oga to put this woman for her place now. Which kain nonsense be this one now? E no go better for her and that yeye blogger!”
The mention of “Oga” put Dezi on notice that Steffi was referring to Chief Esangbedo, or rather, his wife, Chief Mrs. Olabisi Esangbedo. It took another excruciating fifteen minutes to untangle that Steffi’s tirade was about the blatantly sponsored and paid-for post that had surfaced that morning on Belinda Offor’s infamous gossip blog.
Chief Justin Esangbedo, long believed to be the country’s sixth wealthiest billionaire, showcased his opulent wealth at the wedding of the first of he and his delectable wife’s four daughters yesterday. The ostentatious festivities were thankfully unmarred by the recent wicked and vindictive lies of the notorious would-be homewrecker, who it is rumored has been consistently claiming to be the mother of Chief Esangbedo’s first and only son. Chief Mrs. Bisi Esangbedo was the cynosure of all eyes at the pinnacle of what has been several extravagant pre-wedding festivities, looking radiant, graceful, and unbowed by what sources say she has dismissed as the delusions of a cunning and devious woman futilely trying to wedge herself between her and her beloved husband of thirty-two years whose eyes she firmly remains the apple of.
Dezi sighed and rolled her eyes as she skimmed through the blog post Steffi had forwarded to her mid-rant. Chief Mrs., her forever nemesis. She couldn’t help but feel a twinge of pity for Madam Bisi—what must it be like to constantly wage war on the hydra-headed monster that was her husband’s insatiable lust for women of all shapes and sizes? As soon she slayed a slay queen here, three more would emerge elsewhere. It was a never-ending battle but Madam Bisi was relentless.
Before Dezi, Madam Bisi’s bluster had mostly been for show—she understood the women her husband dallied with to be temporary, so her threats were more bark than bite. These women understood her laborious huffing and puffing was the price of doing business with a man like him, and Madam Bisi understood it was the price of staying married to a man like him. She had nothing to fear from her husband indulging in a harem. But heaven forbid he got snared by a Dezi. Now that way lay trouble, the kind that Madam Bisi had never had to contend with before.
Dezi was the succubus the enamored womanizer fancied himself in love with. It wasn’t merely her exotic allure in the bedroom; after all, he’d flown in the best sexperts from halfway across the world for that. No, it was the feeling of coming home that Dezi provided—a place to lay one’s weary head after navigating the harsh waters of dirty politics and dirty business, not to mention the ceaseless demands of a never-satisfied wife.
You looked at Dezi and you saw a woman who took no scruples in taking care of herself, yet something compelled you to want to take care of her. Perhaps it was her eyes, Dezi mused; they were deep, enigmatic pools of need and longing that men wanted to drown in, and almost no man in her history had been immune—not her stepfather, not the landlord of her childhood apartment, not her high school principal. Men saw Dezi and felt the innate urge to own her.
Not that she minded. After all, Dezi had witnessed firsthand the perils of the equation being reversed, of being the caregiver, rather than the one cared for. That was the story of her mother turned addicted-to-love fool who met a violent death at the hands of one of the men she had taken care of. That was the story of Aunt Mabel turned terminal patient after incurring an incurable virulent STD from the man she had taken care of. That was the story of Sister Eunice turned destitute drug addict after being scammed and abandoned by the man she had taken care of.
These stories had been etched into recesses of her mind by the time Bro ‘Abel, her eventual procurer (or, as some less refined would call him, pimp), propositioned her to join his…business, prompting her to be deliberate about her ascent up the ranks. It was customary for newcomers to the scene to kowtow and ingratiate themselves with clients to guarantee repeat business—a lesson Dezi had learned as a clueless teen haggling with the pimply, drunk rejects in Bro’ Abel’s dingy clubhouse. Over time, she had adopted a quietly demanding style, expecting to receive what she asked for with minimal back and forth and accepting nothing less.
Her price was her price and any attempt to negotiate was met with an unforgiving strike from her ‘red book’. And as much as her clients showered her with lavish gifts and incessant attention, she never expressed gratitude—at least, not overtly. She simply regarded it all as her rightful due. And that drove them crazy, or rather crazier. What really was it about men? Victory never tasted so sweet as when it came with the feeling of conquest—when someone, preferably a woman, had been humbled.
This was the Dezi whose trap Chief E (Chiefey as she affectionately called him) had fallen into. She couldn’t pinpoint what it was about him but his devotion had persuaded her to hang up her boots and pen his name as the final entry in her red book at his request. Did Dezi love the man? God, no. The very idea was preposterous. She was rather fond of him, she liked him even, pitied him a little. And despite Madam Bisi’s protestations to the contrary, he was the father of her baby boy, after all. A foolish mistake, that, but one of the most advantageous she had ever made, and she certainly had no regrets about the financial security it had afforded her.
This was the Dezi who had become an oasis in Chiefey’s dry and thirsty land which incessantly cried out for more, more, more—a reality Madam Bisi had been forced to confront, donning her armor in response. Now whether the armor was of God or the devil was up for debate. Dezi snorted derisively. The woman didn’t know the hardened criminal she was dealing with.
This latest blog post wasn’t the first attack from the woman. Initially, Madam Bisi hadn’t seen Dezi as a threat. It was only when Chiefey impregnated Dezi and, shockingly, allowed her to keep the child—a boy—that she grew alarmed. The first inkling Dezi had of how much of a prayer point Madam Bisi now considered her to be came when the woman threw down the gauntlet with a hit piece on Belinda’s blog, labeling Dezi as the most dangerous woman in the nation.
Rumor has it that, but the grace of God and the vigilance of his devoted wife, a certain chief—widely believed to be one of the richest men in the country—might have succumbed to the cruel whims and machinations of one of the most manipulative succubi known to mankind. Read on to discover how exactly said chief’s wife used her renowned wisdom, and the legacy of love and trust with her husband to fend off the devious would-be usurper. The blog post began, hinting at lessons for women to glean from the chief’s wife’s response.
Unintentionally, the blog post ignited a swell of attention from men of Chiefey’s ilk eagerly awaiting their own opportunity, hoping the coveted “red book” would reopen. Bro Abel’s phone was inundated with a deluge of inquiries from men willing to succumb to the succubus. A casual mention of this fact in Chiefey’s presence left him visibly disgruntled . The next day, Dezi found a purchase receipt for the latest Range Rover model in her inbox— a gesture intended to reaffirm Chiefey’s unwavering devotion and serve as an unsubtle reminder that he demanded to remain center stage.
An unamused Madam Bisi was apoplectic upon seeing the paparazzi shots (featured on that same blog!) weeks later of Dezi cruising around town in her latest sponsored acquisition with a bold Baby on Board sticker prominently displayed on the rear. She wasted no time in firing her next salvo in the one-sided war—a controversial disclaimer purported to be issued by Chief Esangbedo’s lawyers on his behalf, deriding Dezi as a delusional interloper and issuing a public apology to his one and only beloved wife and forever partner.
Chief Justin O. Esangbedo wishes to address the persistent innuendo and unfounded allegations regarding a supposed association between him and one Ms Adaeze Ude. He emphatically states, for the record, that he remains faithfully (and permanently) married to his amiable, beloved wife, Chief Mrs. Olabisi A. Esangbedo who is the mother of his only four children. He is deeply distressed by the toll these baseless rumors have taken on his cherished spouse and would like to appeal to the general public to refrain from perpetuating this harmful fake news. Furthermore, Chief Esangbedo asserts that he has no knowledge, whether intimate or otherwise, of Ms. Ude. He extends his best wishes to her as he would to any stranger and hopes that she is able to receive the necessary care for her mental well-being.
That had been the first of several paragraphs comprising a full-page spread printed in the daily papers, swiftly echoed by the weekly tabloids and ubiquitous blogs. Soon after, and with no prompting, Dezi found her phone bombarded with calls and messages from Chiefey, all of which she pointedly ignored. Eventually, he came over unannounced, only to be left perturbed when Dezi remained unruffled, calmly urging them to move forward.
“You will take care of Phil, won’t you?” That had been her sole question for him
“My love, you know that is the least that I will do for my only son,” he had staunchly replied.
The following day, his lawyer dispatched a certified copy of his updated will outlining the provisions for Philemon and her. Separately, Chiefey credited her account with an eye-watering amount and had his PA contact her to arrange tickets for a getaway for her and her choice of friends.
“You deserve it, my dear,” He jovially insisted when she called to thank him. “Go and unwind, relax, and come back to me your usual bubbly self.”
Grainy snapshots from her getaway to Ibiza, complete with first-class flights and a lush five-star hotel stay along with Steffi, Lamide and Ofure flooded the blogs, subtly hinting at who had footed the luxurious trip. Chief E’s rumored baby mama spotted living it up in Ibiza…has penance been made?
The gnashing of Madam Bisi’s teeth reverberated throughout town, but she refused to concede defeat. Her next plan of attack involved orchestrating Dezi being accosted at Chiefey’s father’s funeral reception. Chiefey had insisted on her attendance, going as far as having the planners source a special aso ebi fabric in the family color theme for her and her guests. Seated at her designated table, she brushed off the whispers and side glances, even when Chiefey passed by to cordially greet her entourage as though she were any other guest.
As the band crooned their way through their roll call, Dezi made her way to the dance floor when they began serenading her name in an attempt to shush them with a spray of cash, eager to have them move on swiftly. However, her efforts were thwarted by a group of bustling women on the dance floor, demanding to know what she was doing there. Ignoring the derogatory slurs of ashewo and gboko-gboko hurled her way, she focused on urging her friends to refrain from retaliating.
Thankfully, Chiefey’s personal security intervened, escorting her to her table where a discreet couple remained on standby the remainder of the evening, prepared to spring forward at any hint of further disturbance. This time, guests made no pretense of openly ogling her as she gracefully returned to her table to enjoy the rest of the evening, the highlight being the popular musician stopping by her table, treating her to a jazzy serenade to the secret glee of the onlookers whose pings and not-so-secret stealth pictures were flying across the cavernous hall and beyond.
Afterwards, in a rare moment of expressed discontent, Dezi gently broached the subject with Chiefey when he visited the next day, sharing a meal and playing with Phil.
“Maybe we should consider calling it quits.” She suggested, her tone mild. “All this drama is not good for my mental health, baby.”
Chiefey’s response was stern. “Us calling it quits will not be good for my mental health,” He’d retorted. “I know Bisi crossed a line, it’s those troublesome friends of hers, but I’ll handle it so I don’t want to hear any more rubbish quitting talk.”
Shortly thereafter, Dezi received the papers to a newly constructed 5-bedroom terrace home in Banana Island along with another substantial sum to customize it to her liking before moving in. In the interim, Chiefey also assigned some of his private security to her and Phil. Predictably, pictures of the lavish new home found their way onto Belinda’s blog. Lagos City Girl Up Again with new Luxury Home!!!
Another post on the same blog countered the narrative, claiming Dezi was a chronic liar. Her lifestyle—the cars, the house, the trips, the baby—was decidedly not sponsored by Chief Esangbedo, the post insisted stridently. While her friends fumed on her behalf, Dezi remained focused on selecting the perfect tiles for her new kitchen.
Now, this latest blog entry had arrived in the guise of a celebratory post. Dezi almost felt a pang of sympathy for the termagant, but only just. Poor Madam Bisi was winning the battle but the war was already lost.
“Steffi, no kill yourself abeg!” Dezi attempted to placate her still-ranting friend. “You know how e dey, e no easy.”
“Ah, oooh ohhh, Dezi! Dezi, na woman you be! Na luck she get say na you. Because if to say na me eh, my God, wetin this woman go see for my hand eh…”
Adaeze shook her head and sipped her now warm coffee as Steffi continued ranting about the various ways she would make Madam Bisi’s life a living hell if she were the one who had Chiefey in the palm of her hand. She lacked the energy to point out that the poor woman was already suffering, trapped in the prison of a Phyrric victory, of which Dezi was the unrepentant jailor with the key.
Sometimes as she scrolled through social media comments, Dezi would wryly smile at those who wanted so badly for the ‘evil’ side-chick’s origin story to be this long, tragic, heart-rending saga that explained her cold-bloodedness in tearing apart a happy home. And yes, some of her backstory was tragic but it wasn’t that long.
In short, Dezi knew firsthand what it was like to be in stark, naked need and having clawed her way out of it by the literal skin of her teeth (God punish the landlord’s wife who once poured scalding water on her that time she got caught with…), she was ruthless in ensuring she and her son never had to look upon the ugly face of need again. What was more, she didn’t care what had to be given up to make that so. Not the least, Madam Bisi’s so called happy home.
With a knowing smile, she forwarded the link to the blog post to Chiefey, aware that he had likely been briefed on it by Samuel, his PA, and was likely dreading how much it would cost him this time.
As if on cue, her phone beeped. Incoming notification from Chiefey. She quickly got rid of Steffi so she could check the message. My love, ma binu. Bisi being hysterical as always. I’ll be over as soon as we wrap up here. Tell Cook to make my favorite with snails. I love you.
Another smile crept on her face as she sent a notification of her own. Job well done as usual, Belinda. Your account had been credited – confirm receipt.
The response came swiftly. Credit confirmed. Always a pleasure doing business with you.
Deleting the message thread, she checked in on a peacefully sleeping Phil, nodding with contentment, before heading to the kitchen to coordinate with Cook for Chiefey’s arrival later that evening.
© Lara Brown, 2024
Worlds via Words 