There is a kind of madness that possesses some men once fame, money and power arrive. They suddenly believe they can buy anything: houses, cars, chieftaincy titles, even other human beings. Even another man’s wife becomes, to them, a “challenge”, something to conquer.
That is where trouble begins.
There are single, ready-to-mingle women everywhere. There are widows. There are divorced women. There are desperate, beautiful single ladies dancing all over Instagram, hawking their natural and unnatural endowments. Why then do men who should know better, especially young rich and famous men, deliberately target married women?
Oh ok, it is their love for wrapped pap and forbidden fruits. Not because they lack options.
No. It is because there is a dangerous aroma around a married woman’s thing, plus puff-puff ego that comes with power.
The thrill of “taking what belongs to another man.” Foolish thrill. Yoruba elders knew all about that thrill before racy Fuji star, Abass Akande Obesere, sang that those who do not have antidotes for vomiting should not eat cockroaches. In other words, there are men who find cockroaches crunchy and will eat them without vomiting, but bro, they are not many. Crunchy cockroaches, like married women, cannot be eaten by every man. It is food for the elders. Boys who do not have the ring and-plated armour will end up with bloody mouth and or broken teeth.
Many of these adventurous guys think it’s just acquired taste. They think it is ordinary enjoyment. No dude, you are playing with oogun-abenu-gongo, that is juju that has been drenched in monstrous concoction. A go lie for you?
Listen to me before magun enters the equation.
Listen to me before ghosts step out of the bedroom walls and arrive at midnight.
Take my advice before your contracts and endorsements disappear.
Run before death shows up to haul you off to realm you are not prepared for.
Nigeria is full of silent stories. Promising men who fell because they entered another man’s bedroom through the back door. Musicians. Politicians. Businessmen. Pastors. Actors. Footballers. Men who thought they were untouchable.
A married woman is not just a woman. She is somebody’s covenant, somebody home, somebody’s pride and emotional investment.
Some husbands may cry quietly and walk away. Others may forgive. But some men? Ah! Some men carry thunder inside their chests.
Not every husband fights with fists but the words under their tongues can cut the most virile man into unrecognisable size
Chief Bode was the definition of soft life. Big hotel in Abuja. Two petrol stations. Range Rover with police escort. Gold chain heavy enough to anchor a fishing boat.
Women followed him like ants chasing sugar and he sweetened them up after flipping them like burger.
Then he met Angela.
Angela was beautiful in the dangerous way. Skin smooth like fresh pawpaw. Voice like radio presenter. Waist that could make a pastor forget his sermon notes.
Problem was Angela was married.
Her husband, Emeka, was a quiet trader. Calm man. Respectful. The kind of man people underestimate because he does not make noise.
When rumours started flying around that Angela was sleeping with Chief Bode, Emeka ignored them. But Lagos gossip is like smoke from firewood; once it starts, the whole street smells it.
One evening, Emeka invited elders and warned his wife quietly.
She laughed.
Chief Bode laughed louder.
“You know who I be?” he boasted in a bar one night. “No husband fit threaten me.”
Three weeks later, Chief Bode landed in a private hospital, in a shameful shape.
The story spread across town like wildfire.
They said during one of his secret visits to Angela’s apartment, the mighty chief suddenly became trapped during the act. Sweating. Shouting. Foaming. His sugar stick refused to come out of the honey pot. They said it was magun.
Whether it was true or not no longer mattered. Nigerians had concluded the case before sunrise.
