Real Stories: How I got revenge on the best friend who stole my husband

Chioma and I met in our second year at university, and we clicked instantly. She was the loud, bubbly one. I was more reserved, but we balanced each other out perfectly. We were sisters in all but blood. We'd survived NYSC together and even got matching tattoos that read "Sisters Before Misters." 

When I married Emeka in a lavish white wedding where she stood as my chief bridesmaid, she'd wept louder than my mother.

That should have been my first clue.

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She was the first to toast to our “everlasting love.” Her words. Not mine. Little did I know she was already eyeing my everlasting husband.

It started small. 

Emeka working overtime, missed dinners, late nights at the office, cancelled weekend plans. He would mumble something about deadlines and new projects. I believed him. I wanted to. 

Whenever I vented to Chioma, she would sit beside me, stroke my back and say, “Men are like that. Don’t overthink it, babe.”

The irony.

One Sunday evening, Emeka stepped into the shower and left his phone on the bed. A message lit up the screen. I wasn’t snooping. I have been suspicious, yes, but I wasn’t the type to snoop through her partner’s phone. But the name “Chioma Baby” made my stomach drop.

I opened the chat.

“I can’t wait for our trip next week. That wife of yours won’t suspect a thing.” Another message followed: ”Should I bring the red lingerie you like?"

I couldn’t breathe. My fingers shook as I scrolled up. There it was. Months of secret meetups, nudes, hotel bookings, voice notes, plans to travel, plans to start a family. With her.

The worst part? They were funding their dirty little affair with my money. Emeka had been moving funds from our joint account to her bank account, calling them “business investments.” Money I had saved. Money I trusted him with.

My heart broke.

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I could’ve screamed. I could’ve packed my bags. I could’ve fought. But instead, I plotted.

I decided to play the long game. For three silent months, I played the perfect fool. I smiled, I cooked, I kissed. I even hosted Chioma at our house, made her favourite pepper soup, listened to her talk about “God’s plans” for her life. 

Meanwhile, I hired a private investigator who tracked their every move, gathering video evidence, screenshots, and receipts. Turns out, the lovebirds had a cosy little love nest in Lekki. Fancy.

I started moving money quietly into a separate account. I wasn’t going to leave that marriage broke and broken. I wanted to leave it with a bang.

That bang came on Emeka’s 40th birthday.

I planned the party of the year. Rented a hall in VI, hired a live band, invited our entire circle. Our friends, family, church members, and business partners. Even Chioma’s strict pastor parents. Everything was perfect.

Until it was time to cut the cake.

I stepped forward, took the mic, and smiled. “Before we celebrate my dear husband, I’d like us all to take a moment to appreciate his greatest achievement yet.”

The lights dimmed. The projector screen came on. And for five glorious minutes, one hundred guests watched my husband's infidelity unfold in HD.

WhatsApp chats, hotel CCTV footage, bank transfers, voice notes, pictures. Everything!

The room went silent, then exploded. Gasps. Screams. Phones came out. People started recording. Chioma’s mother fainted. Emeka lunged toward the projector, trying to yank out the cord. Too late. The damage was already done.

Through it all, I stood calmly, sipping my wine as realisation dawned on their faces. They'd underestimated the quiet, forgiving wife.

In the days that followed, the ripple effects were delicious. Emeka lost his high-paying job. Turns out adultery violates their corporate ethics policy. Chioma was disowned by her parents and humiliated in her church. Their secret love story became a public disgrace.

I filed for divorce a week later. Thanks to my lawyer, I walked away with 70% of our assets. The house, the cars, the accounts, everything that mattered.

Karma? No, darling. Strategic revenge.

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