He is short , fat and cheating.

The Eba of Audacity

Lagos will show you shege in the name of love.

This is a story about one girl, one short man, and the day lip gloss exposed a lie.

Her name is Emilia.

She was a sweet girl. Until Femi pushed her into her villain era.

Read on.

The Eba of Audacity

I think it’s funny . No actually hilarious how Femi expects me to believe he has nothing to do with her, when I can literally see her lip gloss glistening on his forehead like an oily crown of betrayal.

We’re standing in his box-sized apartment in Yaba, where the walls are sweating and his conscience is clearly not.

“That’s her, not me,” he blurts out. As if that clears anything up. As if I asked for a riddle.

You must think I’m stupid.

Maybe I am. Because instead of throwing my bag at him or calling down fire like my mother’s church taught me, I just… sigh. And say, “Well, I forgive you. Because you’re cute.”

And I mean cute in the way baby lizards are cute 🥴unnecessary but mildly amusing.

I’m twisting a few strands of hair on his chin, the ones he calls a beard 🫠really just stressed-out follicles fighting for their lives and he flinches. Tells me to stop touching him.

His eyes are loud. Guilt is tap dancing in them. And behind that guilt? Rage. Because if there’s one thing Lagos men hate, it’s being caught and looked at with pity.

But me? I just smile.

I smile and stare at him like I’m his unpaid therapist, waiting for the next delusion to fall out of his mouth.

I watch him lie. Confidently. Smoothly. The kind of lie you don’t just say you audition for in front of your mirror.

And my heart? It doesn’t break.

Not this time.

Not even two days later, when I walk in on them again 😅her wearing his shirt, him shirtless and shameless.

I didn’t cry. I didn’t shout. I didn’t even blink long enough to register emotion.

I just smiled, packed my bag (the one with the broken zip and seven lives), and left.

As I descended the stairs of betrayal, all I could think was:

If I had just a teaspoon of witchcraft…

I would plant a fat, heavy baby in his belly. One that somersaults every night, craves cement and burnt chinchin, and refuses to come out for eleven whole months.

No delivery date. Just vibes and discomfort.

But the real question is how is she comfortable with him?

Femi??

Let’s be realistic. The man is a semi-dwarf with a pot belly, built like a loaf of Agege bread after it’s been punched. His feet are long like he borrowed them from Goliath’s cousin , his chest hair grows like it’s trying to flee his body, and he applies shea butter like it’s a miracle anointing oil.

And me? Me??

I’m six feet of Asanwa elegance, skin glowing like bank alert, waist snatched, mind sharp, and somehow somehow I’ve been in love with this… rejected SIM card of a man?

Make it make sense.

I stub my toe on the door on my way out karma, I guess and screammmmmm.

Both of them run out like headless chickens, asking “what happened?” like they haven’t been happening to me for the last six months.

And there he is. Standing in the harsh compound light.

Short. Fat. Black. Just like I said.

Looking like betrayal dipped in palm oil.

And it hits me 😑this man is the physical embodiment of generational cheating. His father probably started the trend. His mother saw it and said, “I’m not raising another heartbreaker,” and left. She abandoned him for good.

And me? I mistook his sadness for depth. I thought I could love him whole.

What a foolish mission.

He reaches out to touch me, and I—yes, I spit.

A full Igbo girl’s spat of disgust.

“Don’t touch me.”

He steps back, stunned. Like he’s the one whose heart was stepped on in a Bata shoe.

I pick up my bag. Adjust my wig. And walk away.

The street is hot. My wig is slipping. And all I’m thinking is What kind of Eba of audacity did Femi eat?

What level of wickedness is this? What brand of boldness makes a man like Femi think he can cheat, lie, and still touch me?

Me? Emilia Asanwa of Nwoke?

I’m done with softness. This sweet girl era has expired.

I’m going to my father’s village to pluck the leaf of wickedness, dry it under the moonlight, grind it with my teeth, and let it settle in my soul.

Fear me😡

I finally find an okada . Keke no dey. Danfo is full. I attempt to climb, but my leg says no.

I trip. Bag flies. Lip gloss rolls into the gutter. I look down.

My phone is gone.

Just like that.

And as I stand there, sweaty and shaking, I whisper to the hot, indifferent blue sky:

“God, I hate this city.”

If you’ve ever stayed too long, loved too hard, or believed a man who called shea butter a skincare routine 🥹😂

Just know you’re not alone.

Share this if it made you laugh, cry, or scream “God forbid!”

Me? I’m off to pluck wickedness leaf.

Let me hear your thoughts. Text me 🫣

See you in the next story.