The atmosphere in the church was heavy. The choir was singing a slow, mournful hymn. My husband, Kunle, was putting on an Oscar-worthy performance at the front. He was rolling on the floor, clutching a picture of me, screaming, “Why did you leave me, Adara? Who will take care of me?”
Beside him sat his mother, Mama Kunle. She wasn’t crying. In fact, she was already wearing the expensive Swiss Lace I bought for my 40th birthday. She had raided my wardrobe before my body was even cold—or so she thought.
You see, three days ago, I “died.”
It wasn’t an accident, and I wasn’t sick. I had intercepted a WhatsApp voice note on Kunle’s phone. It was a conversation between him and a native doctor in Benin. They were planning to use my “head” to renew Kunle’s falling business. The instruction was simple: “Poison her Friday stew. She will sleep and never wake up. Then bring her hair and fingernails to the shrine.”
I didn’t confront him. I didn’t scream. I simply played the game better than they did.
I have a cousin who is a Mortician at the General Hospital. We arranged everything. I took a drug that slowed my heart rate to a near-stop. When I collapsed after eating the poisoned stew (which I had actually swapped), the doctor—my cousin’s friend—pronounced me dead on arrival.
They didn’t even request an autopsy. They were too eager to bury me so they could claim my properties.
Now, here we were. The “Service of Songs.”
The Pastor picked up the microphone. “Brethren, we are here to mourn a virtuous woman. But before we lower the casket, does anyone have a final word for our sister Adara?”
Kunle stood up, shaking. He walked to the pulpit. “Adara was my life,” he sobbed. “She was the breadwinner, but she was humble. I don’t know how I will survive without her… and her signature to release the funds in the joint account.”
The congregation murmured “Eyaaa.”
That was my cue.
I stood up from the back row. I wasn’t shouting. I wasn’t rushing. I simply started walking down the center aisle. The sound of my heels—Click. Clack. Click. Clack—echoed in the silent church.
People turned to look. They probably thought I was a latecomer. story by jerry smith
When I got to the front, I stood directly before the open casket. It was filled with sandbags and old newspapers.
I slowly lifted the black veil covering my face.
The first person to see me was the Choir Mistress. She dropped her microphone. The feedback screech pierced the air.
Then Mama Kunle saw me. Her eyes bulged. She grabbed her throat, gasping for air, looking like a fish out of water.
Kunle? He didn’t just freeze. He turned a ghostly shade of gray. He urinated on himself. Right there on the altar. The stain spread rapidly across his white trousers.
“G-G-Ghost!” he stammered, backing away until he tripped over the flower vase.
I picked up the microphone he had dropped. My voice was calm, cold, and steady.
“I am not a ghost, Kunle,” I said, my voice echoing through the terrified hall. “But the poison you put in my Okro soup on Friday wasn’t strong enough. And the native doctor you paid 500k to? He is currently in police custody. He confessed everything an hour ago.”
Pandemonium broke out.
Half the church ran out screaming. The other half brought out their phones to record.
Police officers, whom I had stationed outside, marched in. They handcuffed Kunle while he was still lying in his own urine. They handcuffed his mother, who was trying to rip the Swiss Lace off her body to hide the evidence of her greed.
I looked at my “mourners.”
“The burial is cancelled,” I announced. “But the Thanksgiving service starts now. DJ, play me ‘I will not die but live’!”
As they dragged my husband away, he looked at me with pleading eyes. “Adara, it was the devil! I love you!”
I just smiled and waved my handkerchief.
I am currently drinking wine in the house they tried to steal. I am alive. I am rich. And I am single.
But I have a question for the married women here:
If you found out your husband was planning to use you for rituals, would you hand him over to the police like I did, or would you just run away and leave him to his conscience?
Be honest. Drop a comment.
I sat down, lifted my glass of wine, savoring the bittersweet taste of victory, yet inside, a complex mix of emotions churned—elation, anger, and an inexplicable emptiness. Half the church had fled in terror, the other half was still recording the scene on their phones, but this wasn’t the time to gloat. The world is full of people like Kunle—the man I once loved and trusted—ready to sacrifice those closest to them for wealth and power.
My phone vibrated. A message from my cousin, the mortician: “Is everything okay? The police said they’ll hold Kunle for a few days for further investigation. His mother… hah! She’s crying and begging that she’s innocent. I almost died laughing.”
I chuckled softly, but the smile didn’t reach my eyes. I realized the story wasn’t over. There were still people around who might try to harm me, exploit the loopholes I had uncovered. Most importantly, Kunle would never be the man I once knew.
I walked around the living room, glancing at the paintings I had hung throughout my life. They were witnesses to my efforts, my dreams, and the pain I had endured. I remembered my mother’s words: “Never let anyone control the value of your life. Even the one you love most can become your enemy.” Now, I understood her warning more clearly than ever.
Yet amidst it all, I felt a strange sense of relief—a freedom I had never known. I had triumphed not only over external enemies but over the fear within myself. Fear had been transformed into strength. Pain had been transformed into a lesson.
A week later, news of “Adara’s fake death” spread across the city. The media swarmed, but instead of fear, I chose to turn the event into a message. I shared a short video, recounting my story and warning women: “Trust your instincts. If something feels wrong, don’t ignore it. Don’t be afraid to face the truth, even if it hurts.”
The comments poured in. Some praised my intelligence and bravery; others were stunned by my audacity. But what satisfied me most was that people were listening. No one has the right to use you as a tool for their ambition. No one has the right to decide your fate.
As for Kunle, he was now in prison, stripped of both freedom and everything he had schemed to gain. I felt no joy in his suffering, only relief that I had escaped a future filled with humiliation and danger. His mother, Mrs. Kunle, was now paying the price for her greed. Wealth and possessions could no longer save her from disgrace.
I sat on the balcony, looking out at the quiet city in the late afternoon. A gentle breeze reminded me that life goes on, and that I still had countless opportunities to shape my destiny. I smiled, thinking about tomorrow, when I would begin a new chapter—a chapter with no betrayal, no lies, only freedom and power in my own hands.
In that moment, I whispered to myself: “If you don’t trust yourself, who will? If you don’t protect yourself, who else can?” This question wasn’t just for me—it was for everyone, especially women living in fear or being exploited.
In the end, I was no longer the betrayed woman. I was Adara—the survivor, the strong, the one who now savored every moment of her freedom. I stood up, lifted my glass once more, and smiled brightly: “This is life. And I will live—not just exist. Those who sought to harm me will face their consequences. Those who love me will witness my happiness. As for me? I am the author of my own story.”
From that day forward, every step I took carried unwavering confidence. Every smile reminded me that courage isn’t the absence of fear but action despite it. Every glass raised was a declaration: I live, I am powerful, and I choose my own life.
It turned out that faking my death not only saved me from betrayal but also opened the door to truly living. And the most important lesson: I had learned to love myself more than anyone else, more than anything else.